Little Lucy Rose
BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long
hill. The ground receded until the rectory
garden was reached, and the hill was guarded on
either flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars,
and, being a part of the land appertaining to the
rectory, was never invaded by the village children.
This was considered very fortunate by Mrs. Patterson,
Jim's mother, and for an odd reason. The rector's
wife was very fond of coasting, as she was of most
out-of-door sports, but her dignified position pre-
vented her from enjoying them to the utmost. In
many localities the clergyman's wife might have
played golf and tennis, have rode and swum and
coasted and skated, and nobody thought the worse
of her; but in The Village it was different.
Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of
that splendid, isolated hill behind the house. It
could not have been improved upon for a long, per-
fectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice
in the garden and bumping thrillingly between dry
vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered and Jim made the
running pushes, and slid flat on his chest behind
his mother. Jim was very proud of his mother. He
often wished that he felt at liberty to tell of her
feats. He had never been told not to tell, but real-
ized, being rather a sharp boy, that silence was
wiser. Jim's mother confided in him, and he re-
spected her confidence. "Oh, Jim dear," she would
often say, "there is a mothers' meeting this after-
noon, and I would so much rather go coasting with
you." Or, "There's a Guild meeting about a fair,
and the ice in the garden is really quite smooth."
It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but
Jim loved his mother better because she expressed a
preference for the sports he loved, and considered that
no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to
his. Sally Patterson was small and wiry, with a bright
face, and very thick, brown hair, which had a boyish
crest over her forehead, and she could run as fast
as Jim. Jim's father was much older than his mother,
and very dignified, although he had a keen sense of
humor. He used to laugh when his wife and son
came in after their coasting expeditions.
"Well, boys," he would say, "had a good time?"
Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his
mother was the very best and most beautiful per-
son in the village, even in the whole world, until
Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in
the bank, and his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as
a matter of course, came with him. Little Lucy
had no mother. Mr. Cyril's cousin, Martha Rose,
kept his house, and there was a colored maid with a
bad temper, who was said, however, to be inval-
uable "help."
Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She
came the next Monday after Jim and his friends had
planned to have a chicken roast and failed. After
Jim saw little Lucy he thought no more of the
chicken roast. It seemed to him that he thought
no more of anything. He could not by any possi-
bility have learned his lessons had it not been for
the desire to appear a good scholar before little Lucy.
Jim had never been a self-conscious boy, but that
day he was so keenly worried about her opinion of
him that his usual easy swing broke into a strut
when he crossed the room. He need not have been
so troubled, because little Lucy was not looking at
him. She was not looking at any boy or girl. She
was only trying to learn her lesson. Little Lucy was
that rather rare creature, a very gentle, obedient
child, with a single eye for her duty. She was so
charming that it was sad to think how much her
mother had missed, as far as this world was con-
cerned.
The minute Madame saw her a singular light
came into her eyes -- the light of love of a childless
woman for a child. Similar lights were in the eyes
of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked
at one another with a sort of sweet confidence when
they were drinking tea together after school in Ma-
dame's study.
"Did you ever see such a darling?" said Madame.
Miss Parmalee said she never had, and Miss Acton
echoed her.
"She is a little angel," said Madame.
"She worked so hard over her geography lesson,"
said Miss Parmalee, "and she got the Amazon River
in New England and the Connecticut in South
America, after all; but she was so sweet about it,
she made me want to change the map of the world.
Dear little soul, it did seem as if she ought to have
rivers and everything else just where she chose."
"And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her
little finger is too short," said Miss Acton; "and she
hasn't a bit of an ear for music, but her little voice
is so sweet it does not matter."
"I have seen prettier children," said Madame,
"but never one quite such a darling."
Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Ma-
dame, and so did everybody else. Lily Jennings's
beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but Lily
did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's
most fervent admirers. She was really Jim Patter-
son's most formidable rival in the school. "You
don't care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?"
Lily said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim
and Lee Westminster and Johnny Trumbull and
Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis,
and a number of others who glowered at her.
Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to
hurt the feelings of boys, and the question had been
loudly put. Finally she said she didn't know. Lack
of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge
in time of need. She would look adorable, and say
in her timid little fluty voice, "I don't -- know."
The last word came always with a sort of gasp which
was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced
that little Lucy loved them all individually and gen-
erally, because of her "I don't -- know."
Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affec-
tion for everybody, which was one reason for her
charm. She flattered without knowing that she did
so. It was impossible for her to look at any living
thing except with soft eyes of love. It was impos-
sible for her to speak without every tone conveying
the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole
atmosphere of Madame's school changed with the
advent of the little girl. Everybody tried to live
up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality
she had no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little
girls, only intent upon being good, doing as she was
told, and winning her father's approval, also her
cousin Martha's.
Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still
good-looking. She was not popular, because she
was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received
calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word.
People rather dreaded her coming. Miss Martha
Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, her
gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card-
case, her chin tilted at an angle which never varied,
her mouth in a set smile which never wavered, her
slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely
under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss
Martha Rose dressed always in gray, a fashion
which the village people grudgingly admired. It
was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but
savored ever so slightly of ostentation, as did her
custom of always dressing little Lucy in blue. There
were different shades and fabrics, but blue it always
was. It was the best color for the child, as it re-
vealed the fact that her big, dark eyes were blue.
Shaded as they were by heavy, curly lashes, they
would have been called black or brown, but the blue
in them leaped to vision above the blue of blue
frocks. Little Lucy had the finest, most delicate
features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled
slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples.
She was a small, daintily clad child, and she spoke
and moved daintily and softly; and when her blue
eyes were fixed upon anybody's face, that person
straightway saw love and obedience and trust in
them, and love met love half-way. Even Miss
Martha Rose looked another woman when little
Lucy's innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather
handsome but colorless face between the folds of
her silvery hair; Miss Martha's hair had turned
prematurely gray. Light would come into Martha
Rose's face, light and animation, although she never
talked much even to Lucy. She never talked much
to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it.
He had a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and
he was engrossed in his business, and concerned lest
he be disturbed by such things as feminine chatter,
of which he certainly had none in his own home, if
he kept aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers
was the only female voice ever heard to the point
of annoyance in the Rose house.
It was rather wonderful how a child like little
Lucy and Miss Martha lived with so little conversa-
tion. Martha talked no more at home than abroad;
moreover, at home she had not the attitude of wait-
ing for some one to talk to her, which people outside
considered trying. Martha did not expect her cousin
to talk to her. She seldom asked a question. She
almost never volunteered a perfectly useless obser-
vation. She made no remarks upon self-evident
topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned it.
If there was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that.
Miss Martha suited her cousin exactly, and for that
reason, aside from the fact that he had been devoted
to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him to
marry again. Little Lucy talked no more than Miss
Martha, and nobody dreamed that she sometimes
wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody dreamed
that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learn-
ing needlework, trying very futilely to play the
piano, was lonely; but she was without knowing
it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her
father was so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers
or books, often sitting by himself in his own study.
Little Lucy in this peace and stillness was not hav-
ing her share of childhood. When other little girls
came to play with her. Miss Martha enjoined quiet,
and even Lily Jennings's bird-like chattering be-
came subdued. It was only at school that Lucy
got her chance for the irresponsible delight which
was the simple right of her childhood, and there her
zeal for her lessons prevented. She was happy at
school, however, for there she lived in an atmos-
phere of demonstrative affection. The teachers
were given to seizing her in fond arms and caress-
ing her, and so were her girl companions; while
the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistful-
ly on.
Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical
boy-love; but it was love. Everything which he
did in those days was with the thought of little
Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than
he had ever done before, but it was all for the sake
of little Lucy. Jim Patterson had one talent, rather
rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by ear.
His father owned an old violin. He had been in-
clined to music in early youth, and Jim got per-
mission to practise on it, and he went by himself
in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did
not care for music, and her son's preliminary scra-
ping tortured her. Jim tucked the old fiddle under
one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic,
with wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his
pennies for catgut, and he learned to mend fiddle-
strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday after-
noon when there were visitors in Madame's school,
and he stood on the platform, with Miss Acton
playing an accompaniment on the baby grand piano,
and he managed a feeble but true tune on his violin.
It was all for little Lucy, but little Lucy cared no
more for music than his mother; and while Jim was
playing she was rehearsing in the depths of her mind
the little poem which later she was to recite; for
this adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of course,
to figure in the entertainment. It therefore happened
that she heard not one note of Jim Patterson's pain-
fully executed piece, for she was saying to herself
in mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning:
There was one little flower that bloomed
Beside a cottage door.
When she went forward, little darling blue-clad
figure, there was a murmur of admiration; and when
she made mistakes straight through the poem, saying,
There was a little flower that fell
On my aunt Martha's floor,
for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter
and a clapping of tender, maternal hands, and every-
body wanted to catch hold of little Lucy and kiss her.
