A Woman Named Smith | Page 3

misted. I have known her
since the day she was born, next door to us in Boston, and she is the
only person I have ever seen who can cry and look pretty while she's
doing it; also, she can cry and laugh at the same time, being Irish. Some
foolish people, who have been deceived by Alicia Gaines's baby stare
and complexion, have said she hasn't sense enough to get in out of a
shower of rain. This is, of course, a libel. But what's the odds, when
every male being in sight would rush to her aid with an umbrella?
After her mother's death I fell heir to Alicia, who, like me, was an only
child, and without relatives. Lately, I'd gotten her into our
filing-department. She didn't belong in a business office, she whose
proper background should have been an adoring husband and the latest
thing in pink-and-white babies.
"But somebody's got to think of stoves and roofs and rats and such, or

there'd be no living in any old house," I reminded her, practically. "My
dear girl, don't you realize that this thing isn't all beer and skittles?"
Alicia wrinkled her white forehead.
"Consider me, a hardy late-summer plant forced to uproot and
transplant myself to a soil which may not in the least agree with me.
Why, this means changing all my fixed habits, to trot off to live in an
old house that is probably haunted by the cross-grained ghost of a lady
of ninety-nine!"
"If I were a ghost, you'd be the very last person on earth I'd want to
tackle, Sophy," remarked Alicia, dimpling. "And as for that new soil,
why, you'll bloom in it! You--well, Sophy dear, up to now you have
been root-bound; you've never had a chance to grow, much less to
blossom. Now you can do both."
I who was confidential secretary to the Head, looked at the girl who
was admittedly the worst file-clerk on record; and she looked back at
me, nodding her bright head with young wisdom.
"I hope," she said, wistfully, "that there'll be all sorts of lovely things in
your house, Sophy,--old mirrors, old books, old pictures, old furniture,
old china. Lord send you'll find an attic! All my life I've day-dreamed
of finding an attic that's been shut up and forgotten for ages and ages,
and discovering all sorts of lovely things in all sorts of hiding-places.
When I think my day-dream may come true for you, Sophy, it almost
reconciles me to the pain of parting from you; though what on earth I'm
to do without you, goodness only knows!" She was sitting on my bed,
kimonoed, slippered, and braided. And now she looked at me with a
suddenly quivering chin.
"Alicia," said I, "ever since I discovered that there's no mistake about
that lawyer's letter--that Hynds House is unaccountably, but
undoubtedly mine and I've got to live in it if I want to keep it--it has
been borne in upon me that you are just about the worst file-clerk on
earth. You're a navy-blue failure in a business office. Business isn't
your motif. Now, will you resign the job you fill execrably, and accept

one you can fill beyond all praise--come South with me, share
half-and-half whatever comes, and help make that old house a happy
home for us both?"
"Don't joke." Her lips went white. "Please, please, Sophy dear, don't
joke like that! I--well, I just couldn't bear it."
"I never joke," I said indignantly. "You little goose, did you imagine
for one minute that I contemplated leaving you here by yourself, any
more than I contemplate going down there by myself, if I can help it?
Stop to think for a moment, Alicia. You have been like a little sister to
me, ever since you were born. And--I'm alone, except for you--and not
in my first youth--and not beautiful--and not gifted."
At that she hurled herself off my bed and cried upon my shoulder, with
her slim arms around my neck. Those young arms were beginning to
make me feel wistful. If things had been different--if I had been lovely
like the Scarletts, instead of looking like the Smiths--there might have
been--
Well, I don't look like the Scarletts; so there wasn't. The best I could do
was to drop a kiss on Alicia's forehead, where the bright young hair
begins to break into curls.
And that is how, neither of us having the faintest notion of what was in
store for us, Alicia Gaines and I turned our backs upon New York and
set our faces toward Hynds House.

CHAPTER II
AND ARIEL MAKES MUSIC
We had wired Judge Gatchell when to expect us, but the venerable
negro hackman who was on the lookout for us explained that