Chapter 27

Kitty Lewis shook out the folds of her new bright pink calico dress, walked to the little looking-glass, for about the tenth time, to see if the dainty white ruffle around her neck was in order; then took a survey of the room, lest there might possibly be something else to do which would improve its appearance.

It was the same little room in which Kitty had spent her childhood, from which Johnny first, and then long afterwards the husband and father, had been carried out to return no more. And yet it was not the same—there was a neat rag carpet on the floor, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Minturn; the round table in the corner was covered with a bright red cloth, and strewn with a few books and papers; the full white curtain was looped away from the window, and the light of a clear sunset glimmered in the room; everything was neat and bright and cheery. The table was set for tea, the white cloth showing just the folds in which it was ironed; there were three plates and three cups and saucers, instead of two, while Kitty, in her restless wanderings around the room, and Mrs. Lewis, in her frequent glances out of the window, both showed that somebody was being watched and waited for.

“The eastern train is in,” Kitty said finally. “Now, if he comes tonight, he’ll be here in three minutes.” And it could not have been much more than that when a quick, crunching step was heard on the gravel outside, then on the plank before the door, then the door swung open, and Edward Lewis walked into the little room out of which he had gone three years before.

Kitty was all ready to spring forward, say, “Oh, Tip!” and throw her arms right around his neck. Instead, she stood still. Some way, in spite of the long letters which had passed between them during these years, Kitty had fully expected to see a stout, tanned boy, in a strong, coarse suit of grey, with thick boots and a new straw hat. Of, at least—why, of course, she knew he must have changed some; hadn’t she? But then she did not think he would be so tall, and have a face and hands without tan or freckle, or that his clothes would be so very black and fine, and fit as though they had grown on him, or that his collar would be so white and glossy, or his boots so small and shiny. So Kitty stood still in embarrassed silence.

But the mother—oh, she saw in him the picture of the dear, dead father, as he used to come to her long, long ago; the husband who, through all change and poverty and pain, she had always loved! And all the tenderness that had ever been in her heart took form, and spoke in those words with which she came forward to greet her son—“Oh, my dear boy!”

There was happiness in the little home that night; only the bedroom door was closed, and Edward knew that his father’s bed was vacant.

Such a queer feeling as possessed him all the next day, while he went around the village! He went everywhere. He felt like walking through every street, and stepping on every stone on which his feet had trod in the old life, now utterly gone from him. He wandered down to the riverbank, where he had lain that summer morning and envied the fishes; and, standing there, thanked God for the mission class in Mr. Holbrook’s Sunday school. Thence to the cemetery, where by the side of little Johnny’s grave the new life had been commenced. There was a long grave beside the short one now; and, standing there, he thanked God for the hope which he had of meeting the father and the baby in heaven. Thence to the great elm tree at the foot of the hill; and, standing there, he took out once more the little red Bible, and turned the leaves lovingly; lingered over the name written by Mr. Holbrook’s hand, turned again to the first verse which he had ever read from its pages: “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”* (Psalm 119:105) Time and again had he proved the truth of that verse. There, under that very tree, it had helped him to fight battles with Satan and come off conqueror. And he thanked God for the Bible. After that he went directly to the village; just looked in at the meat market for the sake of the old days.

Somebody told Mr. Dewey who was coming, and he was just ready to say, “Hallo, Tip!” but instead, he came around from behind the counter, and, holding out his hand, said, “How do you do, Lewis? Glad to see you.” Something, either in the city-made clothes or the quiet air of dignity with which they were worn, made him dislike to say, “Hallo, Tip!” to the tall young man before him.

Mr. Minturn shook him heartily by the hand. “Never rejoiced over anyone’s luck more in my life!” he said; then, in the same breath, “How’s Ray? Oh, yes, I see how it is, poor fellow! And you love him, too; of course, everyone does.”

