The Running Away of Chester by Lucy Maud
Chester did the chores with unusual vim that night. His lips were set
and there was an air of resolution as plainly visible on his small,
freckled face as if it had been stamped there. Mrs. Elwell saw him
flying around, and her grim features took on a still grimmer
"Ches is mighty lively tonight," she muttered. "I s'pose he's in a gog
to be off on some foolishness with Henry Wilson. Well, he won't, and
he needn't think it."
Lige Barton, the hired man, also thought this was Chester's purpose,
but he took a more lenient view of it than did Mrs. Elwell.
"The little chap is going through things with a rush this evening," he
reflected. "Guess he's laying out for a bit of fun with the Wilson
But Chester was not planning anything connected with Henry Wilson, who
lived on the other side of the pond and was the only chum he
possessed. After the chores were done, he lingered a little while
around the barns, getting his courage keyed up to the necessary pitch.
Chester Stephens was an orphan without kith or kin in the world,
unless his father's stepsister, Mrs. Harriet Elwell, could be called
so. His parents had died in his babyhood, and Mrs. Elwell had taken
him to bring up. She was a harsh woman, with a violent temper, and she
had scolded and worried the boy all his short life. Upton people said
it was a shame, but nobody felt called upon to interfere. Mrs. Elwell
was not a person one would care to make an enemy of.
She eyed Chester sourly when he went in, expecting some request to be
allowed to go with Henry, and prepared to refuse it sharply.
"Aunt Harriet," said Chester suddenly, "can I go to school this year?
It begins tomorrow."
"No," said Mrs. Elwell, when she had recovered from her surprise at
this unexpected question. "You've had schoolin' in plenty—more'n I
ever had, and all you're goin' to get!"
"But, Aunt Harriet," persisted Chester, his face flushed with
earnestness, "I'm nearly thirteen, and I can barely read and write a
little. The other boys are ever so far ahead of me. I don't know
"You know enough to be disrespectful!" exclaimed Mrs. Elwell. "I
suppose you want to go to school to idle away your time, as you do at
home—lazy good-for-nothing that you are!" Chester thought of the
drudgery that had been his portion all his life. He resented being
called lazy when he was willing enough to work, but he made one more
"If you'll let me go to school this year, I'll work twice as hard out
of school to make up for it—indeed, I will. Do let me go, Aunt
Harriet. I haven't been to school a day for over a year."
"Let's hear no more of this nonsense," said Mrs. Elwell, taking a
bottle from the shelf above her with the air of one who closes a
discussion. "Here, run down to the Bridge and get me this bottle full
of vinegar at Jacob's store. Be smart, too, d'ye hear! I ain't going
to have you idling around the Bridge neither. If you ain't back in
twenty minutes, it won't be well for you."
Chester did his errand at the Bridge with a heart full of bitter
disappointment and anger.
"I won't stand it any longer!" he muttered. "I'll run away—I don't
care where, so long as it's away from her. I wish I could get out West
on the harvest excursions."
On his return home, as he crossed the yard in the dusk, he stumbled
over a stick of wood and fell. The bottle of vinegar slipped from his
hand and was broken on the doorstep. Mrs. Elwell saw the accident from
the window. She rushed out and jerked the unlucky lad to his feet.
"Take that, you sulky little cub!" she exclaimed, cuffing his ears
soundly. "I'll teach you to break and spill things you're sent for!
You did it on purpose. Get off to bed with you this instant."
Chester crept off to his garret chamber with a very sullen face. He
was too used to being sent to bed without any supper to care much for
that, although he was hungry. But his whole being was in a tumult of
rebellion over the injustice that was meted out to him.
"I won't stand it!" he muttered over and over again. "I'll run away. I
won't stay here."
To talk of running away was one thing. To do it without a cent in your
pocket or a place to run to was another. But Chester had a great deal
of determination in his make-up when it was fairly roused, and his
hard upbringing had made him older and shrewder than his years. He lay
awake late that night, thinking out ways and means, but could arrive
at no satisfactory conclusion.
The next day Mrs. Elwell said, "Ches, Abner Stearns wants you to go up
there for a fortnight while Tom Bixby is away, and drive the milk
wagon of mornings and do the chores for Mrs. Stearns. You might as
well put in the time 'fore harvest that way as any other. So hustle
off—and mind you behave yourself."
Chester heard the news gladly. He had not yet devised any feasible
plan for running away, and he always liked to work at the Stearns'
place. To be sure, Mrs. Elwell received all the money he earned, but
Mrs. Stearns was kind to him, and though he had to work hard and
constantly, he was well fed and well treated by all.
The following fortnight was a comparatively happy one for the lad.
But he did not forget his purpose of shaking the dust of Upton from
his feet as soon as possible, and he cudgelled his brains trying to
find a way.
On the evening when he left the Stearns' homestead, Mr. Stearns paid
him for his fortnight's work, much to the boy's surprise, for Mrs.
Elwell had always insisted that all such money should be paid directly
to her. Chester found himself the possessor of four dollars—an amount
of riches that almost took away his breath. He had never in his whole
life owned more than ten cents at a time. As he tramped along the road
home, he kept his hand in his pocket, holding fast to the money, as if
he feared it would otherwise dissolve into thin air.
His mind was firmly made up. He would run away once and for all. This
money was rightly his; he had earned every cent of it. It would surely
last him until he found employment elsewhere. At any rate, he would
go; and even if he starved, he would never come back to Aunt
When he reached home, he found Mrs. Elwell in an unusual state of
worry. Lige had given warning—and this on the verge of harvest!
"Did Stearns say anything about coming down tomorrow to pay me for
your work?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. He didn't say a word about it," said Chester boldly.
"Well, I hope he will. Take yourself off to bed, Ches. I'm sick of
seeing you standing there, on one foot or t'other, like a gander."
Chester had been shifting about uneasily. He realized that, if his
project did not miscarry, he would not see his aunt again, and his
heart softened to her. Harsh as she was, she was the only protector he
had ever known, and the boy had a vague wish to carry away with him
some kindly word or look from her. Such, however, was not
forthcoming, and Chester obeyed her command and took himself off to
the garret. Here he sat down and reflected on his plans.
He must go that very night. When Mr. Stearns failed to appear on the
morrow, Mrs. Elwell was quite likely to march up and demand the amount
of Chester's wages. It would all come out then, and he would lose his
money—besides, no doubt, getting severely punished into the bargain.
His preparations did not take long. He had nothing to carry with him.
