Five Little Peppers Grown Up

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"I am all right if you will only tell me that Mamsie is well, and isn't
worried about us," said Polly, an anxious little pucker coming on her
forehead.

"Your mother is as bright as a button," declared Father Fisher
emphatically.

"Come, come!" ejaculated Mr. King, appearing in the doorway; "this isn't
just the way to take possession of Mr. Loughead's apartment. Jasper, I
don't see what you were thinking of. Come, Fisher, my room is next; this
way."

Polly blushed red as a rose as old Mr. Loughead said briskly, "Oh! I
sent for her to cheer me up, and now, I wish you'd all stay."

"Beg pardon for this inroad," said little Doctor Fisher, going up to the
old gentleman's chair and offering his hand. "Well, well, Loughead," to
Jack, "this is a surprise party all round!"

"No inroad at all, at least a pleasant one," old Mr. Loughead kept
saying, while Polly ran up to Jasper:

"Did Pickering's uncle come with Papa Fisher?"

"No," said Jasper, with his eyes on Jack Loughead, "the Doctor was all
alone, Polly."

And then the door of Pickering's room opened, and out came Dr. Bryce,
with bad news written all over his face.

"I fear brain fever," he said to Dr. Fisher after the introduction was
over, making the two physicians acquainted. "Come," and the door of
Pickering's room closed on them both.

And twilight settled down on the old square white house, and on the
new-made grave under the oak in the meadow; and Brierly people, by twos
and threes, came to inquire for "the sick young man," going away with
saddened faces. And a messenger from the telegraph office drove up just
as Mr. Higby was pulling on the boots to his tired feet for a long walk
to the village, handing in the message:

Mrs. Cabot and I will take the midnight train.
RICHARD A. CABOT,

[Illustration: THEN PHRONSIE GLANCED BACK AGAIN, AND SOFTLY JOGGED THE
CRADLE.]

And then there was nothing more to do, only to wait for the coming of
Pickering's uncle and aunt.

And the next day Pickering's calls were incessant for "Polly, Polly,"
sometimes upbraiding her as the brown eyes were fastened piteously on
his wild face; and then begging her to just smile at him and remember
how he had loved her all these years. "And now I am going to die," he
would cry.

"O, Polly! Polly!" Mrs. Cabot would wring her hands and beg at such
times, a world of entreaty in her voice. And then old Mr. King would
interfere, carrying Polly off, and declaring it was beyond all reason
for her to be so annoyed.

And Phronsie would climb up on the bed and lay her cool little hand
gently on the hot forehead. Then the sick boy's cries would drop into
unintelligible murmurs, while his fingers picked aimlessly at the
coverlet.

"There! he is better," Phronsie would say softly to the watchers by the
bed, "and I guess he is going to sleep."

But the quiet only ushered in worse ravings when Pickering lived over
once more the horror of the train-wrecking, and then it took many strong
arms to hold him in his bed. "Come on, Ben," he would shout, struggling
hard; "leave him alone--we shall be caught--the fire! the fire!" until
his strength died away, and he sank to a deathly stupor.

* * * * *

Phronsie sat down to write a letter to Mrs. Fargo. One like it was
dropped every morning into the basket set on Mrs. Higby's front entry
table, ready for the neighbor's boy to take to the village post-office.

DEAR MRS. FARGO:

[wrote Phronsie, looking off from the wooden cradle that Mrs. Higby had
dragged down from its cobwebby corner under the garret eaves, with the
remark, "I guess Johnny'll sleep well; all the Higbys since the first
one, has been rocked in it."] I must tell you that dear Pickering isn't
any better. [Then she glanced back again, and softly jogged the cradle,
as Johnny turned over with a long sigh.] And Papa Fisher and the other
doctor don't think he is going to get well. And Mrs. Cabot cries all the
time, and Polly cries sometimes too. And we don't know what to do. But I
guess God will take care of us. And Charlotte is going to take Johnny
down to the Dunraven Home in a day or two. She says she can, though I
know she don't like babies, especially boy-babies; she said so once. And
so he will be happy. And that's all I can write to-day, Mrs. Fargo,
because every minute I'm afraid Polly will want me.