It was one of the irresistible charms of this child
that people loved her the more for her mistakes,
and she made many, although she tried so very
hard to avoid them. Little Lucy was not in the
least brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase,
and it gave out perfume better than mere knowledge.
Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when
he went home that night that he confessed to his
mother. Mrs. Patterson had led up to the subject
by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinner-table.
"Edward," she said to her husband -- both she
and the rector had been present at Madame's school
entertainment and the tea-drinking afterward -- "did
you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl
as the new cashier's daughter? She quite makes up
for Miss Martha, who sat here one solid hour, hold-
ing her card-case, waiting for me to talk to her.
That child is simply delicious, and I was so glad
she made mistakes."
"Yes, she is a charming child," assented the rector,
"despite the fact that she is not a beauty, hardly
even pretty."
"I know it," said Mrs. Patterson, "but she has the
worth of beauty."
Jim was quite pale while his father and mother
were talking. He swallowed the hot soup so fast
that it burnt his tongue. Then he turned very
red, but nobody noticed him. When his mother
came up-stairs to kiss him good night he told her.
"Mother," said he, "I have something to tell
you."
"All right, Jim," replied Sally Patterson, with her
boyish air.
"It is very important," said Jim.
Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even
smile. She sat down beside Jim's bed and looked
seriously at his eager, rapt, shamed little boy-face
on the pillow. "Well?" said she, after a minute
which seemed difficult to him.
Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt.
"Mother," said Jim, "by and by, of course not quite
yet, but by and by, will you have any objection to
Miss Lucy Rose as a daughter?"
Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even
smile. "Are you thinking of marrying her, Jim?"
asked she, quite as if her son had been a man.
"Yes, mother," replied Jim. Then he flung up
his little arms in pink pajama sleeves, and Sally
Patterson took his face between her two hands and
kissed him warmly.
"She is a darling, and your choice does you credit,
Jim," said she. "Of course you have said nothing
to her yet?"
"I thought it was rather too soon."
"I really think you are very wise, Jim," said his
mother. "It is too soon to put such ideas into
the poor child's head. She is younger than you,
isn't she, Jim?"
"She is just six months and three days younger,"
replied Jim, with majesty.
"I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would
just wear her all out, as young as that, to be obliged
to think about her trousseau and housekeeping and
going to school, too."
"I know it," said Jim, with a pleased air. "I
thought I was right, mother."
"Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to
finish school, and take up a profession or a busi-
ness, before you say anything definite. You would
want a nice home for the dear little thing, you
know that, Jim."
Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow.
"I thought I would stay with you, and she would
stay with her father until we were both very much
older," said he. "She has a nice home now, you
know, mother."
Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she
spoke quite gravely and reasonably. "Yes, that is
very true," said she; "still, I do think you are wise
to wait, Jim."
When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in
on the rector in his study. "Our son is thinking
seriously of marrying, Edward," said she.
The rector stared at her. She had shut the door,
and she laughed.
"He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to
my approval of her as daughter and announced his
intention to wait a little while."
The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead
uneasily. "I don't like the little chap getting such
ideas," said he.
"Don't worry, Edward; he hasn't got them,"
said Sally Patterson.
"I hope not."
"He has made a very wise choice. She is that
perfect darling of a Rose girl who couldn't speak
her piece, and thought we all loved her when we
laughed."
"Well, don't let him get foolish ideas; that is all,
my dear," said the rector.
"Don't worry, Edward. I can manage him,"
said Sally.
But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim
proposed in due form to little Lucy. He could not
help it. It was during the morning intermission,
and he came upon her seated all alone under a haw-
thorn hedge, studying her arithmetic anxiously.
She was in blue, as usual, and a very perky blue bow
sat on her soft, dark hair, like a bluebird. She
glanced up at Jim from under her long lashes.
"Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you
please, will you tell me?" said she.
"Say, Lucy," said Jim, "will you marry me by
and by?"
Lucy stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"Will you?"
"Will I what?"
"Marry me by and by?"
Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance.
"I don't know," said she.
"But you like me, don't you, Lucy?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you like me better than you like Johnny
Trumbull?"
"I don't know."
"You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth,
don't you? He has curls and wears socks."
"I don't know."
"When do you think you can be sure?"
"I don't know."
Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared
back sweetly.
