The Story of Waitstill Baxter By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN Copyright, 1913. by Kate Douglas Wiggin ’ SYNOPSIS Walitstill Baxter and her sister, Patience (Patty), keep house for their widowed, mean father. Ivory Boynton, whose fa- ther disappeared, is interested in Waitstill. He takes care of his daft mother. Mrs. Boynton expects her husband to return. Rodman, a young boy, is a mem- | ber of the Boynton household. Ivory's father abandoned his family to follow Jacob Cochrane, a mystic. Pa-~ | tience chafes under her father’s stern rule. [Continued next week.] Mrs. Boynton’s hair, that had been in her youth like an aureole of corn . silk, was now a strange yellow white, | and her blue eyes looked out from her pale face with a helpless appeal. “You and 1 were living alone here after father went away,” Ivory began. “] was a little boy. you know. You and father had saved something, there was the farm, you worked like a slave, I helped, and we lived somehow, do you remember?” ; “l do indeed. It was cold, and the | neighbors were cruel. Jacob Cochrane had gone away, and his disciples were not always true to him. When the magnetism of his presence was with- drawn they could not follow all his revelations. and they forgot how he had awakened their spiritual life at the first of his preaching. Your father was always a stanch believer, but when he started on his mission and | went to DParsonsfield to help Elder | Cochrane in his meetings the neigh- bors began to criticise him. They doubted him. You were too young to realize it, but I did. and it almost broke | my heart.” i “1 was nearly twelve years old. Do | you think 1 escaped all the gossip, mother?” “You never spoke of it to me, Ivory.” : “No, there is much that 1 never spoke of to you, mother, but some time when you grow stronger and your memory is better we will talk together. Do you re- member the winter, long after father went away, that Parson Lane sent me to Fairfield academy to get enough Greek and Latin to make me a school- master?” “Yes,” she answered uncertainly. “Don’t you remember I got a free ride downriver one Friday and came home for Sunday, just to surprise you? And when 1 got here I found you ill in bed, with Mrs. Mason and Dr. Perry taking care of you. You could not speak, you were so ill, but they told me you had been up in New Hampshire to see your sister, that she had died, and that you had brought back her boy. who was only four years old. That was Rod. |! took him into bed with me that night, poor, home- sick little fellow, and, as you know, mother he’s never left us since.” “I didn’t remember I had a sister. Is she dead. Ivory?" asked Mrs. Boyn- ton vaguely. : “If she were not dead do you sup- pose you would have kept Rodman with us when we hadn’t bread enough for our own two mouths, mother?” | questioned Ivory patiently. | “No, of course not. 1 can't think how I can be so forgetful. It's worse sometimes than others. It's worse to- day because 1 knew the mayflowers were blooming, and that reminded me it was time for your father to come home. You must forgive me, dear, and will you excuse me if I sit in the kitchen awhile? The window by the side door looks out toward the road, ' and if I put a candle on the sill it shines quite a distance. The lane is such a long one, and your father was always a sad stumbler in the dark! I | shouldn’t like him to think I wasn't looking for him when he’s been gone since January.” Ivory’s pipe went out, and his book ! slipped from his knee unnoticed. His mother was more confused than usual, but she always was when spring came to remind her of her hus- band’s promise. Somehow, well used as he was to her mental wanderings, they made him uneasy tonight. His father had left home on a fancied mis- sion, a duty he believed to be a revela- tion given by God through Jacob Coch- rane. The farm did not miss him much at first. Ivory reflected bitter- ly, for since his fanatical espousal of Cochranism his father's interest in such mundane matters as household expenses had diminished month by month until they had no meaning for him at all. Letters to wife and boy had come at first, but after six months, during which he had written from many places. continually deferring the date of his return, they had ceased al- together. The rest was silence. Ru- mors of his presence here or there came from time to time; but, though Parson Lane and Dr. Perry did their best, none of them were ever substan- tiated. Where had those years of wandering been passed, and had they all been given even to an imaginary and fan- tastic service of God? Was his father dead? If he were alive, what could keep him from writing? Nothing but a very strong reason or a