The only decent suit of clothes he possessed was his well-worn Sunday
one. This he put on, carefully stowing away in his pocket the precious
He had to wait until he thought his aunt was asleep, and it was about
eleven when he crept downstairs, his heart quaking within him, and got
out by the porch window. When he found himself alone in the clear
moonlight of the August night, a sense of elation filled his cramped
little heart. He was free, and he would never come back here—never!
"Wisht I could have seen Henry to say good-by to him, though," he
muttered with a wistful glance at the big house across the pond where
the unconscious Henry was sleeping soundly with never a thought of
moonlight flittings for anyone in his curly head.
Chester meant to walk to Roxbury Station ten miles away. Nobody knew
him there, and he could catch the morning train. Late as it was, he
kept to fields and wood-roads lest he might be seen and recognized. It
was three o'clock when he reached Roxbury, and he knew the train did
not pass through until six. With the serenity of a philosopher who is
starting out to win his way in the world and means to make the best of
things, Chester curled himself up in the hollow space of a big lumber
pile behind the station, and so tired was he that he fell soundly
asleep in a few minutes.
Chester was awakened by the shriek of the express at the last crossing
before the station. In a panic of haste he scrambled out of his lumber
and dashed into the station house, where a sleepy, ill-natured agent
stood behind the ticket window. He looked sharply enough at the
freckled, square-jawed boy who asked for a second-class ticket to
Belltown. Chester's heart quaked within him at the momentary thought
that the ticket agent recognized him. He had an agonized vision of
being collared without ceremony and haled straightway back to Aunt
Harriet. When the ticket and his change were pushed out to him, he
snatched them and fairly ran.
"Bolted as if the police were after him," reflected the agent, who did
not sell many tickets and so had time to take a personal interest in
the purchasers thereof. "I've seen that youngster before, though I
can't recollect where. He's got a most fearful determined look."
Chester drew an audible sigh of relief when the train left the
station. He was fairly off now and felt that he could defy even
curious railway officials.
It was not his first train ride, for Mrs. Elwell had once taken him to
Belltown to get an aching tooth extracted, but it was certainly his
first under such exhilarating circumstances, and he meant to enjoy it.
To be sure, he was very hungry, but that, he reflected, was only what
he would probably be many times before he made his fortune, and it was
just as well to get used to it. Meanwhile, it behooved him to keep his
eyes open. On the road from Roxbury to Belltown there was not much to
be seen that morning that Chester did not see.
The train reached Belltown about noon. He did not mean to stop long
there—it was too near Upton. From the conductor on the train, he
found that a boat left Belltown for Montrose at two in the afternoon.
Montrose was a hundred miles from Upton, and Chester thought he would
be safe there. To Montrose, accordingly, he decided to go, but the
first thing was to get some dinner. He went into a grocery store and
bought some crackers and a bit of cheese. He had somewhere picked up
the idea that crackers and cheese were about as economical food as you
could find for adventurous youths starting out on small capital.
He found his way to the only public square Belltown boasted, and
munched his food hungrily on a bench under the trees. He would go to
Montrose and there find something to do. Later on he would gradually
work his way out West, where there was more room for an ambitious
small boy to expand and grow. Chester dreamed some dazzling dreams as
he sat there on the bench under the Belltown chestnuts. Passers-by, if
they noticed him at all, saw merely a rather small, poorly clad boy,
with a great many freckles, a square jaw and shrewd, level-gazing grey
eyes. But this same lad was mapping out a very brilliant future for
himself as people passed him heedlessly by. He would get out West,
somehow or other, some time or other, and make a fortune. Then,
perhaps, he would go back to Upton for a visit and shine in his
splendour before all his old neighbours. It all seemed very easy and
alluring, sitting there in the quiet little Belltown square. Chester,
you see, possessed imagination. That, together with the crackers and
cheese, so cheered him up that he felt ready for anything. He was
aroused from a dream of passing Aunt Harriet by in lofty scorn and a
glittering carriage, by the shrill whistle of the boat. Chester
pocketed his remaining crackers and cheese and his visions also, and
was once more his alert, wide-awake self. He had inquired the way to
the wharf from the grocer, so he found no difficulty in reaching it.
When the boat steamed down the muddy little river, Chester was on
board of her.
He was glad to be out of Belltown, for he was anything but sure that
he would not encounter some Upton people as long as he was in it. They
often went to Belltown on business, but never to Montrose.
There were not many passengers on the boat, and Chester scrutinized
them all so sharply in turn that he could have sworn to each and every
one of them for years afterwards had it been necessary. The one he
liked best was a middle-aged lady who sat just before him on the
opposite side of the deck She was plump and motherly looking, with a
fresh, rosy face and beaming blue eyes.
"If I was looking for anyone to adopt me I'd pick her," said Chester
to himself. The more he looked at her, the better he liked her. He
labelled her in his mind as "the nice, rosy lady."
The nice, rosy lady noticed Chester staring at her after awhile. She
smiled promptly at him—a smile that seemed fairly to irradiate her
round face—and then began fumbling in an old-fashioned reticule she
carried, and from which she presently extracted a chubby little paper
"If you like candy, little boy," she said to Chester, "here is some of
my sugar taffy for you."
Chester did not exactly like being called a little boy. But her voice
and smile were irresistible and won his heart straightway. He took the
candy with a shy, "Thank you, ma'am," and sat holding it in his hand.
"Eat it," commanded the rosy lady authoritatively. "That is what taffy
is for, you know."
So Chester ate it. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted
in his life, and filled a void which even the crackers and cheese had
left vacant. The rosy lady watched every mouthful he ate as if she
enjoyed it more than he did. When he had finished the taffy she smiled
one of her sociable smiles again and said, "Well, what do you think of
"It's the nicest taffy I ever ate," answered Chester enthusiastically,
as if he were a connoisseur in all kinds of taffies. The rosy lady
nodded, well pleased.
"That is just what everyone says about my sugar taffy. Nobody up our
way can match it, though goodness knows they try hard enough. My
great-grandmother invented the recipe herself, and it has been in our
family ever since. I'm real glad you liked it."
She smiled at him again, as if his appreciation of her taffy was a
bond of good fellowship between them. She did not know it but,
nevertheless, she was filling the heart of a desperate small boy, who
had run away from home, with hope and encouragement and self-reliance.
If there were such kind folks as this in the world, why, he would get
along all right. The rosy lady's smiles and taffy—the smiles much
more than the taffy—went far to thaw out of him a certain hardness
and resentfulness against people in general that Aunt Harriet's harsh
treatment had instilled into him. Chester instantly made a resolve
that when he grew stout and rosy and prosperous he would dispense
smiles and taffy and good cheer generally to all forlorn small boys on
boats and trains.