FROM PHRONSIE

And just the very minute when Phronsie was dotting the "i" in her name.
Mrs. Higby came toiling up the stairs, holding her gingham gown well
away from her feet.

"Say!" she cried in a loud whisper, and pausing midway to wave a large
square envelope at Phronsie, curled up on the hall window-seat.

Phronsie got down very softly, and tiptoed over to the stair-railing to
grasp the letter Mrs. Higby thrust between the bars, going back to her
old post, to open it carefully.

DEAR PHRONSIE:

I think God meant that I was to have Johnny for my very own. So won't
you give him to me, dear? Let Charlotte bring him soon, please, for my
heart is hungry for a baby to hold. I will make him happy all my life,
Phronsie, so I know you will give him to

HELEN'S MOTHER.

CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE BORDERLAND.

Phronsie came into the Higby kitchen, her hands full of wind-blossoms
and nodding trilliums.

"Pickering will like these," she said to herself in great satisfaction,
and surveying her torn frock with composure, "for they are the very
first, Mrs. Higby," addressing that individual standing over by the sink
in the corner. "Please may I wash my hands? I had to go clear far down
by the brook to get them."

But Mrs. Higby, instead of answering, threw her brown-checked apron high
over her head.

Phronsie stood quite still.

"Why do you put your apron there, Mrs. Higby?" she asked at last. "And
you do not answer me at all," she added in gentle reproach.

"Land!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, in a voice spent with feeling, "I
couldn't, 'cause I was afraid I sh'd burst out crying, and I didn't want
you to see my face. O, dear! he's had a poor spell since you went out
flowerin' for him, and your pa and Dr. Bryce say he's dyin'. O, dear!"

Down came the apron, showing Mrs. Higby's eyelids very red and swollen.

Phronsie still stood holding her flowers, a breathing-space, then turned
and went quickly to the back stairs.

"Sh! don't go," called Mrs. Higby in a loud whisper after her; "it's
dreadful for a little girl like you to see any one die. Do come back."

"They will want me," said Phronsie gravely, and going up carefully
without another word. When she reached Pickering's door, she paused a
moment and looked in.

"I don't believe it is as Mrs. Higby said," she thought, drawing a long
breath, a faint smile coming to her face as she went gently in.

But old Mr. King put up his hand as he turned in his chair, at the foot
of the bed, and Phronsie saw that his face was white and drawn. And Dr.
Bryce turned also, looking off a minute from the watch that he held, as
if he were going to bid her go away.

[Illustration: "WHY DO YOU PUT YOUR APRON UP THERE?" ASKED PHRONSIE IN
GENTLE REPROACH. ]

"Phronsie," said Grandpapa, holding out both arms hungrily.

Phronsie hurried to him, a gathering fear at her heart, and getting into
his lap, laid her cheek against his.

"Oh! my dear, you oughtn't to be here--you are too young," said Mr. King
brokenly, yet holding her close.

"I am not afraid, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, her mouth to his ear, "and
I think Pickering would like me to be here. I brought him some flowers."
She moved the hand holding the bunch, so that the old gentleman could
see it. "He likes wild flowers, and I promised to get the first ones I
could."

"O, dear!" groaned old Mr. King, not trusting himself to look.

"May I lay them down by him?" whispered Phronsie.

"Yes, yes, child," said the old gentleman, allowing her to slip to the
floor. The group around the bedside parted to let her pass, and then
Phronsie saw Polly. Mrs. Cabot was holding Polly's well hand, while her
head was on Polly's shoulder.

"Grandpapa said I might," said Phronsie softly to the two, and pointing
to her flowers.

"Yes, dear."

It was Polly who answered; Mrs. Cabot was crying so hard she could not
speak a word.

