Part 38 (1/2)

But Mr. Frank Blaisdell was openly bored. He said he didn't care how many children his great-grandfather had, nor what they died of; and as for Mrs. Submit and Miss Thankful, the ladies might bury themselves in the ”Transcript,” or hide behind that wall of dates and names till doomsday, for all he cared. HE shouldn't disturb 'em. He never did like figures, he said, except figures that represented something worth while, like a day's sales or a year's profits.

And speaking of grocery stores, had Mr. Smith ever seen a store run down as his old one had since he sold out? For that matter, something must have got into all the grocery stores; for a poorer lot of goods than those delivered every day at his home he never saw. It was a disgrace to the trade.

He said a good deal more about his grocery store--hut nothing whatever more about his Blaisdell ancestors; so Mr. Smith felt justified in considering his efforts to interest Mr. Frank Blaisdell in the ancestor business a failure. Certainly he never tried it again.

It was in February that a certain metropolitan reporter, short for feature articles, ran up to Hillerton and contributed to his paper, the following Sunday, a write-up on ”The Blaisdells One Year After,”

enlarging on the fine new homes, the motor cars, and the luxurious living of the three families. And it was three days after this article was printed that Miss Flora appeared at Miss Maggie's, breathless with excitement.

”Just see what I've got in the mail this morning!” she cried to Miss Maggie, and to Mr. Smith, who had opened the door for her.

With trembling fingers she took from her bag a letter, and a small picture evidently cut from a newspaper.

”There, see,” she panted, holding them out. ”It's a man in Boston, and these are his children. There are seven of them. He wrote me a beautiful letter. He said he knew I must have a real kind heart, and he's in terrible trouble. He said he saw in the paper about the wonderful legacy I'd had, and he told his wife he was going to write to me, to see if I wouldn't help them--if only a little, it would aid them that much.”

”He wants money, then?” Miss Maggie had taken the letter and the picture rather gingerly in her hands. Mr. Smith had gone over to the stove suddenly--to turn a damper, apparently, though a close observer might have noticed that he turned it back to its former position almost at once.

”Yes,” palpitated Miss Flora. ”He's sick, and he lost his position, and his wife's sick, and two of the children, and one of 'em's lame, and another's blind. Oh, it was such a pitiful story, Maggie! Why, some days they haven't had enough to eat--and just look at me, with all my chickens and turkeys and more pudding every day than I can stuff down!”

”Did he give you any references?”

”References! What do you mean? He didn't ask me to HIRE him for anything.”

”No, no, dear, but I mean--did he give you any references, to show that he was--was worthy and all right,” explained Miss Maggie patiently.

”Of course he didn't! Why, he didn't need to. He told me himself how things were with him,” rebuked Miss Flora indignantly. ”It's all in the letter there. Read for yourself.”

”But he really ought to have given you SOME reference, dear, if he asked you for money.”

”Well, I don't want any reference. I believe him. I'd be ashamed to doubt a man like that! And YOU would, after you read that letter, and look into those blessed children's faces. Besides, he never thought of such a thing--I know he didn't. Why, he says right in the letter there that he never asked for help before, and he was so ashamed that he had to now.”

[Ill.u.s.tration with caption: ”AND LOOK INTO THOSE BLESSED CHILDREN'S FACES”]

Mr. Smith made a sudden odd little noise in his throat. Perhaps he got choked. At all events, he was seized with a fit of coughing just then.

Miss Maggie turned over the letter in her hand.

”Where does he tell you to send the money?”

”It's right there--Box four hundred and something; and I got a money order, just as he said.”

”You GOT one! Do you mean that you've already sent this money?” cried Miss Maggie.

”Why, yes, of course. I stopped at the office on the way down here.”

”And you sent--a money order?”

”Yes. He said he would rather have that than a check.”

”I don't doubt it! You don't seem to have--delayed any.”

”Of course I didn't delay! Why, Maggie, he said he HAD to have it at once. He was going to be turned out--TURNED OUT into the streets! Think of those seven little children in the streets! Wait, indeed! Why, Maggie, what can you be thinking of?”

”I'm thinking you've been the easy victim of a professional beggar, Flora,” retorted Miss Maggie, with some spirit, handing back the letter and the picture.