It was almost dark when they reached Montrose. Chester lost sight of
the rosy lady when they left the boat, and it gave him a lonesome
feeling; but he could not indulge in that for long at a time. Here he
was at his destination—at dark, in a strange city a hundred miles
"The first thing is to find somewhere to sleep," he said to himself,
resolutely declining to feel frightened, although the temptation was
Montrose was not really a very big place. It was only a bustling
little town of some twenty thousand inhabitants, but to Chester's eyes
it was a vast metropolis. He had never been in any place bigger than
Belltown, and in Belltown you could see one end of it, at least, no
matter where you were. Montrose seemed endless to Chester as he stood
at the head of Water Street and gazed in bewilderment along one of its
main business avenues—a big, glittering, whirling place where one
small boy could so easily be swallowed up that he would never be heard
Chester, after paying his fare to Montrose and buying his cheese and
crackers, had just sixty cents left. This must last him until he found
work, so that the luxury of lodgings was out of the question, even if
he had known where to look for them. To be sure, there were benches in
a public square right in front of him; but Chester was afraid that if
he curled up on one of them for the night, a policeman might question
him, and he did not believe he could give a very satisfactory account
of himself. In his perplexity, he thought of his cosy lumber pile at
Roxbury Station and remembered that when he had left the boat he had
noticed a large vacant lot near the wharf which was filled with piles
of lumber. Back to this he went and soon succeeded in finding a place
to stow himself. His last waking thought was that he must be up and
doing bright and early the next morning, and that it must surely be
longer than twenty-four hours since he had crept downstairs and out of
Aunt Harriet's porch window at Upton.
Montrose seemed less alarming by daylight, which was not so
bewildering as the blinking electric lights. Chester was up betimes,
ate the last of his cheese and crackers and started out at once to
look for work. He determined to be thorough, and he went straight into
every place of business he came to, from a blacksmith's forge to a
department store, and boldly asked the first person he met if they
wanted a boy there. There was, however, one class of places Chester
shunned determinedly. He never went into a liquor saloon. The last
winter he had been allowed to go to school in Upton, his teacher had
been a pale, patient little woman who hated the liquor traffic with
all her heart. She herself had suffered bitterly through it, and she
instilled into her pupils a thorough aversion to it. Chester would
have chosen death by starvation before he would have sought for
employment in a liquor saloon. But there certainly did not seem room
for him anywhere else. Nobody wanted a boy. The answer to his question
was invariably "No." As the day wore on, Chester's hopes and courage
went down to zero, but he still tramped doggedly about. He would be
thorough, at least. Surely somewhere in this big place, where everyone
seemed so busy, there must be something for him to do.
Once there seemed a chance of success. He had gone into a big
provision store and asked the clerk behind the counter if they wanted
"Well, we do," said the clerk, looking him over critically, "but I
hardly think you'll fill the bill. However, come in and see the boss."
He took Chester into a dark, grimy little inner office where a fat,
stubby man was sitting before a desk with his feet upon it.
"Hey? What!" he said when the clerk explained. "Looking for the place?
Why, sonny, you're not half big enough."
"Oh, I'm a great deal bigger than I look," cried Chester breathlessly.
"That is, sir—I mean I'm ever so much stronger than I look. I'll work
hard, sir, ever so hard—and I'll grow."
The fat, stubby man roared with laughter. What was grim earnest to
poor Chester was a joke to him.
"No doubt you will, my boy," he said genially, "but I'm afraid you'll
hardly grow fast enough to suit us. Boys aren't like pigweed, you
know. No, no, our boy must be a big, strapping fellow of eighteen or
nineteen. He'll have a deal of heavy lifting to do."
Chester went out of the store with a queer choking in his throat. For
one horrible moment he thought he was going to cry—he, Chester
Stephens, who had run away from home to do splendid things! A nice
ending that would be to his fine dreams! He thrust his hands into his
pockets and strode along the street, biting his lips fiercely. He
would not cry—no, he would not! And he would find work!
Chester did not cry, but neither, alas, did he find work. He parted
with ten cents of his precious hoard for more crackers, and he spend
the night again in the lumber yard.
Perhaps I'll have better luck tomorrow, he thought hopefully.
But it really seemed as if there were to be no luck for Chester except
bad luck. Day after day passed and, although he tramped resolutely
from street to street and visited every place that seemed to offer any
chance, he could get no employment. In spite of his pluck, his heart
began to fail him.
At the end of a week Chester woke up among his lumber to a realization
that he was at the end of his resources. He had just five cents left
out of the four dollars that were to have been the key to his fortune.
He sat gloomily on the wall of his sleeping apartment and munched the
one solitary cracker he had left. It must carry him through the day
unless he got work. The five cents must be kept for some dire
He started uptown rather aimlessly. In his week's wanderings he had
come to know the city very well and no longer felt confused with its
size and bustle. He envied every busy boy he saw. Back in Upton he had
sometimes resented the fact that he was kept working continually and
was seldom allowed an hour off. Now he was burdened with spare time.
It certainly did not seem as if things were fairly divided, he
thought. And then he thought no more just then, for one of the queer
spells in his head came on. He had experienced them at intervals
during the last three days. Something seemed to break loose in his
head and spin wildly round and round, while houses and people and
trees danced and wobbled all about him. Chester vaguely wondered if
this could be what Aunt Harriet had been wont to call a "judgement."
But then, he had done nothing very bad—nothing that would warrant a
judgement, he thought. It was surely no harm to run away from a place
where you were treated so bad and where they did not seem to want you.
Chester felt bitter whenever he thought of Aunt Harriet.
Presently he found himself in the market square of Montrose. It was
market day, and the place was thronged with people from the
surrounding country settlements. Chester had hoped that he might pick
up a few cents, holding a horse or cow for somebody or carrying a
market basket, but no such chance offered itself. He climbed up on
some bales of pressed hay in one corner and sat there moodily; there
was dejection in the very dangle of his legs over the bales. Chester,
you see, was discovering what many a boy before him has
discovered—that it is a good deal easier to sit down and make a
fortune in dreams than it is to go out into the world and make it.
Two men were talking to each other near him. At first Chester gave no
heed to their conversation, but presently a sentence made him prick up
"Yes, there's a pretty fair crop out at Hopedale," one man was saying,
"but whether it's going to be got in in good shape is another matter.
It's terrible hard to get any help. Every spare man-jack far and wide
has gone West on them everlasting harvest excursions. Salome Whitney
at the Mount Hope Farm is in a predicament. She's got a hired man, but
he can't harvest grain all by himself. She spent the whole of
yesterday driving around, trying to get a couple of men or boys to
help him, but I dunno if she got anyone or not."