Phronsie's little heart seemed to stop beating as she reached the
bedside. She had not thought that she would be afraid, but it was so
different to be standing there looking down upon the pillow where
Pickering lay so still and white, and with closed eyes, looking as if he
had already gone away from them. She glanced up in a startled way and
saw Dr. Fisher at the head of the bed; he was holding Pickering's wrist.
"Yes," he motioned, "put them down."

So Phronsie laid down her blossoms near the poor white face, and stole
back quickly, only breathing freely when she was as close to Polly as
she could creep, without hurting the broken arm.

"I'm dying--I'm not afraid," suddenly said Pickering's white lips. Dr.
Fisher sprang and put a spoonful of stimulant to them, while Mrs. Cabot
buried her face yet deeper on Polly's shoulder, her husband turning on
his heel, to pace the floor and groan. "Polly, Polly!" called Pickering
quite distinctly, in a tone of anguish.

"O, Polly, Polly! he's dying--go to him do!" Mrs. Cabot tore her hand
out of Polly's, almost pushing her from the chair. "Quick, dear!"

Polly put Phronsie aside, and stepped softly to the bedside; Pickering's
eyes eagerly watched for her face.

He smiled up at her, "Polly," and tried to raise his hand.

She laid her warm, soft palm on the cold one lying on the coverlid. He
clasped his thin fingers convulsively around it.

"I am here, Pickering," said Polly, unable to find voice for anything
else.

"Don't--ever--leave me," she could just make out the words, bending
close to catch them.

"I never will," said Polly quietly.

A sudden gleam came into his face, and he tried to smile, grasping her
hand tighter as his eyes closed.

"It has come," said Dr. Fisher in a low voice to Mr. Cabot; "tell your
wife," and he bent a professional ear over the white face on the pillow,
while Dr. Bryce hurried forward; then brought his head up quickly, a
peculiar light in the sharp eyes back of the spectacles. "He is
sleeping!"

* * * * *

Polly was sitting, a half-hour by the bedside, Pickering's thin fingers
still tightly grasping her hand. They had made her comfortable in an
easy chair, Jasper bringing one of Mrs. Higby's biggest cushions for her
to lean her head against. He now stood at the side of her chair,
Phronsie curled up on the floor at her feet.

"Don't stay." Polly's lips seemed to frame the words rather than speak
them, looking up at him.

He shook his head, resting his hand on the back of the chair. Polly
tried to smile up a bit of comfort into his eyes. "Jasper loved
Pickering so," she said to herself, "that he cannot leave him; but oh!
he looks so dreadfully, I wish he would go and rest," and she began to
have a worried look at once.

"What is it?" asked Jasper, catching the look at once, and bending to
whisper in her ear.

"You will be sick if you do not go and rest," whispered back Polly.

"I cannot--don't ask it." Jasper brought the words out sharply, with
just a bitter tone to them.

"He thinks it is strange that I ask it; he is so fond of Pickering,"
said Polly to herself. "And now I have grieved him--O, dear!"

"I won't leave Pickering," she said, lifting her brown eyes quickly.

A spasm came over Jasper's face, and his brow contracted.

"Don't," he begged, and Polly could feel that the hand resting on the
back of the chair grasped it so tightly that it shook beneath her.

"I ought to have remembered that Jasper couldn't leave him; he loves him
so," mourned Polly. "Oh! why did I speak?"

In the room at the end of the hall Mrs. Cabot was excitedly walking the
floor, twisting her handkerchief between her nervous fingers, and
talking unrestrainedly to Charlotte Chatterton.

"I do believe this will melt Polly's heart," she cried. "Oh! it must, it
must! Don't you think it must, Miss Chatterton?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Charlotte Chatterton in a collected
manner, as she bent over the cradle to tuck the shawl over Johnny's legs
where he had kicked it off in his sleep.

"Oh! you know quite well what I mean, Miss Chatterton," declared Mrs.
Cabot, in her distress losing her habitually polite manner. "Why,
everybody knows that Pickering has loved Polly since they were boy and
girl together."