very wrong one, so his son thought at times. | their former vows and seck ‘spiritual : advice, sometimes as their inclinations | in temperament. indeed. than her bus- , so deep that when it was uprooted the | faded altogether. She sat by the kitch- P ‘what they are, and Ellen Wilson’s one Since Ivory had grown to man's es- tate he understood that in the later days of Cochrane's preaching his *vi- sions.” “inspirations” and ‘reévela- tions” concerning the marriage bond were a trifle startling from the old fashioned, orthodox point of view. His most advanced disciples were to bold themselves in readiness to renounce consorts,” sometimes according to his prompted. Had Aaron Boynton forsaken will- ingly the wife of his youth, the moth: er of his boy? If so he must have re- alized to what straits he was subject: ing them. Ivory had not forgotten those first few years of grinding pov- erty, anxiety and suspense. His moth- er’'s mind bad stood the strain bravely, but it gave way at last; not, however, until that fatal winter journey to New Hampshire, when cold. exposure and fatigue did their worst for her weak body. Religious enthusiast, exalted and impressionable, a natural mystic, she had probably always been. far more so band; but, although she left home on that journey a frail and heartsick wo- man, she returned a different creature altogether, blurred and confused in mind, with clouded memory and irra- tional fancies. She must have given up hope just then, Ivory thought. and her love was soil came with it. Now hope had re- turned because the cruel memory had en window in gentle expectation, watching, always watching. And this is the way many of Ivory Boynton’s evenings were spent, while the heart of him, the five-and-twenty- year-old heart of him, was longing to feel the beat of another heart, a girl's heart only a mile or more away. The ice in Saco water had broken up and the white blocks sailed majestically down toward the sea. Sap was mount- ing and the elm trees were budding: the trailing arbutus was blossoming in the woods: the robins had come—ev- erything was announcing the spring. vet Ivory saw no changing seasons in his future: nothing but winter. eternal winter there! CHAPTER IV. Patience and Impatience. ATTY had been searching for eggs in the barn chamber and, coming down the ladder from the baymow, spied her father washing the wagon by the wellside near the shed door. Cephas Cole kept store for him at meal hours and when- ever trade was unusually brisk, and the Baxter yard was so happily sit- uated that Old Foxy could watch both house and store. There never was a good time to ask Deacon Baxter a favor, therefore this moment would serve as well as any | other; so. approaching him near enough ; “Don’t answer me back!” to be heard through the rubbing and splashing, but no nearer than was nec- essary, Patty said: “Father, can 1 go up to Ellen Wil- son’s this afternoon and stay for tea? I won't start till I've done a good day’s work, and I'll come home early.” “What do you want to go gallivantin’ to the neighbors for? 1 never saw anything like the girls nowadays— highty tighty, flauntin’, traipsin’, tri- flin’ trollops, ev'ry one gf ’em, that’s of the triflin’est. You're old enough now to stay to home where you belong and make an effort to earn your board and clothes, which you can’t, even if you try.” Spunk, real Simon pure spunk, start- ed somewhere in Patty and coursed through her blood like wine. “If a girl's old enough to stay at home and work I should think she was old enough to go out and play once in awhile.” Patty was still too timid to make this remark more than a cour- teous suggestion, so far as its tone was concerned. “Don’t answer me back! You're full of mew tricks, and you've got to stop ’em right where you are or there’ll be trouble. You were whistlin’ just now up in the barn chamber. That's one of the things 1 won't have around my premises—a whistlin’ girl.” “Twas a Sabbath school hymn that I was whistling!” This with a credita- ble imitation of defiance. “That don’t make it any better. Sing your hymns ‘if you'must make a noise while you’re workin’.” “It’s the same mouth that makes the whistle and sings the song, so I don’t see why one’s any wickeder than the ! other.” “You don’t have to see,” replied the deacon grimly. All you have to do is to mind when you're spoken to. Now run ’long ’bout your work.” “Can’t 1 go up to Ellen's. then?” “What's goin’ un up there?" “Just a frolic. There's always a good time at Ellen's. and 1 wonld so like the sight of a big, rich house now and then!” * ‘Just a frolic! hear the girl! house,’ indeed! at the party?” “I s’pose so or 'twouldn’t be a frolic,” said Patty, with awful daring, ‘but there won’t be many—only a few of Mark’s friends.” “Well, there ain’t goin’ to be no more argyfyin’! 