The men moved out of earshot at this juncture, but Chester got down
from the bales with a determined look. If workers were wanted in
Hopedale, that was the place for him. He had done a man's work at
harvest time in Upton the year before. Lige Barton had said so
himself. Hope and courage returned with a rush.
He accosted the first man he met and asked if he could tell him the
way to Hopedale.
"Reckon I can, sonny. I live in the next district. Want to go there?
If you wait till evening, I can give you a lift part of the way. It's
five miles out."
"Thank you, sir," said Chester firmly, "but I must go at once if
you'll kindly direct me. It's important."
"Well, it's a straight road. That's Albemarle Street down
there—follow it till it takes you out to the country, and then keep
straight on till you come to a church painted yellow and white. Turn
to your right, and over the hill is Hopedale. But you'd better wait
for me. You don't look fit to walk five miles."
But Chester was off. Walk five miles! Pooh! He could walk twenty with
hope to lure him on. Albemarle Street finally frayed off into a real
country road. Chester was glad to find himself out in the country once
more, with the great golden fields basking on either side and the
wooded hills beyond, purple with haze. He had grown to hate the town
with its cold, unheeding faces. It was good to breathe clear air again
and feel the soft, springy soil of the ferny roadside under his tired
Long before the five miles were covered, Chester began to wonder if he
would hold out to the end of them. He had to stop and rest frequently,
when those queer dizzy spells came on. His feet seemed like lead. But
he kept doggedly on. He would not give in now! The white and yellow
church was the most welcome sight that had ever met his eyes.
Over the hill he met a man and inquired the way to Mount Hope Farm.
Fortunately, it was nearby. At the gate Chester had to stop again to
recover from his dizziness.
He liked the look of the place, with its great, comfortable barns and
quaint, roomy old farmhouse, all set down in a trim quadrangle of
beeches and orchards. There was an appearance of peace and prosperity
If only Miss Salome Whitney will hire me! thought Chester wistfully,
as he crept up the slope. I'm afraid she'll say I'm too small. Wisht I
could stretch three inches all at once. Wisht I wasn't so dizzy.
What Chester's third wish was will never be known, for just as he
reached the kitchen door the worst dizzy spell of all came on. Trees,
barns, well-sweep, all whirled around him with the speed of wind. He
reeled and fell, a limp, helpless little body, on Miss Salome
Whitney's broad, spotless sandstone doorstep.
In the Mount Hope kitchen Miss Salome was at that moment deep in
discussion with her "help" over the weighty question of how the
damsons were to be preserved. Miss Salome wanted them boiled;
Clemantiny Bosworth, the help, insisted that they ought to be baked.
Clemantiny was always very positive. She had "bossed" Miss Salome for
years, and both knew that in the end the damsons would be baked, but
the argument had to be carried out for dignity's sake.
"They're so sour when they're baked," protested Miss Salome.
"Well, you don't want damsons sweet, do you?" retorted Clemantiny
scornfully. "That's the beauty of damsons—their tartness. And they
keep ever so much better baked, Salome—you know they do. My
grandmother always baked hers, and they would keep for three years."
Miss Salome knew that when Clemantiny dragged her grandmother into the
question, it was time to surrender. Beyond that, dignity degenerated
into stubbornness. It would be useless to say that she did not want to
keep her damsons for three years, and that she was content to eat them
up and trust to Providence for the next year's supply.
"Well, well, bake them then," she said placidly. "I don't suppose it
makes much difference one way or another. Only, I insist—what was
that noise, Clemantiny? It sounded like something falling against the
"It's that worthless dog of Martin's, I suppose," said Clemantiny,
grasping a broom handle with a grimness that boded ill for the dog.
"Mussing up my clean doorstep with his dirty paws again. I'll fix
Clemantiny swept out through the porch and jerked open the door. There
was a moment's silence. Then Miss Salome heard her say, "For the
land's sake! Salome Whitney, come here."
What Miss Salome saw when she hurried out was a white-faced boy
stretched on the doorstep at Clemantiny's feet.
"Is he dead?" she gasped.
"Dead? No," sniffed Clemantiny. "He's fainted, that's what he is.
Where on earth did he come from? He ain't a Hopedale boy."
"He must be carried right in," exclaimed Miss Salome in distress.
"Why, he may die there. He must be very ill."
"Looks more to me as if he had fainted from sheer starvation,"
returned Clemantiny brusquely as she picked him up in her lean,
muscular arms. "Why, he's skin and bone. He ain't hardly heavier than
a baby. Well, this is a mysterious piece of work. Where'll I put him?"
"Lay him on the sofa," said Miss Salome as soon as she had recovered
from the horror into which Clemantiny's starvation dictum had thrown
her. A child starving to death on her doorstep! "What do you do for
people in a faint, Clemantiny?"
"Wet their face—and hist up their feet—and loosen their collar,"
said Clemantiny in a succession of jerks, doing each thing as she
mentioned it. "And hold ammonia to their nose. Run for the ammonia,
Salome. Look, will you? Skin and bone!"
But Miss Salome had gone for the ammonia. There was a look on the
boy's thin, pallid face that tugged painfully at her heart-strings.
When Chester came back to consciousness with the pungency of the
ammonia reeking through his head, he found himself lying on very soft
pillows in a very big white sunny kitchen, where everything was
scoured to a brightness that dazzled you. Bending over him was a tall,
gaunt woman with a thin, determined face and snapping black eyes, and,
standing beside her with a steaming bowl in her hand, was the nice
rosy lady who had given him the taffy on the boat!
When he opened his eyes, Miss Salome knew him.
"Why, it's the little boy I saw on the boat!" she exclaimed.
"Well, you've come to!" said Clemantiny, eyeing Chester severely. "And
now perhaps you'll explain what you mean by fainting away on doorsteps
and scaring people out of their senses."
Chester thought that this must be the mistress of Mount Hope Farm, and
hastened to propitiate her.
"I'm sorry," he faltered feebly. "I didn't mean to—I—"
"You're not to do any talking until you've had something to eat,"
snapped Clemantiny inconsistently. "Here, open your mouth and take
this broth. Pretty doings, I say!"
Clemantiny spoke as sharply as Aunt Harriet had ever done, but somehow
or other Chester did not feel afraid of her and her black eyes. She
sat down by his side and fed him from the bowl of hot broth with a
deft gentleness oddly in contrast with her grim expression.
Chester thought he had never in all his life tasted anything so good
as that broth. The boy was really almost starved. He drank every drop
of it. Clemantiny gave a grunt of satisfaction as she handed the empty
bowl and spoon to the silent, smiling Miss Salome.
"Now, who are you and what do you want?" she said.
