"You could have taught him up to the point you knew so I could have a
nice rest here under the lovely trees. Are you being kind to me in not
helping me a little bit? You know what you promised me." And the beloved
"Minister's" voice was just as grave and just as serious as if he had
been reproving one of his deacons.
"Is talking to Auntie Charlotte and holding her hand the Lord's work?"
demanded Charlotte, looking him straight in the face.
"Yes," answered Mr. Goodloe, gravely, looking her as straight in the eye
as she had looked him.
"Then come on, Stranger, and learn the march without any tune but Sue,"
she said as she stretched out her hand to the Stray, who ignored it and
clung to me with his serious eyes raised to mine.
"I'll go with you now over in the chapel and play for you on the organ
and then we can all teach him," said the parson, and he picked wee
Susan, the music box, up in his arms and buried his lips in the curls on
the back of her fragrant little neck.
"Are you all done with Auntie Charlotte?" asked young Charlotte, with
the extreme of consideration for him, not for my feelings.
"Yes, for the present," he answered, and he held out his free hand to
the Stray, who was still clinging to me.
"Go with him, sonny, and Mikey will take you home," I said to my small
champion, using the tender name that I had heard Martha give him. As I
spoke I laid his hand in that of Mr. Goodloe and I didn't raise my eyes
to his but turned from them and left him standing in the midst of his
flock of lambs under the silver leaves and out in the bright light,
while I went into the cool dark hall and on up to my own room which was
also cool and dark.
"I am lost and blind and I don't know what to do," I murmured as I flung
myself down on my window seat and looked through the narrow opening of
the shutters out to the everlasting hills across the valley. "I know I
am ineffective and perfectly worthless as I am but I will not, I will
not be swayed by--"
"Charlotte," called father's voice with its commanding note which had
apparently come into it now to stay.
"Yes," I answered, and went down immediately, glad of the interruption
to my self-communion and arraignment.
I found father and Nickols and Mark Morgan and Billy Harvey and Mr.
Cockrell down in father's study and I could see from their faces that
something unusual had happened.
"City Council voted the appropriation to meet Cockrell's and my donation
for the schoolhouse, contracts have been signed and dirt is to be
broken to-morrow by Henry Todd and thirty workmen Nickols has ordered
down from the city," father announced, with jubilation in his voice. "We
thought Goodloe was here in the garden with you."