"Please tell me whether two and seven make
six or eleven, Jim," said she.
"They make nine," said Jim.
"I have been counting my fingers and I got it
eleven, but I suppose I must have counted one finger
twice," said little Lucy. She gazed reflectively at
her little baby-hands. A tiny ring with a blue stone
shone on one finger.
"I will give you a ring, you know," Jim said,
coaxingly.
"I have got a ring my father gave me. Did you
say it was ten, please, Jim?"
"Nine," gasped Jim.
"All the way I can remember," said little Lucy,
"is for you to pick just so many leaves off the hedge,
and I will tie them in my handkerchief, and just be-
fore I have to say my lesson I will count those
leaves."
Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the haw-
thorn hedge, and little Lucy tied them into her
handkerchief, and then the Japanese gong sounded
and they went back to school.
That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to
bed, she spoke of her own accord to her father and
Miss Martha, a thing which she seldom did. "Jim
Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him
what seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson,"
said she. She looked with the loveliest round eyes
of innocence first at her father, then at Miss Martha.
Cyril Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper.
"What did you say, little Lucy?" he asked.
"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I
asked him to tell me how much seven and two made
in my arithmetic lesson."
Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each
other.
"Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great
big wasp flew on my arm and frightened me."
Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little,
sweet, uncertain voice went on.
"And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most
fell down on the sidewalk; and Lee Westminster
asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did
Bubby Harvey."
"What did you tell them?" asked Miss Martha,
in a faint voice.
"I told them I didn't know."
"You had better have the child go to bed now,"
said Cyril. "Good night, little Lucy. Always tell
father everything."
"Yes, father," said little Lucy, and was kissed,
and went away with Martha.
When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her
severely. He was a fair, gentle-looking man, and
severity was impressive when he assumed it.
"Really, Martha," said he, "don't you think you
had better have a little closer outlook over that
baby?"
"Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing,"
cried Miss Martha.
"You really must speak to Madame," said Cyril.
"I cannot have such things put into the child's
head."
"Oh, Cyril, how can I?"
"I think it is your duty."
"Cyril, could not -- you?"
Cyril grinned. "Do you think," said he, "that
I am going to that elegant widow schoolma'am and
say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four
proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg
you to put a stop to such proceedings'? No, Martha;
it is a woman's place to do such a thing as that.
The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am
about it. Poor little soul!"
So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next
day being Saturday, called on Madame, but, not
being asked any leading question, found herself abso-
lutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and
went away with it unfulfilled.
"Well, I must say," said Madame to Miss Par-
malee, as Miss Martha tripped wearily down the
front walk -- "I must say, of all the educated women
who have really been in the world, she is the strang-
est. You and I have done nothing but ask inane
questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and
chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out."
"So am I," sighed Miss Parmalee.
But neither of them was so worn out as poor
Miss Martha, anticipating her cousin's reproaches.
However, her wonted silence and reticence stood
her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little
Lucy had gone to bed:
"Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's pro-
posals?"
"She did not say anything," replied Martha.
"Did she promise it would not occur again?"
"She did not promise, but I don't think it will."
The financial page was unusually thrilling that
night, and Cyril Rose, who had come to think rather
lightly of the affair, remarked, absent-mindedly;
"Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have
such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If
it does, we get a governess for her and take her away
from Madame's." Then he resumed his reading,
and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her
knitting.
It was late spring then, and little Lucy had at-
tended Madame's school several months, and her
popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned
to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had
insisted upon a May queen, and Lucy was unani-
mously elected. The pupils of Madame's school went
to the picnic in the manner known as a "straw-
ride." Miss Parmalee sat with them, her feet
uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the
youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the
duty. Madame and Miss Acton headed the pro-
cession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven by
the colored man Sam, who was employed about the
school. Dover's Grove was six miles from the vil-
lage, and a favorite spot for picnics. The victoria
rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol,
for the sun was on her side and the day very warm.
Both ladies wore thin, dark gowns, and both felt
the languor of spring.
The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon
the golden trusses of straw, looked like a wagon-
load of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy faces
looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they
chattered. It made no difference to them that it
was not the season for a straw-ride, that the trusses
were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming
boughs under which they rode, and were quite ob-
livious to all discomfort and unpleasantness. Poor
Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, sneezing
from time to time from the odor of the old straw,
did not obtain the full beauty of the spring day.
She had protested against the straw-ride.