Chester had been expecting this question, and while coming along the
Hopedale road he had thought out an answer to it. He began now,
speaking the words slowly and gaspingly, as if reciting a hastily
"My name is Chester Benson. I belong to Upton up the country. My folks
are dead and I came to Montrose to look for work, I've been there a
week and couldn't get anything to do. I heard a man say that you
wanted men to help in the harvest, so I came out to see if you'd hire
In spite of his weakness, Chester's face turned very red before he got
to the end of his speech. He was new to deception. To be sure, there
was not, strictly speaking, an untrue word in it. As for his name, it
was Chester Benson Stephens. But for all that, Chester could not have
felt or looked more guilty if he had been telling an out-and-out
falsehood at every breath.
"Humph!" said Clemantiny in a dissatisfied tone. "What on earth do you
suppose a midget like you can do in the harvest field? And we don't
want any more help, anyway. We've got enough."
Chester grew sick with disappointment. But at this moment Miss Salome
"No, we haven't, Clemantiny. We want another hand, and I'll hire you,
Chester—that's your name, isn't it? I'll give you good wages, too."
"Now, Salome!" protested Clemantiny.
But Miss Salome only said, "I've made up my mind, Clemantiny."
Clemantiny knew that when Miss Salome did make up her mind and
announced it in that very quiet, very unmistakable tone, she was
mistress of the situation and intended to remain so.
"Oh, very well," she retorted. "You'll please yourself, Salome, of
course. I think it would be wiser to wait until you found out a little
more about him."
"And have him starving on people's doorsteps in the meantime?"
questioned Miss Salome severely.
"Well," returned Clemantiny with the air of one who washes her hands
of a doubtful proposition, "don't blame me if you repent of it."
By this time Chester had grasped the wonderful fact that his troubles
were ended—for a while, at least. He raised himself up on one arm and
looked gratefully at Miss Salome.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll work hard. I'm used to doing a lot."
"There, there!" said Miss Salome, patting his shoulder gently. "Lie
down and rest. Dinner will be ready soon, and I guess you'll be ready
To Clemantiny she added in a low, gentle tone, "There's a look on his
face that reminded me of Johnny. It came out so strong when he sat up
just now that it made me feel like crying. Don't you notice it,
"Can't say that I do," replied that energetic person, who was flying
about the kitchen with a speed that made Chester's head dizzy trying
to follow her with his eyes. "All I can see is freckles and bones—but
if you're satisfied, I am. For law's sake, don't fluster me, Salome.
There's a hundred and one things to be done out of hand. This frolic
has clean dundered the whole forenoon's work."
After dinner Chester decided that it was time to make himself useful.
"Can't I go right to work now?" he asked.
"We don't begin harvest till tomorrow," said Miss Salome. "You'd
better rest this afternoon."
"Oh, I'm all right now," insisted Chester. "I feel fine. Please give
me something to do."
"You can go out and cut me some wood for my afternoon's baking," said
Clemantiny. "And see you cut it short enough. Any other boy that's
tried always gets it about two inches too long."
When he had gone out, she said scornfully to Miss Salome, "Well, what
do you expect that size to accomplish in a harvest field, Salome
"Not very much, perhaps," said Miss Salome mildly. "But what could I
do? You wouldn't have me turn the child adrift on the world again,
would you, Clemantiny?"
Clemantiny did not choose to answer this appeal. She rattled her
dishes noisily into the dishpan.
"Well, where are you going to put him to sleep?" she demanded. "The
hands you've got will fill the kitchen chamber. There's only the spare
room left. You'll hardly put him there, I suppose? Your philanthropy
will hardly lead you as far as that."
When Clemantiny employed big words and sarcasm at the same time, the
effect was tremendous. But Miss Salome didn't wilt.
"What makes you so prejudiced against him?" she asked curiously.
"I'm not prejudiced against him. But that story about himself didn't
ring true. I worked in Upton years ago, and there weren't any Bensons
there then. There's more behind that he hasn't told. I'd find out what
it was before I took him into my house, that's all. But I'm not
"Well, well," said Miss Salome soothingly, "we must do the best we can
for him. It's a sort of duty. And as for a room for him—why, I'll put
him in Johnny's."
Clemantiny opened her mouth and shut it again. She understood that it
would be a waste of breath to say anything more. If Miss Salome had
made up her mind to put this freckled, determined-looking waif,
dropped on her doorstep from heaven knew where, into Johnny's room,
that was an end of the matter.
"But I'll not be surprised at anything after this," she muttered as
she carried her dishes into the pantry. "First a skinny little urchin
goes and faints on her doorstep. Then she hires him and puts him in
Johnny's room. Johnny's room! Salome Whitney, what do you mean?"
Perhaps Miss Salome hardly knew what she meant. But somehow her heart
went out warmly to this boy. In spite of Clemantiny's sniffs, she held
to the opinion that he looked like Johnny. Johnny was a little nephew
of hers. She had taken him to bring up when his parents died, and she
had loved him very dearly. He had died four years ago, and since that
time the little front room over the front porch had never been
occupied. It was just as Johnny had left it. Beyond keeping it
scrupulously clean, Miss Salome never allowed it to be disturbed. And
now a somewhat ragged lad from nowhere was to be put into it! No
wonder Clemantiny shook her head when Miss Salome went up to air it.
Even Clemantiny had to admit that Chester was willing to work. He
split wood until she called him to stop. Then he carried in the
wood-box full, and piled it so neatly that even the grim handmaiden
was pleased. After that, she sent him to the garden to pick the early
beans. In the evening he milked three cows and did all the chores,
falling into the ways of the place with a deft adaptability that went
far to soften Clemantiny's heart.
"He's been taught to work somewheres," she admitted grudgingly, "and
he's real polite and respectful. But he looks too cute by half. And
his name isn't Benson any more than mine. When I called him 'Chester
Benson' out there in the cow-yard, he stared at me fer half a minute
'sif I'd called him Nebuchadnezzar."
When bedtime came, Miss Salome took Chester up to a room whose
whiteness and daintiness quite took away the breath of a lad who had
been used to sleeping in garrets or hired men's kitchen chambers all
his life. Later on Miss Salome came in to see if he was comfortable,
and stood, with her candle in her hand, looking down very kindly at
the thin, shrewd little face on the pillow.
"I hope you'll sleep real well here, Chester," she said. "I had a
little boy once who used to sleep here. You—you look like him. Good
She bent over him and kissed his forehead. Chester had never been
kissed by anyone before, so far as he could remember. Something came
up in his throat that felt about as big as a pumpkin. At the same
moment he wished he could have told Miss Salome the whole truth about
himself. I might tell her in the morning, he thought, as he watched
her figure passing out of the little porch chamber.