1 won’t have any girl o mine frolickin’ with boys, so that’s the end of it. You're kind o' crazy lately. riggin’ yourself out with a ribbon here and a flower there and pullin’ your hair down over your ears. Why do you want to cover your ears up? What are they for?” Land o Goshen, ‘Sight of a big, rich Will there be any boys “To hear you with, father,” Patty! replied, with honey sweet voice and eyes that blazed. “Well, I hope they’ll never hear any- thing worse,” replied her father, fling- ing a bucket of water over the last of the wagon wheels. “They couldn’t!” These words were never spoken aloud; but, oh. how Patty longed to shout them with a clarion voice as she walked away in perfect silence, her majestic gait showing, she hoped, how she resented the outcome of the interview. “I’ve stood up to father!” she ex- claimed triumphantly as she entered the kitchen and set down her yellow bowl of eggs on the table. “I stood up to him and answered him back three times!” Waitstill was busy with her Satur- day morning cooking. but she turned in alarm. : “Patty, what ha : you said and done? Tell me quickiy!" “l ‘argyfied,’ but it didn't do any good. He won't let me go to Ellen’s party.” Waitstill wiped ber floury bands and put them on her sister's shoulders. “Hear what I say, Patty: You must not argue with father, whatever he says. We don't love him and so there isn’t the right respect in our hearts, but at least there can be respect in our | manners.” “I don’t believe 1 can go on for years holding in, Waitstill!” Patty whimp- ered. “Yes, you can. I have!” “You're different, Waitstill.” “I wasn’t so different at sixteen, but that's five years ago. and I've got con- trol of my tongue and my temper since then. Sometime, perhaps, when I have a grievance too great to be rightly borne, sometime when you are away from here in a home of your own, 1 shall speak out to father; just empty — The Centre County Banking Company. my heart of all the disappointment and bitterness and rebellion. Some- body ought to tell him the truth and perhaps it will be me!" Waitstill bent over the girl as she flung herself down beside the table and smoothed her shoulder gently. “There, there. dear! It isn’t like my gay little sister to cry. What is the matter with you today. Patty?” “1 suppose it's the spring.” she said, wiping her eyes ‘with her apron and smiling through her tears. ‘‘Perhaps I need a dose of sulphur and molasses.” “Don’t you feel well as common?’ “Well? 1 feel too well! 1 feel as if | 1 was a young colt shut up in an at- | tic. I want to kick up my heels, bat- | ter the door down and get out into the pasture. It’s no use talking, Waity. I can’t go on living without a bit of pleasure and I can’t go on being pa- tient even for your sake. If it weren’t for you I'd run away as Job did. and I never believed Moses slipped on the logs. I’m sure he threw himself into | the river. and so should I if I had the courage!” “Stop. Patty, stop. dear! You will | have your bit of pasture at least. I'll | do some of your indoor tasks for you, | and you shall put on your sunbonnet | and go out and dig the dandelion greens for dinner. Take the broken | _ knife and a milk pan, and don't bring | "in so much earth with them as you did ' + Would she be able to do her .duty both her secret heart always to do? ! couraging hand to Patty. ! head blazed like red gold in the sun- The short young grass was dot- | deftly putting the broken knife under last time. Dry your eyes and look at : the green things growing. Remember | how young you are and how many | years are ahead of you. Go along, ! dear.” | Waitstill went about her work with rather a heavy heart. Was life going to be more rather than less difficult now that Patty was growing up? by father and sister and keep peace in the household. as she had vowed in She paused every now and then to look out of the window and wave an er- The girl's bonnet was off, and her uncovered light. ted with dandelion blooms, some of them already grown to huge disks of yellow, and Patty moved hither and thither. selecting the younger weeds, their roots and popping them into the tin pan. Presently—for Deacon Baxter had finished the wagon and gone down the hill to relieve Cephas Cole at the counter—Patty’s shrill young whistle floated into the kitchen, but with a mischievous glance at the open win- dow she broke off suddenly and began to sing the words of the hymn with rather more emphasis and gusto than strict piety warranted: There'll be something in heav-en for chil- dren to do. None are idle in t...t bless-ed land. 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