A Little Girl in Old Salem | Page 2

for it. They were both so interested that they took no
note of Chilian's missive. She cut carefully around the big wafer he had
used. It was a large letter sheet, quite blue and not of over-fine quality.
Envelopes had not come in and there was quite an art in folding a
letter--unfolding it as well.
"Really what has started Cousin Giles? I hope no one is dead----"
"There would have been a black seal."
"Oh, yes, m'm;" making a curious sound with closed lips. "They are
well. Oh, the Thatchers have been visiting them and are coming out
here for a week--why, on Saturday, and to-day is Thursday. Chilian, do
you hear that?"
"What?" he asked, closing his book over his own letter.
"Why, the Thatchers are coming--on Saturday, not a long notice, and I
don't know how many. They have had a nice time in Boston--and
Cousin Giles has been beauing them round and seems to like it. He
might have sent you word on Tuesday, when you were in;" and
Elizabeth's tone expressed a grievance.
"And the house not cleaned! It's been so cold."
"The house is always clean. Don't, I beg of you, Cousin Bessy, turn it
upside down and scrub and scour, and wear yourself out and take a bad
cold. There are two guest chambers, and I suppose half a dozen more
might be made ready."

"That's the man of it. I don't believe a man would ever see dirt until
some day when he had to dig himself out, or call upon the women folks
to do it."
Elizabeth always softened, in spite of her austerity, when he called her
Bessy. The newer generation indulged in household diminutives
occasionally.
"Well, there is to be no regular house-cleaning. We shall want fires a
good six weeks yet."
"I don't see why Cousin Giles couldn't have said how many there were.
Let me see, Rachel Leverett, who married the Thatcher, was your
father's cousin. They went up in Vermont. Then they came to Concord.
He"--which meant the head of the house--"went to the State Legislature
after the war. He had some sons married. Why, I haven't seen them in
years."
"It will be just like meeting strangers," declared Eunice. "It's almost as
if we kept an inn."
Chilian turned. "When I am in Boston to-morrow I will hunt up Cousin
Giles."
"Oh, that will be good of you."
He slipped his letter into the Latin book he had been going over, and
with a slight inclination of the head left the room. The hall was wide,
though it ended just beyond this door, where it led to the kitchen. The
woodwork was of oak, darkened much by the years that had passed
over it. The broad staircase showed signs of the many feet that had
trodden up and down.
Chilian's study was directly over the living-room, and next to the
sleeping-chamber. This part had been added to the main house, but that
was years ago. Bookshelves were ranged on two sides, but the windows
interfered with their course around, two on each of the other sides.
There was a wide fireplace between those at the west, and under them

low closets, with cushions--ancestors of useful window-seats. A large
easy-chair, covered with Cordovan leather, another curiously carved
with a straight narrow strip up the back, set off by the side carving. The
seat was broad and cushioned. Then one from France, as you could tell
by the air and style, that had been in a palace. A low splint rocker, and
one with a high back and comfortable cushions, inviting one to take a
nap.
The bookcases went about two-thirds of the way up and were
ornamented by articles beautiful and grotesque from almost every land,
for there had been seafaring men in the Leverett family, and more than
one home in Salem could boast of treasures of this sort.
Chilian stirred the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and
put on a fresh log. Then he settled himself in his chair and fingered his
letter in an absent way. The last time Anthony wrote he vaguely
suggested changes and chances and the uncertainty of life, rather
despondent for a brisk business man who was always seeing
opportunities at money-making. Had he been unfortunate in some of
his ventures? And it was odd in him to write so soon again. Not that
they were ever frequent correspondents.
He opened the letter slowly. It was tied about with a thread of waxed
silk and sealed, so he cut about the seal deliberately; he had a delicate
carefulness in all his ways that was rather womanly. Then unfolding it,
he began to read.
Was this what the previous letter had meant? Was Anthony Leverett
nearing the end,