But on second thought he decided that this would never do. He felt
sure she would disapprove of his running away, and would probably
insist upon his going straight back to Upton or, at least, informing
Aunt Harriet of his whereabouts. No, he could not tell her.
Clemantiny was an early riser, but when she came into the kitchen the
next morning the fire was already made and Chester was out in the yard
with three of the five cows milked.
"Humph!" said Clemantiny amiably. "New brooms sweep clean."
But she gave him cream with his porridge that morning. Generally, all
Miss Salome's hired hands got from Clemantiny was skim milk.
Miss Salome's regular hired man lived in a little house down in the
hollow. He soon turned up, and the other two men she had hired for
harvest also arrived. Martin, the man, looked Chester over
"What do you think you can do, sonny?"
"Anything," said Chester sturdily. "I'm used to work."
"He's right," whispered Clemantiny aside. "He's smart as a steel trap.
But just you keep an eye on him all the same, Martin."
Chester soon proved his mettle in the harvest field. In the brisk
three weeks that followed, even Clemantiny had to admit that he earned
every cent of his wages. His active feet were untiring and his wiry
arms could pitch and stock with the best. When the day's work was
ended, he brought in wood and water for Clemantiny, helped milk the
cows, gathered the eggs, and made on his own responsibility a round
of barns and outhouses to make sure that everything was snug and tight
for the night.
"Freckles-and-Bones has been well trained somewhere," said Clemantiny
It was hardly fair to put the bones in now, for Chester was growing
plump and hearty. He had never been so happy in his life. Upton
drudgery and that dreadful week in Montrose seemed like a bad dream.
Here, in the golden meadows of Mount Hope Farm, he worked with a right
good will. The men liked him, and he soon became a favourite with
them. Even Clemantiny relented somewhat. To be sure, she continued
very grim, and still threw her words at him as if they were so many
missiles warranted to strike home. But Chester soon learned that
Clemantiny's bark was worse than her bite. She was really very good to
him and fed him lavishly. But she declared that this was only to put
some flesh on him.
"It offends me to see bones sticking through anybody's skin like that.
We aren't used to such objects at Mount Hope Farm, thank goodness.
Yes, you may smile, Salome. I like him well enough, and I'll admit
that he knows how to make himself useful, but I don't trust him any
more than ever I did. He's mighty close about his past life. You can't
get any more out of him than juice out of a post. I've tried, and I
But it was Miss Salome who had won Chester's whole heart. He had never
loved anybody in his hard little life before. He loved her with an
almost dog-like devotion. He forgot that he was working to earn
money—and make his fortune. He worked to please Miss Salome. She was
good and kind and gentle to him, and his starved heart thawed and
expanded in the sunshine of her atmosphere. She went to the little
porch room every night to kiss him good night. Chester would have been
bitterly disappointed if she had failed to go.
She was greatly shocked to find out that he had never said his prayers
before going to bed. She insisted on teaching him the simple little
one she had used herself when a child. When Chester found that it
would please her, he said it every night. There was nothing he would
not have done for Miss Salome.
She talked a good deal to him about Johnny and she gave him the
jack-knife that Johnny had owned.
"It belonged to a good, manly little boy once," she said, "and now I
hope it belongs to another such."
"I ain't very good," said Chester repentantly, "but I'll try to be,
Miss Salome—honest, I will."
One day he heard Miss Salome speaking of someone who had run away from
home. "A wicked, ungrateful boy," she called him. Chester blushed
until his freckles were drowned out in a sea of red, and Clemantiny
saw it, of course. When did anything ever escape those merciless black
eyes of Clemantiny's?
"Do you think it's always wrong for a fellow to run away, Miss
Salome?" he faltered.
"It can't ever be right," said Miss Salome decidedly.
"But if he wasn't treated well—and was jawed at—and not let go to
school?" pleaded Chester.
Clemantiny gave Miss Salome a look as of one who would say, You're
bat-blind if you can't read between the lines of that; but Miss Salome
was placidly unconscious. She was not really thinking of the subject
at all, and did not guess that Chester meant anything more than
"Not even then," she said firmly. "Nothing can justify a boy for
running away—especially as Jarvis Colemen did—never even left a word
behind him to say where he'd gone. His aunt thought he'd fallen into
"Don't suppose she would have grieved much if he had," said Clemantiny
sarcastically, all the while watching Chester, until he felt as if
she were boring into his very soul and reading all his past life.
When the harvest season drew to a close, dismay crept into the soul of
our hero. Where would he go now? He hated to think of leaving Mount
Hope Farm and Miss Salome. He would have been content to stay there
and work as hard as he had ever worked at Upton, merely for the roof
over his head and the food he ate. The making of a fortune seemed a
small thing compared to the privilege of being near Miss Salome.
"But I suppose I must just up and go," he muttered dolefully.
One day Miss Salome had a conference with Clemantiny. At the end of it
the latter said, "Do as you please," in the tone she might have used
to a spoiled child. "But if you'd take my advice—which you won't and
never do—you'd write to somebody in Upton and make inquiries about
him first. What he says is all very well and he sticks to it
marvellous, and there's no tripping him up. But there's something
behind, Salome Whitney—mark my words, there's something behind."
"He looks so like Johnny," said Miss Salome wistfully.
"And I suppose you think that covers a multitude of sins," said
On the day when the last load of rustling golden sheaves was carried
into the big barn and stowed away in the dusty loft, Miss Salome
called Chester into the kitchen. Chester's heart sank as he obeyed the
His time was up, and now he was to be paid his wages and sent away. To
be sure, Martin had told him that morning that a man in East Hopedale
wanted a boy for a spell, and that he, Martin, would see that he got
the place if he wanted it. But that did not reconcile him to leaving
Mount Hope Farm.
Miss Salome was sitting in her favourite sunny corner of the kitchen
and Clemantiny was flying around with double briskness. The latter's
thin lips were tightly set and disapproval was writ large in every
flutter of her calico skirts.
"Chester," said Miss Salome kindly, "your time is up today."
Chester nodded. For a moment he felt as he had felt when he left the
provision store in Montrose. But he would not let Clemantiny see him
cry. Somehow, he would not have minded Miss Salome.
"What are you thinking of doing now?" Miss Salome went on.
"There's a man at East Hopedale wants a boy," said Chester, "and
Martin says he thinks I'll suit."
"That is Jonas Smallman," said Miss Salome thoughtfully. "He has the
name of being a hard master. It isn't right of me to say so, perhaps.
I really don't know much about him. But wouldn't you rather stay here
with me for the winter, Chester?"
"Ma'am? Miss Salome?" stammered Chester. He heard Clemantiny give a
snort behind him and mutter, "Clean infatuated—clean infatuated,"
without in the least knowing what she meant.