There was still the schoolroom to visit, and as Edward went up the familiar walk he wished Bob Turner could have been with him to make this call. But Bob was probably rushing like a top through the city store, without a thought of the old schoolhouse or the miserable days which he had spent there.

Mr. Burrows himself answered the knock, and gave him a hearty greeting. Three years had made changes there. Edward found himself looking eagerly towards the back row of seats fur the old faces—Will, Howard, Ellis, and half a dozen others—before he remembered that they had long since entered higher schools. The boys whom he had left plodding through long division were filling those back seats now, and leading their classes in algebra and Latin. He sat down near the blackboard to watch the progress of Joe Bartlett through an example in division. And behold, he was doing that old never-to-be-forgotten example about the cows and sheep! He picked up an arithmetic eagerly.

“Mr. Burrows, do you remember that example?’

“I remember that it has puzzled some forty or more of my boys in the course of time,” said Mr. Burrows, laughing; “but nothing very special about it.”

“I do; it was the cause of my first promotion.”

“Was it, indeed! I’m afraid it will never be the cause of poor Joseph’s; it seems to be mastering him.”

Mr. Burrows was engaged with a grammar class, and Edward offered to assist the bewildered Joseph.

“I remember those sheep of old,” he said kindly, as he turned to the board. “Isn’t it the ‘stood him in’ that troubles you?”

“Yes, it is,” Joe answered grumbly. “I don’t see no sense to it.”

“Let me show you. Suppose—” And he went through with the well-remembered explanation. It was successful, Joe understood it, and went on briskly with the figures.

Edward turned towards Mr. Burrows. “It was the way my father explained it to me,” he said, with eyes that glistened a little.

Someone brought Mr. Burrows a note, and, as he read and laid it down, he said, “Now, Edward, if you had continued at school instead of running away from us, I should get you to hear this recitation in algebra, and take leave of absence for a few minutes. There is a friend in town whom I would give much to see before the next train leaves.”

“Suppose you set me at it as it is.”

Mr. Burrows looked surprised. “Have you been studying algebra, Edward?”

“Somewhat.”

“How far have you been?”

“Through.”

“Do you feel positive that you could do examples over here?” turning to “Evolution.”

“Entirely,” Edward answered, smiling at Mr. Burrows’ doubts. Ray had been a thorough teacher.

So Mr. Burrows went away, and Edward took his seat on the stage and commenced the recitation. At first the boys were disposed to be wise, and display their knowledge; when they had known him last, he was in division. But he was in algebra now, or rather through it, and they speedily discovered that he seemed to have every example in the lesson committed to memory.

Meantime, Mr. Burrows returned, and listened with astonishment and delight.

“Thank you heartily,” he said afterwards. “You ought to fit yourself for teaching. But, Edward, you did not get through algebra alone?”

“No,” said Edward, flushing at the thought of Ray; “I had the best and wisest teacher on earth.”

Well, he sat down in what had been his seat, and tried to imagine that it was his seat still; that Bob would be in pretty soon, and plague him while he studied his spelling-lesson. But he could not do it. “Things were different”—very different. First and foremost, there was Ray: he had not known him in those days; if he had, he said to himself, things would have been different long before they were.

Going back uptown he met Mr. Holbrook, who turned and walked with him.

“And so,” he said, after the long talk was concluded, “you go next week, do you?”

“Next Tuesday, sir.”

“Well, God bless you, my friend, as He has, and will.” Then, after a minute, “Edward, my son is a wanderer yet: do you still remember him?”

“Always, sir,” Edward answered, in firm, steady tones; “and, Mr. Holbrook, God never forgets!”

As he went on past Mr. Minturn’s store, could he have heard the remarks that were made there, very likely he might have remembered a certain statement which he made to the little fishes that summer morning.

Mr. Minturn, looking out after him, said to Mr. Dewey, “There goes one of the finest and most promising young men in this town.”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Dewey, laughing a little; “I used to notice that he improved every day after he brought back those circus tickets.”