III THE NEW HOUSEKEEPER

It was still dark when a resounding thump on the door of the “parlour bedroom” wakened the unconscious little missionary, who had plumped into the exact centre of its feather bed the night before, and had never stirred since.

“Be ye goin’ to sleep all day?” growled a voice outside.

The little brown head bounced out of its pillow like a jack-in-a-box.

“Goodness, no!” answered its owner, in a startled voice. “I didn’t know it was daytime. Why, I meant to help you get breakfast! Is it too late?”

“I s’pose I can wait, if you’re set on makin’ some more pancakes,” responded Uncle Lemuel craftily. “But you’d better flax around pretty spry. I’ll get the griddle het up.”

The air of that “parlour bedroom” was certainly conducive to spry “flaxing” if you didn’t want to congeal in a half-dressed condition, and by the time the griddle was well “het,” the new cook appeared on the scene.

“Good morning, Uncle Lemuel!” she cried gaily, whisking across the kitchen and planting a swift little kiss upon that gentleman’s amazed countenance before she whirled about and presented her blue gingham back to be buttoned. “You certainly are the nicest man in the world to wait so I could cook, and I have planned a perfectly grand surprise for you, too. We’re going to have the jolliest Christmas together that ever was. Is the coffee made yet?”

“Who told you to come here for Christmas?” demanded Mr. Perkins, as he began on his second plate of pancakes.

“Nobody at all,” bubbled his guest gleefully. “That’s the joke of it. It’s a perfect surprise all around. I was going home with Patty Stanwood, you know, because her mother and mine used to be school friends. And then Patty had scarlet fever, and her mother was afraid of me on account of the baby. So then I remembered what fine times mother used to have here when she was a girl, and I knew this would be just the ideal place to spend Christmas. You know, I’ve never seen a real snowy American Christmas before in my life, and I’m just wild about it. The girls at school call me ‘Merry Christmas,’ instead of ‘Mary Christie,’ because I talk so much about it, and I love it for a name! Aren’t you just crazy about Christmas, Uncle Lemuel?”

Crazy about Christmas? Yes, indeed, little Merry! Why, it was only the afternoon before, Job Simpkins, of the village “Emporium,” would have told you, that “Lem Perkins had bellered and tore around as if the very name of Christmas was a red flannin rag waved in front of a bull.”

But when he looked into the shining young eyes before him, even Uncle Lemuel’s frenzy couldn’t fail to be a trifle abated.

“I hain’t much use for it—late years,” he answered gruffly. “Folks make such tarnation fools of themselves.”

“Oh, you are a Christmas reformer,” translated his little guest blithely. “Lots of people are in America, they say. Maybe you are a Spug. Are you a Spug, Uncle Lemuel?”

“No, siree, Republican and Hardshell Baptist, same as I’ve always been. The old ways is good enough for me. What’s Spug, I’d like to know?”

Mary clapped her hands.

“I’m so glad!” she cried gleefully. “It’s a society to make you give useful Christmas presents to people, and I’ve had useful ones all my life—being a missionary family with five children, of course we had to. But I’d rather join a society to prevent them myself, for I like useless ones lots better. Don’t you? I’ve been hoping awfully that somebody would give me a string of red beads or a set of pink hair ribbons. Oh, I didn’t mean that for a hint! Do excuse me, Uncle Lemuel! Of course, I’ll like best whatever you choose. How big a turkey do you usually buy?” she ended hastily.

“Don’t buy none,” grunted Uncle Lemuel, with his nose in his coffee cup.

“Why, of course not! You raise them yourself, don’t you? I am a goose,” she laughed. “Besides, people always invite you when you live alone. I hope they won’t this year. It would be such fun to have a Christmas party of our own, wouldn’t it, right here in this kitchen? Who do you want to invite? I must go right out and get acquainted, so I’ll have some friends of my own to ask. It’s only two weeks off, but you can make a lot of friends in two weeks, can’t you, if you go about it the right way? See what friends we’ve got to be already!”

“The science of self-expression” was quite unknown when Uncle Lemuel went to district school, but it would have demanded a full dramatic course adequately to cope with the torrent of varying emotions that was surging through the time-worn channels of his consciousness. Surprise, disgust, amusement, wonder, disapproval, horror, and a wee touch of pleasure tumbled over one another in rapid succession.

And some way the wee touch of pleasure in the child’s innocent friendliness and liking soared high enough on top of the flood to soften the hard old mouth for a little and keep back for the nonce the bitter words that would shatter her Christmas air castles to fragments. Nobody had really liked Lemuel Perkins in so many years that he couldn’t be blamed for enjoying the sensation, though he felt as queer as must an ice-bound stream when the first little trickle of water creeps warmly through its breast.

“Want I should help ye with the dishes?” he inquired almost kindly. “I’ve got to go over to town of an errand after a spell.”

“Oh, have you got time? I’m so glad! Do you know, that’s the funny thing about dishes? If you do them alone, they are the worst old job that ever was, but when somebody nice wipes for you, they’re just fun. Mother says it’s that way with most kinds of work. Could you stay long enough to help sort things out a little, too? For a man, of course, you’re a very nice housekeeper—you ought to see father!—but with two of us around we may need a little more room, don’t you think so?”

Fortunately there was no one at hand to reveal the fact that, no longer ago than two hours, Mr. Lemuel Perkins had stated firmly to the kitchen stove that “folks that walked in on you unasked and unwanted should at least pay for their vittles by doing all the housework.” Kitchen stoves do not taunt you with changing your mind, so Uncle Lemuel was not hampered by the fear that has kept many a better man from improving on himself.

By half-past nine the Perkins kitchen shone resplendent in the morning sunshine with a brightness reminiscent of the days when Aunt Nancy had boasted proudly that her kitchen was the pleasantest room in the house.

Uncle Lemuel would really have liked to sit down and enjoy its sunny neatness for a while, but an irresistible impulse had begun tugging at his cowhide boots, and Uncle Lemuel had no choice but to set them at once on the path to the post-office. For nine o’clock is “mail time” in Oatka Centre, and either totally unsocial or completely bedridden are the menfolks who fail to forgather on a fine winter morning in the ever-exciting pursuit of the letter that never comes.

“I’m goin’ over to the office, and to get the meat,” he announced, pulling his old cap down over his ears.

“Oh, I hope you’ll get me a letter!” cried Mary. “I never feel perfectly at home in a new place till I begin to get mail. Do you know the post-master, Uncle Lemuel?”

“Know Marthy Ann Watkins?” jeered Uncle Lemuel. “Knowed her since she was knee high to a grasshopper. And, moreover, if there’s a man, woman, or child in this township that don’t know Marthy Ann, it ain’t her fault; you can bet your bottom dollar on that. Keepin’ track of folks is her business. Prob’ly knows what we et for breakfast by this time.”

Mary’s laughter bubbled out merrily. “Goodness me, Uncle Lemuel! Then she knows that I haven’t written to mother yet, to tell her where I am. So I’d better do it right away. Maybe I’ll see you over at the post-office by-and-by. Have you any special messages for mother and father, or shall I just send your love?”

Uncle Lemuel was engaged in hauling his old cap still farther over his ears, and apparently he did not hear this amazing question, for he emitted no sounds but another grunt before the door slammed behind him.

“He is deaf,” decided his little guest innocently; “but I mustn’t make him see that I notice it by asking over. Deaf people are so sensitive. Love will do this time, anyway.”