"We really need a chore boy all the year round," said Miss Salome.
"Martin has all he can do with the heavy work. And there are the
apples to be picked. If you care to stay, you shall have your board
and clothes for doing the odd jobs, and you can go to school all
winter. In the spring we will see what need be done then."
If he would care to stay! Chester could have laughed aloud. His eyes
were shining with joy as he replied, "Oh, Miss Salome, I'll be so glad
to stay! I—I—didn't want to go away. I'll try to do everything you
want me to do. I'll work ever so hard."
This, of course, was from Clemantiny, as she set a pan of apples on
the stove with an emphatic thud. "Nobody ever doubted your willingness
to work. Pity everything else about you isn't as satisfactory."
"Clemantiny!" said Miss Salome rebukingly. She put her arms about
Chester and drew him to her. "Then it is all settled, Chester. You are
my boy now, and of course I shall expect you to be a good boy."
If ever a boy was determined to be good, that boy was Chester. That
day was the beginning of a new life for him. He began to go to the
Hopedale school the next week. Miss Salome gave him all Johnny's old
school books and took an eager interest in his studies.
Chester ought to have been very happy, and at first he was; but as the
bright, mellow days of autumn passed by, a shadow came over his
happiness. He could not help thinking that he had really deceived Miss
Salome, and was deceiving her still—Miss Salome, who had such
confidence in him. He was not what he pretended to be. And as for his
running away, he felt sure that Miss Salome would view that with
horror. As the time passed by and he learned more and more what a high
standard of honour and truth she had, he felt more and more ashamed of
himself. When she looked at him with her clear, trustful, blue eyes,
Chester felt as guilty as if he had systematically deceived her with
intent to do harm. He began to wish that he had the courage to tell
her the whole truth about himself.
Moreover, he began to think that perhaps he had not done right, after
all, in running away from Aunt Harriet. In Miss Salome's code nothing
could be right that was underhanded, and Chester was very swiftly
coming to look at things through Miss Salome's eyes. He felt sure that
Johnny would never have acted as he had, and if Chester now had one
dear ambition on earth, it was to be as good and manly a fellow as
Johnny must have been. But he could never be that as long as he kept
the truth about himself from Miss Salome.
"That boy has got something on his mind," said the terrible
Clemantiny, who, Chester felt convinced, could see through a stone
"Nonsense! What could he have on his mind?" said Miss Salome. But she
said it a little anxiously. She, too, had noticed Chester's absent
ways and abstracted face.
"Goodness me, I don't know! I don't suppose he has robbed a bank or
murdered anybody. But he is worrying over something, as plain as
"He is getting on very well at school," said Miss Salome. "His teacher
says so, and he is very eager to learn. I don't know what can be
She was fated not to know for a fortnight longer. During that time
Chester fought out his struggle with himself, and conquered. He must
tell Miss Salome, he decided, with a long sigh. He knew that it would
mean going back to Upton and Aunt Harriet and the old, hard life, but
he would not sail under false colours any longer.
Chester went into the kitchen one afternoon when he came home from
school, with his lips set and his jaws even squarer than usual. Miss
Salome was making some of her famous taffy, and Clemantiny was
spinning yarn on the big wheel.
"Miss Salome," said Chester desperately, "if you're not too busy,
there is something I'd like to tell you."
"What is it?" asked Miss Salome good-humouredly, turning to him with
her spoon poised in midair over her granite saucepan.
"It's about myself. I—I—oh, Miss Salome, I didn't tell you the
truth about myself. I've got to tell it now. My name isn't
Benson—exactly—and I ran away from home."
"Dear me!" said Miss Salome mildly. She dropped her spoon, handle and
all, into the taffy and never noticed it. "Dear me, Chester!"
"I knew it," said Clemantiny triumphantly. "I knew it—and I always
said it. Run away, did you?"
"Yes'm. My name is Chester Benson Stephens, and I lived at Upton with
Aunt Harriet Elwell. But she ain't any relation to me, really. She's
only father's stepsister. She—she—wasn't kind to me and she wouldn't
let me go to school—so I ran away."
"But, dear me, Chester, didn't you know that was very wrong?" said
Miss Salome in bewilderment.
"No'm—I didn't know it then. I've been thinking lately that maybe it
was. I'm—I'm real sorry."
"What did you say your real name was?" demanded Clemantiny.
"And your mother's name before she was married?"
"Mary Morrow," said Chester, wondering what upon earth Clemantiny
Clemantiny turned to Miss Salome with an air of surrendering a dearly
"Well, ma'am, I guess you must be right about his looking like Johnny.
I must say I never could see the resemblance, but it may well be
there, for he—that very fellow there—and Johnny are first cousins.
Their mothers were sisters!"
"Clemantiny!" exclaimed Miss Salome.
"You may well say 'Clemantiny.' Such a coincidence! It doesn't make
you and him any relation, of course—the cousinship is on the mother's
side. But it's there. Mary Morrow was born and brought up in Hopedale.
She went to Upton when I did, and married Oliver Stephens there. Why,
I knew his father as well as I know you."
"This is wonderful," said Miss Salome. Then she added sorrowfully,
"But it doesn't make your running away right, Chester."
"Tell us all about it," demanded Clemantiny, sitting down on the
wood-box. "Sit down, boy, sit down—don't stand there looking as if
you were on trial for your life. Tell us all about it."
Thus adjured, Chester sat down and told them all about it—his
moonlight flitting and his adventures in Montrose. Miss Salome
exclaimed with horror over the fact of his sleeping in a pile of
lumber for seven nights, but Clemantiny listened in silence, never
taking her eyes from the boy's pale face. When Chester finished, she
"We've got it all now. There's nothing more behind, Salome. It would
have been better for you to have told as straight a story at first,
Chester knew that, but, having no reply to make, made none. Miss
Salome looked at him wistfully.
"But, with it all, you didn't do right to run away, Chester," she said
firmly. "I dare say your aunt was severe with you—but two wrongs
never make a right, you know."
"No'm," said Chester.
"You must go back to your aunt," continued Miss Salome sadly.
Chester nodded. He knew this, but he could not trust himself to speak.
Then did Clemantiny arise in her righteous indignation.
"Well, I never heard of such nonsense, Salome Whitney! What on earth
do you want to send him back for? I knew Harriet Elwell years ago, and
if she's still what she was then, it ain't much wonder Chester ran
away from her. I'd say 'run,' too. Go back, indeed! You keep him right
here, as you should, and let Harriet Elwell look somewhere else for
somebody to scold!"
"Clemantiny!" expostulated Miss Salome.
