A Little Girl in Old Salem | Page 6

ejaculated Elizabeth in surprise.
"Yes. He wishes to be buried there beside his wife. And he does not
want her to have the remembrance of his death. So he sends her with
the woman who has been her nurse and maid the last three years, an
Englishwoman."
"Of all things! I wonder what will come next! We seem in the line of
surprises. And it's queer they should happen together. A little girl!
Chilian, do you like it? Why, it will fairly turn the house upside down!"
There was an accent of protest in Elizabeth's tone, showing plainly her
unwillingness to accept the situation.
"One little girl can't move much furniture about;" with a sound of
humor in his voice.
"Oh, you know what I mean--not actually dragging sofas and tables
about, but she will chairs, as you'll see. And lots of other things. Look
at the Rendall children. The house always looks as if it had been stirred
up with the pudding-stick, and Sally Rendall spends good half her time
looking for things they have carted off. Tom and Anstice were digging
up the path the day we called, and what do you suppose they had! The
tablespoons. And I'll venture to say they were left out of doors."

"There are so many of them," Chilian said, as if in apology.
"And I don't see how we can keep this child away from them. It isn't as
if they were low-down people. Sally's father having been a major in the
war, and the Rendalls are good stock. Let me see--what's her name?
Her mother was called Letty."
"Cynthia. She was named for my mother." Chilian's voice had a
reverent softness in it.
"I always thought it a pretty name," said Eunice.
"And I've heard people call it 'Cyn.' I do abominate nicknames."
Elizabeth uttered this with a good deal of vigor. Then she remembered
she quite liked Bessy.
No one spoke for some moments. Chilian thought of the sister, whose
brief married life had ended in her pretty home at Providence, and how
she looked in her coffin with her baby sheltered by one arm. The
picture came before him vividly.
Elizabeth liked cleanliness and order. It was natural after a long
practice in it. Chilian's particular ways suited her. Year after year had
settled them--perhaps she had settled him more definitely, as he liked
the way. Eunice was thinking of the little girl who had neither father or
mother. She had some unfulfilled dreams. In her youth there had been a
lover, and a wedding planned when he came home from his voyage.
She had begun to "lay by" for housekeeping. And there were some
pretty garments in the trunk upstairs, packed away with other articles.
The lover was lost at sea, as befell many another New England coast
woman.
She had hoped against hope for several years--men were sometimes
restored as by a miracle--but he never came. So she sometimes
dreamed of what might have been, of home and children, and it kept
her heart tender. Anthony's little girl would make a sight of trouble, she
could see that, but a little girl about would be a great pleasure--to her at

least. She glanced furtively at Elizabeth, then at Chilian. She could not
comfort either of them with this sudden glow and warmth that thrilled
through her veins.
"Well, we will be through with house-cleaning before she comes," said
the practical and particular housewife. Chilian simply sighed. It was the
usual spring ordeal, and did end. But who could predict the ending of
the other?
CHAPTER II
THE LITTLE GIRL
Down at the wharf there was much bustle and stir. Vessels were lading
for various home ports, fishing craft were going out on their ventures,
even a whaler had just fitted up for a long cruise, and the young as well
as middle-aged sailors were shouting out farewells. White and black
men were running to and fro, laughing, chaffing, and swearing at each
other.
There lay the East Indiaman, with her foreign flag as well as that of her
country. She had come in about midnight and at early dawn
preliminaries had begun. Captain Corwin had been ashore a time or two,
looking up and down amid the motley throng, and now he touched his
hat and nodded to Chilian Leverett, who picked his way over to him.
"We are somewhat late," he began apologetically. "A little due to rough
weather, but one can never fix an exact date."
"All is well, I hope;" in an anxious tone.
"Yes; the child proved a good sailor and was much interested in
everything. I was afraid she would take it hard. But she is counting on
her father's coming. I don't know how you will ever console her when
she learns