Not knowing what was expected of her, Charlotte Chatterton wisely kept
silent.

"And now, why, it's just a Providence, I do believe--that is, if he gets
well--that brought all this about, for of course Polly must be touched
by it. She must!" brought up Mrs. Cabot quite jubilantly.

And this time she waited for Charlotte to speak, at last exclaiming,
"Don't you see it must be so?"

"I think love goes where it is sent," said Charlotte slowly.

"Sent? Well, that is just it. Isn't it sent here?" cried Mrs. Cabot
impatiently.

"I don't know," said Charlotte. Then she said distinctly, "I know love
is very different from pity"--

"Of course it is--but then, sometimes it isn't," said Mrs. Cabot
nervously. "Well, any way, Polly has almost as good as promised to marry
Pickering," she finished triumphantly--"so--and you are very cruel to
talk to me in this way, Miss Chatterton."

Charlotte Chatterton turned away from Johnny and faced Mrs. Cabot. "You
don't mean to say you think Polly would feel bound by what she said when
we all thought he was dying?"

"I do, certainly--knowing Polly as I do--if Pickering took it so. And I
am quite sure he will say so when he gets well; quite sure. Polly isn't
a girl to break her word," added Mrs. Cabot confidently.

"Then I'm sure Providence hasn't had anything to do with this," said
Charlotte shortly, "and Polly shall never be tormented into thinking it
her duty either," and she turned off to pick up a new gown "in the
works" for Johnny.

"What you think duty, Miss Chatterton, wouldn't be Polly Pepper's idea
of duty in the least," said Mrs. Cabot, getting back into the refuge of
her society manner again, now that her confidence in Polly grew every
moment, "so we will talk no more about it if you please," she added
icily, as she went toward the door. "Only mark my words, my dear boy and
that dear girl will be engaged, and quite the appropriate match it will
be too, and please every one."

* * * * *

"You must go back, my boy," said old Mr. King two days later. "It's just
knocking you up to stay," studying Jasper's face keenly. "Goodness me! I
should think you'd fallen off a dozen pounds. Upon my word I should, my
boy," he repeated with great concern.

"Never mind me, father," said Jasper a trifle impatiently, "and as to my
work, Mr. Marlowe will give me a few more days. He's goodness itself. I
shall telegraph him this morning for an extension."

"You will do nothing of the kind," declared Mr. King testily. "What can
you do here, pray tell, by staying? You would be quite a muff in a few
more days, Jasper," he added, "you are so down-hearted now. No, I insist
that you go now."

"Very well," said Jasper quite stiffly, "I will take myself off by the
afternoon train, then, father, since I am in the way."

"How you talk, Jasper!" cried his father in astonishment. "You know
quite well that I am only thinking of your own good. What's got into
you--but I suppose this confounded hospital we're in, has made you lose
your head."

"Thank you, father," said Jasper, recovering himself by a great effort,
"for putting it so, and I beg you to forgive me for my hasty words." He
came up to the old gentleman and put out his hand quickly, "Do forgive
me, father."

"Forgive you? Of course I will, though I don't know when you've spoken
to me like that, Jasper," said his father, not yet able to shake himself
free from his bewilderment. "Well, well, that's enough to say about
that," seeing Jasper's face, "and now get back to your work, my boy, as
soon as you can, and you'll thank me for sending you off. And as soon as
Pickering Dodge is able to be moved home, why, the rest of us will
finish our trip, and give you that surprise party--eh, Jasper?" and Mr.
King tried to laugh in the old way, but it was pretty hard work.

* * * * *

"Well, now, Polly," said Dr. Fisher, a week after as he held her at
arm's length, and brought his spectacles to bear upon her face,
"remember what I say, child; you are to take care of yourself, and let
Mrs. Cabot look out for things. It will do the woman good to have
something to do," he added, dropping his voice. "I don't like to carry
home your face, child; it won't do; you're getting tired out, and your
mother will be sure to find it out. I really ought to stay and take care
of you," and the little doctor began to look troubled at once.