"Oh, I must and will speak my mind, Salome. There's no one else to
take Chester's part, it seems. You have as much claim on him as
Harriet Elwell has. She ain't any real relation to him any more than
Miss Salome looked troubled. Perhaps there was something in
Clemantiny's argument. And she hated to think of seeing Chester go. He
looked more like Johnny than ever, as he stood there with his flushed
face and wistful eyes.
"Chester," she said gravely, "I leave it to you to decide. If you
think you ought to go back to your aunt, well and good. If not, you
shall stay here."
This was the hardest yet. Chester wished she had not left the decision
to him. It was like cutting off his own hand. But he spoke up
"I—I think I ought to go back, Miss Salome, and I want to pay back
the money, too."
"I think so, too, Chester, although I'm sorry as sorry can be. I'll go
back to Upton with you. We'll start tomorrow. If, when we get there,
your aunt is willing to let you stay with me, you can come back."
"There's a big chance of that!" said Clemantiny sourly. "A woman's
likely to give up a boy like Chester—a good, steady worker and as
respectful and obliging as there is between this and sunset—very
likely, isn't she! Well, this taffy is all burnt to the saucepan and
clean ruined—but what's the odds! All I hope, Salome Whitney, is that
the next time you adopt a boy and let him twine himself 'round a
person's heart, you'll make sure first that you are going to stick to
it. I don't like having my affections torn up by the roots."
Clemantiny seized the saucepan and disappeared with it into the pantry
amid a whirl of pungent smoke.
Mount Hope Farm was a strangely dismal place that night. Miss Salome
sighed heavily and often as she made her preparations for the morrow's
Clemantiny stalked about with her grim face grimmer than ever. As for
Chester, when he went to bed that night in the little porch chamber,
he cried heartily into his pillows. He didn't care for pride any
longer; he just cried and didn't even pretend he wasn't crying when
Miss Salome came in to sit by him a little while and talk to him. That
talk comforted Chester. He realized that, come what might, he would
always have a good friend in Miss Salome—aye, and in Clemantiny, too.
Chester never knew it, but after he had fallen asleep, with the tears
still glistening on his brown cheeks, Clemantiny tiptoed silently in
with a candle in her hand and bent over him with an expression of
almost maternal tenderness on her face. It was late and an aroma of
boiling sugar hung about her. She had sat up long after Miss Salome
was abed, to boil another saucepan of taffy for Chester to eat on his
"Poor, dear child!" she said, softly touching one of his crisp curls.
"It's a shame in Salome to insist on his going back. She doesn't know
what she's sending him to, or she wouldn't. He didn't say much against
his aunt, and Salome thinks she was only just a little bit cranky. But
I could guess."
Early in the morning Miss Salome and Chester started. They were to
drive to Montrose, leave their team there and take the boat for
Belltown. Chester bade farewell to the porch chamber and the long,
white kitchen and the friendly barns with a full heart. When he
climbed into the wagon, Clemantiny put a big bagful of taffy into his
"Good-by, Chester," she said. "And remember, you've always got a
friend in me, anyhow."
Then Clemantiny went back into the kitchen and cried—good,
rough-spoken, tender-hearted Clemantiny sat down and cried.
It was an ideal day for travelling—crisp, clear and sunny—but
neither Chester nor Miss Salome was in a mood for enjoyment.
Back over Chester's runaway route they went, and reached Belltown on
the boat that evening.
They stayed in Belltown overnight and in the morning took the train to
Roxbury Station. Here Miss Salome hired a team from the storekeeper
and drove out to Upton.
Chester felt his heart sink as they drove into the Elwell yard. How
well he knew it!
Miss Salome tied her hired nag to the gatepost and took Chester by the
hand. They went to the door and knocked. It was opened with a jerk and
Mrs. Elwell stood before them. She had probably seen them from the
window, for she uttered no word of surprise at seeing Chester again.
Indeed, she said nothing at all, but only stood rigidly before them.
Dear me, what a disagreeable-looking woman! thought Miss Salome. But
she said courteously, "Are you Mrs. Elwell?"
"I am," said that lady forbiddingly.
"I've brought your nephew home," continued Miss Salome, laying her
hand encouragingly on Chester's shrinking shoulder. "I have had him
hired for some time on my farm at Hopedale, but I didn't know until
yesterday that he had run away from you. When he told me about it, I
thought he ought to come straight back and return your four dollars,
and so did he. So I have brought him."
"You might have saved yourself the trouble then!" cried Mrs. Elwell
shrilly. Her black eyes flashed with anger. "I'm done with him and
don't want the money. Run away when there was work to do, and thinks
he can come back now that it's all done and loaf all winter, does he?
He shall never enter my house again."
"That he shall not!" cried Miss Salome, at last finding her tongue.
Her gentle nature was grievously stirred by the heartlessness shown in
the face and voice of Mrs. Elwell. "That he shall not!" she cried
again. "But he shall not want for a home as long as I have one to give
him. Come, Chester, we'll go home."
"I wish you well of him," Mrs. Elwell said sarcastically.
Miss Salome already repented her angry retort. She was afraid she had
been undignified, but she wished for a moment that Clemantiny was
there. Wicked as she feared it was, Miss Salome thought she could have
enjoyed a tilt between her ancient handmaid and Mrs. Elwell.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elwell, if I have used any intemperate
expressions," she said with great dignity. "You provoked me more than
was becoming by your remarks. I wish you good morning."
Mrs. Elwell slammed the door shut.
With her cheeks even more than usually rosy, Miss Salome led Chester
down to the gate, untied her horse and drove out of the yard. Not
until they reached the main road did she trust herself to speak to the
dazed lad beside her.
"What a disagreeable women!" she ejaculated at last. "I don't wonder
you ran away, Chester—I don't, indeed! Though, mind you, I don't
think it was right, for all that. But I'm gladder than words can say
that she wouldn't take you back. You are mine now, and you will stay
mine. I want you to call me Aunt Salome after this. Get up, horse! If
we can catch that train at Roxbury, we'll be home by night yet."
Chester was too happy to speak. He had never felt so glad and grateful
in his life before.
They got home that night just as the sun was setting redly behind the
great maples on the western hill. As they drove into the yard,
Clemantiny's face appeared, gazing at them over the high board fence
of the cow-yard. Chester waved his hand at her gleefully.
"Lawful heart!" said Clemantiny. She set down her pail and came out to
the lane on a run. She caught Chester as he sprang from the wagon and
gave him a hearty hug.
"I'm glad clean down to my boot soles to see you back again," she
"He's back for good," said Miss Salome. "Chester, you'd better go in
and study up your lessons for tomorrow."