Aunt Cordelia listened.
"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?"
"Be," said Aunt Cordelia.
If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were strange.
Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith.
After dinner she approached Aunt Katie.
"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?"
"My," said Aunt Katie.
The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the other boy was gone.
"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off the slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her.
Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou.
Now she was alone, so she stopped.
"Get any valentines?"
"Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl's friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it."
"Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's been reading the long verses inside to me."
"Can you show them--valentines?" asked Emmy Lou.
"Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl.
The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and the aunties, sitting around, reading.
"I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou.
They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and it came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to come back, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing because of the mother who would never come back, and looked troubled.
But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee.
In the valentine's centre were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped hands.
"I can read it," said Emmy Lou.
They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder.
"B," said Emmy Lou, "e--Be."
The aunties nodded.
"M," said Emmy Lou, "y--my."
Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n, e--Valentine. Be my Valentine."
"There!" said Aunt Cordelia.
"Well!" said Aunt Katie.
"At last!" said Aunt Louise.
"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie.
FOOTNOTE:
[49] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips and Company.
MARY ADDAMS BAYNE
Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, novelist, was born near Maysville, Kentucky, in 1866. Upon the death of her parents, she made her home with her brother, Mr. William Addams of Cynthiana, Kentucky, recently an aspirant for the gubernatorial chair of Kentucky. Miss Addams was married to Mr. James C. Bayne, a banker and farmer of Bagdad, Kentucky. Mrs. Bayne was a teacher and a short-story writer for some years before she became a novelist. Her first book, _Crestlands_ (Cincinnati, 1907) was a centennial story of the famous Cane Ridge meeting-house, near Paris, Kentucky, the birthplace of the Stoneite or Reformed church. _Crestlands_ is important as history and entertainingly told as a story. It was followed by _Blue Grass and Wattle_ (Cincinnati, 1909), the sub-title of which is more illuminating, "The Man from Australia." This novel relates the religious life of a young Australian, educated in Kentucky, and his many fightings within and without form an interesting story. From the literary standpoint _Blue Grass and Wattle_ is an advance over _Crestlands_, and it is an earnest for yet superior work in Mrs.
Bayne's new novel, now in preparation. In the fall of 1912 Mrs. Bayne purchased the old Burnett place at Shelbyville, Kentucky, and this she has converted into the most charming home of that town.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters of Mrs. Bayne to the Author; _The Christian Standard_ (December, 1907).
THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER[50]
[From _Crestlands_ (Cincinnati, 1907)]
The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze, pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a fallen log a red-bird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer-home; but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony of squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the underbrush.
At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his thirst, but scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was reared again.
For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost branches of the tree which they had just pilfered; but the red-bird, undisturbed, went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty and the charm of his song to fear any intruder.
The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing.
He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags.
He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain home-spun of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches of the same color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black cloth band with silver buckles.
He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched, quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much a part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro doffed his cap and bowed humbly.
"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped off somewhars."
"No, uncle. I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me how far it is to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this region."
"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done pass de turnin'
whut leads dar. Did' you see a lane forkin' off 'bout a mile back by de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? Dat's de lane whut leads to Marstah Gilcrest's, suh."