"The children really ought to wait until the season
for such things," she had told Madame, quite boldly;
and Madame had replied that she was well aware
of it, but the children wanted something of the sort,
and the hay was not cut, and straw, as it happened,
was more easily procured.
"It may not be so very musty," said Madame;
"and you know, my dear, straw is clean, and I
am sorry, but you do seem to be the one to ride
with the children on the straw, because" -- Madame
dropped her voice -- "you are really younger, you
know, than either Miss Acton or I."
Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed
with her few years of superior youth to have gotten
rid of that straw-ride. She had no parasol, and the
sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children
got horribly on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one
alleviation. Little Lucy sat in the midst of the
boisterous throng, perfectly still, crowned with her
garland of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little
face calmly observant. She was the high light of
Madame's school, the effect which made the
whole. All the others looked at little Lucy, they
talked to her, they talked at her; but she remained
herself unmoved, as a high light should be. "Dear
little soul," Miss Parmalee thought. She also
thought that it was a pity that little Lucy could
not have worn a white frock in her character as
Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken. The
blue was of a peculiar shade, of a very soft material,
and nothing could have been prettier. Jim Patterson
did not often look away from little Lucy; neither
did Arnold Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey;
neither did Johnny Trumbull; neither did Lily
Jennings; neither did many others.
Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as
she watched Lily. She thought Lily ought to have
been queen; and she, while she did not dream of
competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished
Lily would not always look at Lucy with such wor-
shipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent. She
knew that she herself could not aspire to being an
object of worship, but the state of being a nonentity
for Lily was depressing. "Wonder if I jumped out
of this old wagon and got killed if she would mind
one bit?" she thought, tragically. But Amelia did
not jump. She had tragic impulses, or rather im-
aginations of tragic impulses, but she never carried
them out. It was left for little Lucy, flower-crowned
and calmly sweet and gentle under honors, to be
guilty of a tragedy of which she never dreamed.
For that was the day when little Lucy was lost.
When the picnic was over, when the children were
climbing into the straw-wagon and Madame and
Miss Acton were genteelly disposed in the victoria,
a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight
and rolled his inquiring eyes around; Madame and
Miss Acton leaned far out on either side of the vic-
toria.
"Oh, what is it?" said Madame. "My dear Miss
Acton, do pray get out and see what the trouble is.
I begin to feel a little faint."
In fact, Madame got her cut-glass smelling-bottle
out of her bag and began to sniff vigorously. Sam
gazed backward and paid no attention to her. Ma-
dame always felt faint when anything unexpected
occurred, and smelled at the pretty bottle, but she
never fainted.
Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear
of the dusty wheel, and she scuttled back to the up-
roarious straw-wagon, showing her slender ankles
and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry,
dainty woman, full of nervous energy. When she
reached the straw-wagon Miss Parmalee was climb-
ing out, assisted by the driver. Miss Parmalee
was very pale and visibly tremulous. The children
were all shrieking in dissonance, so it was quite
impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of
woe was; but obviously something of a tragic na-
ture had happened.
"What is the matter?" asked Miss Acton, tee-
tering like a humming-bird with excitement.
"Little Lucy --" gasped Miss Parmalee.
"What about her?"
"She isn't here."
"Where is she?"
"We don't know. We just missed her."
Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose,
although sadly wrangled, became intelligible. Ma-
dame came, holding up her silk skirt and sniffing at
her smelling-bottle, and everybody asked ques-
tions of everybody else, and nobody knew any satis-
factory answers. Johnny Trumbull was confident
that he was the last one to see little Lucy, and so
were Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so
were Jim Patterson and Bubby Harvey and Arnold
Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others;
but when pinned down to the actual moment
everybody disagreed, and only one thing was cer-
tain -- little Lucy Rose was missing.
"What shall I say to her father?" moaned Ma-
dame.
"Of course, we shall find her before we say any-
thing," returned Miss Parmalee, who was sure to
rise to an emergency. Madame sank helpless be-
fore one. "You had better go and sit under that
tree (Sam, take a cushion out of the carriage for
Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must drive
to the village and give the alarm, and the straw-
wagon had better go, too; and the rest of us will
hunt by threes, three always keeping together. Re-
member, children, three of you keep together, and,
whatever you do, be sure and do not separate. We
cannot have another lost."