"Indeed, Papa Fisher," cried Polly, brightening up, "you will do nothing
of the kind. Why, my arm is doing famously. You know you said you never
saw a broken arm behave so well in all your life."

"It isn't your arm, Polly, that worries me," said Father Fisher; "that's
first-rate, and I shouldn't wonder if it turned out better perhaps for
breaking, but it's something different, and it quite puzzles me; you
look so down-hearted, child."

"Do I?" said Polly, standing quite straight, and rubbing her forehead
with her well hand; "there, now, I will get the puckers and wrinkles
out. There, Papa Fisher, are they all gone?" She smiled as cheerily as
ever, but the little man shook his head, then took off his spectacles,
wiped them, and set them back on his nose.

"No; it won't do; you can't make your old father believe but what you've
something on your mind, Polly. I think I shall have to send your mother
down here," he said suddenly.

"O, Father Fisher!" cried Polly, the color flying over her face, "you
wouldn't ever do that, I am sure! Why, it would worry Mamsie so, and
besides she can't leave King Fisher"--

He interrupted her as she clung to his arm. "I know that, but what can I
do? If you'd only promise now, Polly," he added artfully, "that you
won't tire yourself all out trying to suit Mrs. Cabot's whims--why, I'd
think about taking back what I said about sending your mother down."

"Oh! I won't--I won't," promised Polly gladly. "And now, dear Papa
Fisher, you'll take it all back, won't you?" she begged.

"Yes," said Dr. Fisher, glad to see Polly's color back again, and to
have her beg him for some favor. So the next half-hour or so they were
very cheery--just like old times; just as if there had been no sickness
and the shadow of a loss upon them in the past days.

"Though why we should be always acting as if we were in the midst of it
now, I don't see," said the little doctor at last. "We're all
straightened out, thank God, and Pickering mending so fast that he's a
perfect marvel. It would be a sin and a shame for us to be in the dumps
forever. Well, now, Polly, remember. Whew! hear that youngster!" This
last being brought out by Johnny's lusty shouts in the next room. "I
don't envy Mrs. Fargo her bargain, and I do pity myself having to see
him safely there."

"Oh! Charlotte will take all the care of him," said Polly quickly.
"She's just beautiful with him; you don't know how beautiful, Papa
Fisher, because you've been so busy, since you've been here, and
Charlotte has kept him away from everybody so he needn't worry any one.
And isn't it lovely that he is to have such a beautiful home?" added
Polly with shining eyes.

"Um--yes, for Johnny," said Dr. Fisher. "Well, good-by, Polly." He
gathered her up in his arms for a final kiss. "Oh! here's Charlotte come
to bid you good-by, too."

"Polly," said Charlotte, drawing her off to a quiet corner, as the
little doctor went away, leaving the two girls together, "I must say
something, and I don't know how to say it."

Polly looked at her with wide eyes.

"It's just this," said Charlotte, plunging on desperately; "Polly, don't
let Mrs. Cabot pick at you and talk about duty. Oh! I hate to hear her
speak the word," exploded Charlotte, with a volume of wrath in her tone.

"What do you mean, Charlotte?" cried Polly in a puzzled way.

"Oh! she may--never mind how--she's quite peculiar, you know," said
Charlotte, finding her way less clear with each word. "Never mind,
Polly; only just fight her if she begins on what is your duty; if she
does, then fight her tooth and nail."

"But it may be something that I really ought to do," said Polly.

Charlotte turned on her in horror. "O, never!" she cried. "Don't you do
it, Polly Pepper. Just as sure as she says you ought to do it, you may
know it would be the worst thing in all the world. Promise me, Polly,
that you won't do it."

"But, Charlotte, I ought not to promise until I am quite sure that it
wouldn't be my duty to do what Mrs. Cabot advises. Don't you see,
Charlotte, that I ought not to promise?"

