Queechy | Page 8

to burst into tears.
Chapter II.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow, Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Ben Jonson.
Where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can find a way--a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can travel. By the time they reached their own door Fleda's spirits were at par again.
"I am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she said as she jumped down; "I'm so hungry. I guess we are both of us ready for supper, don't you think so?"
She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings and then came down to the kitchen, where standing on the broad hearth and warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that foundations so established could not be shaken. The blazing fire seemed to welcome her home and bid her dismiss fear; the kettle singing on its accustomed hook looked as if quietly ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand times; just in the same position, with that collected air of grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an intent but most un-careful face. A face it was that always had a rare union of fineness and placidness. The table stood spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every corner of the room, and Pleda began to feel as if she had been in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from which she was very glad she had awoke.
"What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?" said she. "Muffins!--O let me bake them, will you? I'll bake them."
"Now Fleda," said Cynthy, "just you be quiet. There ain't no place where you can bake 'em. I'm just going to clap 'em in the reflector--that's the shortest way I can take to do 'em. You keep yourself out o' muss."
"They won't be muffins if you bake 'em in the reflector, Cynthy; they aren't half so good. Ah, do let me I I won't make a bit of muss."
"Where'll you do 'em?"
"In grandpa's room--if you'll just clean off the top of the stove for me--now do, Cynthy! I'll do 'em beautifully and you won't have a bit of trouble.--Come!"
"It'll make an awful smoke, Flidda; you'll fill your grandpa's room with the smoke, and he won't like that, I guess."
"O he won't mind it," said Fleda. "Will you, grandpa?"
"What, dear?"--said Mr. Ringgan, looking up at her from his paper with a relaxing face which indeed promised to take nothing amiss that she might do.
"Will you mind if I fill your room with smoke?"
"No, dear!" said he, the strong heartiness of his acquiescence almost reaching a laugh,--"No, dear!--fill it with anything you like!"
There was nothing more to be said; and while Fleda in triumph put on an apron and made her preparations, Cynthy on her part, and with a very good grace, went to get ready the stove; which being a wood stove, made of sheet iron, with a smooth even top, afforded in Fleda's opinion the very best possible field for muffins to come to their perfection. Now Fleda cared little in comparison for the eating part of the business; her delight was by the help of her own skill and the stove-top to bring the muffins to this state of perfection; her greatest pleasure in them was over when they were baked.
A little while had passed, Mr. Ringgan was still busy with his newspaper, Miss Cynthia Gall going in and out on various errands, Fleda shut up in the distant room with the muffins and the smoke; when there came a knock at the door, and Mr. Ringgan's "Come in!"--was followed by the entrance of two strangers, young, well-dressed, and comely. They wore the usual badges of seekers after game, but their guns were left outside.
The old gentleman's look of grave expectancy told his want of enlightening.
"I fear you do not remember me, Mr. Ringgan," said the foremost of the two coming up to him,--"my name is Rossitur--Charlton Rossitur--a cousin of your little grand-daughter. I have only"--
"O I know you now!" said Mr. Ringgan, rising and grasping his hand heartily,--"you are very welcome, sir. How do you do? I recollect you perfectly, but you took me by surprise.--How do you do, sir? Sit down--sit down."
And the old gentleman had extended his frank welcome to the second of his visitors almost before the first had time to utter,
"My friend Mr. Carleton."
"I couldn't imagine what was coming