It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and
frightened, sat on the cushion under the tree and
sniffed at her smelling-bottle, and the rest scattered
and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush
thoroughly. But it was sunset when the groups
returned to Madame under her tree, and the straw-
wagon with excited people was back, and the victoria
with Lucy's father and the rector and his wife, and
Dr. Trumbull in his buggy, and other carriages fast
arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been out
calling when she heard the news, and she was walk-
ing to the scene of action. The victoria in which
her cousin was seated left her in a cloud of dust.
Cyril Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with
the card-case and the parasol.
The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it
was Jim Patterson who found her, and in the most
unlikely of places. A forlorn pair with a multi-
plicity of forlorn children lived in a tumble-down
house about half a mile from the grove. The man's
name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's was Sarah.
Poor Sarah had lost a large part of the small wit she
had originally owned several years before, when her
youngest daughter, aged four, died. All the babies
that had arrived since had not consoled her for the
death of that little lamb, by name Viola May, nor
restored her full measure of under-wit. Poor Sarah
Thomas had spied adorable little Lucy separated
from her mates by chance for a few minutes, pick-
ing wild flowers, and had seized her in forcible but
loving arms and carried her home. Had Lucy not
been such a silent, docile child, it could never have
happened; but she was a mere little limp thing in
the grasp of the over-loving, deprived mother who
thought she had gotten back her own beloved Viola
May.
When Jim Patterson, big-eyed and pale, looked
in at the Thomas door, there sat Sarah Thomas, a
large, unkempt, wild-visaged, but gentle creature,
holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy,
shrinking away as far as she was able, kept her big,
dark eyes of wonder and fear upon the woman's
face. And all around were clustered the Thomas
children, unkempt as their mother, a gentle but
degenerate brood, all of them believing what their
mother said. Viola May had come home again.
Silas Thomas was not there; he was trudging slowly
homeward from a job of wood-cutting. Jim saw
only the mother, little Lucy, and that poor little
flock of children gazing in wonder and awe. Jim
rushed in and faced Sarah Thomas. "Give me
little Lucy!" said he, as fiercely as any man. But
he reckoned without the unreasoning love of a
mother. Sarah only held little Lucy faster, and the
poor little girl rolled appealing eyes at him over that
brawny, grasping arm of affection.
Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it
came. Little Lucy rode home in the victoria, seated
in Sally Patterson's lap. "Mother, you take her,"
Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of
Madame, had gathered the little trembling crea-
ture into her arms. In her heart she had not much
of an opinion of any woman who had allowed such
a darling little girl out of her sight for a moment.
Madame accepted a seat in another carriage and rode
home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly resolving
never again to have a straw-ride.
Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way
home. They passed poor Miss Martha Rose, still
faring toward the grove, and nobody noticed her,
for the second time. She did not turn back until
the straw-wagon, which formed the tail of the little
procession, reached her. That she halted with mad
waves of her parasol, and, when told that little Lucy
was found, refused a seat on the straw because she
did not wish to rumple her best gown and turned
about and fared home again.
The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's
house, and Cyril yielded gratefully to Sally Patter-
son's proposition that she take the little girl with
her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and
brushed and freed from possible contamination from
the Thomases, who were not a cleanly lot, and later
brought home in the rector's carriage. However,
little Lucy stayed all night at the rectory. She had
a bath; her lovely, misty hair was brushed; she
was fed and petted; and finally Sally Patterson
telephoned for permission to keep her overnight.
By that time poor Martha had reached home and
was busily brushing her best dress.
After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite
restored, sat in Sally Patterson's lap on the veranda,
while Jim hovered near. His innocent boy-love
made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings
only bore him to failure, before an earlier and
mightier force of love than his young heart could
yet compass for even such a darling as little Lucy.
He sat on the veranda step and gazed eagerly and
rapturously at little Lucy on his mother's lap, and
the desire to have her away from other loves came
over him. He saw the fireflies dancing in swarms
on the lawn, and a favorite sport of the children of
the village occurred to him.
"Say, little Lucy," said Jim.
Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under
her mist of hair, as she nestled against Sally Patter-
son's shoulder.
"Say, let's chase fireflies, little Lucy."
"Do you want to chase fireflies with Jim, darling?"
asked Sally.
Little Lucy nestled closer. "I would rather stay
with you," said she in her meek flute of a voice,
and she gazed up at Sally with the look which she
might have given the mother she had lost.
Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached
down a fond hand and patted her boy's head.
"Never mind, Jim," said Sally. "Mothers have to
come first."
-THE END-
Mary E Wilkins Freeman's short story: Little Lucy Rose
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