But Charlotte was too far gone in anxiety to see anything, and she could
only reiterate, "Do promise, Polly, do; there's Mr. Higby calling us;
the carriage is at the door. Do, Polly! I never will ask you anything
else if you'll only promise me this."

But Polly could only shake her head, and say, "I ought not," and then
Johnny had to be kissed and wrenched from Phronsie, who insisted on
carrying him downstairs to set him in the carriage, and Mrs. Cabot came
in, and old Mr. King wanted a last word with Charlotte, so that at last
she was in Mr. Higby's carryall, shut in on the back seat looking out
over Johnny's head, with a pair of very hopeless eyes. But her lips
said, "Do, Polly!"

And still Polly, on the flat door-stone, had to shake her head.

"I shall tell Mrs. Fisher, and beg her to come right down here,"
determined Charlotte Chatterton to herself, "just as soon as I get in
the house. That is exactly what I shall do," she declared savagely, as
Mr. Higby whipped up the mare for the quarter-mile drive to the little
station.

CHAPTER XVII.

JASPER.

"Halloo, King, Mr. Marlowe wants you." Jasper, his hands full of papers,
hurried down the long warehouse, through the piles of books, fresh from
the bindery, stacked closely to the ceiling. The busy packers who were
filling the boxes, looked up as he threaded his way between them. "Mr.
Marlowe is down there," indicating the direction with a nod, while the
hands kept mechanically at their task.

"I want to see you about that last lot of paper," Mr. Marlowe began,
before Jasper had reached him; "it is thin and of poorer quality than I
ordered. The loss must be charged back to Withers & Co."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Jasper. "They assured me that everything should
be right, and like the sample that we ordered it from."

"And Jacob Bendel writes that the edition we gave him of _History of
Great Cities_ to print will be shipped to us within a fortnight, when
his contract was to be filled on Thursday. Of course we lose all the
Chicago orders by this delay."

"What's the reason?" asked Jasper, feeling all the thrill of the
disappointment as keenly as if he were the head of the house.

"Oh! a strike among the printers; his best men have gone out, and he's
at the mercy of a lot of inferior workmen who are being intimidated by
the strikers; but he thinks he can get the edition to us in ten days or
so."

Mr. Marlowe leaned against an empty packing case and viewed the
assistant foreman of the manufacturing department calmly, with the air
of a man to whom disappointments were in the usual order of things.

"Can't we give it to another printer?" asked Jasper.

"Who?"

"Morse Brothers?"

"They are full and running over with work. I inquired there yesterday;
we may want a little extra done as the rush over those Primary Readers
is coming on. No, I can't think of a place where we could crowd it in,
if we took it away from Bendel."

Jasper's gaze thoughtfully followed the drift of a shaving blown by the
draft along the warehouse floor.

"I think I'll send you down to New York to see Bendel, and find out how
things are. I don't get any satisfaction from letters," said Mr. Marlowe
in a minute. "Beside you can attend to some other matters; and then
there is that Troy job; you can do that."

"Very well, sir."

"Can you take the night express?" Mr. Marlowe pulled out his watch. It
was ten minutes of three.

"Can I leave the Ransom bills I was checking off? Mr. Parker said they
were the most important of the lot."

"Parker must give them to Richard; he knows pretty well how to do them,
unless he can find time for them himself."

"I was to be at the Green printing-office at nine to-morrow morning,"
said Jasper.

"What for?"

"They sent down to Mr. Parker yesterday that we had made a mistake about
price for doing those five hundred _Past and Present_; and wanted
him to go to their office, and see Mr. Green himself."

"If Mr. Green thinks any mistake has been made, let him come to us,"
said Mr. Marlowe coolly. "You tell Parker to send a note to that effect;
courteously written, of course, but to the point. We don't go running
around after people who think mistakes are made. Let them bring their
grievances here, if they have any. Is that all that detains you?"

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