A Little Girl in Old Salem | Page 4

brother and one sister had died in childhood. The first
cousins were nearly all older than he, many of them had dropped out of
life. A little girl! No chance to decline the trust--well, he would hardly
have done that. He knew Anthony Leverett had counted on a serene old
age in his native town. And he was not much past middle life. What
had befallen him?
Well, there was nothing to be done. He read the letter over again. Then
he turned to some papers to compose his mind. There was a stir in the
next room, his sleeping-chamber. He always opened the windows and
closed the door between. After the dishes were washed and the
dining-room and hall brushed up, Elizabeth came upstairs and made the

two beds. When he had gone to Cambridge she opened the door
between. So she did not disturb him now, but crossed the hall and
inspected the two guest-chambers. She had swept them a week or so
ago and had settled in her mind that they would do until house-cleaning
time. To be sure, if she cleaned them now they would need it when the
guests were gone. And Chilian had a man's objection to house-cleaning.
It was hardly time to put away blankets. She wished she knew how
many guests there would be.
The rooms were full of old Colonial furniture that had been in the
family for generations. Every spring Elizabeth polished the mahogany
until it shone. She dusted now, though there was hardly a speck visible.
The snow through the winter had laid it, and the spring rains had not
allowed it to rear its head.
Chilian put on his coat presently and sallied out for his morning
exercise. The family had been connected with shipbuilding to a certain
extent, and there was the old warehouse where vessels came in with
their precious cargoes from civilized and barbaric lands. For at the
close of the Revolutionary War the men of note, many of whom had
not disdained privateering, found themselves in possession of idle fleets,
that with their able seamen could outsail almost anything afloat. So
they struck out for new ventures in unknown seas and new channels of
trade. Calcutta, Bombay, Zanzibar, Madagascar, Batavia, and other
ports came to know the American flag and the busy enterprising
traders.
But the old Salem that was once the capital of the state, the Salem of
John Endicott and Roger Williams, of stern Puritanism, of terrible
witchcraft horrors, and then of the sturdy and vigorous stand in her
differences with the mother country, her patriotism through the darkest
days, was fast fading away, just as this grand commercial epoch was
destined to merge into science and educational fame later on, and give
to the world some master spirits. But as he wended his way hither and
thither in a desultory fashion, one thought almost like spoken words
kept running through his mind--"A little girl--a little girl in Old
Salem"--for the almost two hundred years gave her the right to that

eminence, and a little girl from a foreign land seemed incongruous. Not
but that there were little girls in Salem, but their life-lines did not touch
his. And this one came so near, for the sake of both parents he had
loved.
When he came in to dinner, he had made up his mind to say nothing of
his letter until the guests had come and gone. He did not wish to be
deluged with questions.
He hunted up Cousin Giles the next day, who was quite a real-estate
dealer, investing his own and other people's money in sound mortgages,
who had been a widower so long that he had quite gone back to
bachelorhood.
And he found three Thatcher cousins--a widow, a married one, and a
single one, the youngest of the family, but past girlhood. He was asked
to take luncheon with them and they proved quite agreeable and
intelligent, and much pleased at the prospect of seeing Elizabeth and
Eunice Leverett.
"We have been hunting up several of the Boston relatives," said Miss
Thatcher, with a kind of winsome smile. "Cousin Giles has been a good
directory. We've kept in with so few of them. Father hunted up some of
them while he was in the Legislature, but they are so scattered about
and many of them dead. Mother was your father's cousin, I believe."
Chilian gave a graceful inclination of the head.
"Elizabeth and Eunice visited us years ago, along after the war when I
was first left a widow," explained Mrs. Brent. "Henry went all through
it, but was worn out, and died in '88. But I've two nice sons, who are a
great comfort. Father was very good to them and me. And they're both
promising farmers."