Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/945

"But it wasn't nonsense. It was the blessed truth, and it is yet."

"For goodness' sake, Hiram, stop talking like a love-sick schoolboy! Was it supper you came for? Well, I suppose you must have it, though there won't be much but bread and tea."

"Any board that your gracious hands have set, my dear Phœbe, bears feast enough for me."

"Land sakes, Hiram! To hear you talk one would think you were a hero in a novel."

"And to see you moving about these cozy little rooms one would think you were a fairy princess."

Thus was the marvel begun, for less than half an hour elapsed from the time Mr. Doolittle entered the Bazar until the table was spread with all the dainties of Miss Phœbe's modest larder, and the two were doing precisely as Hiram had predicted, chatting merrily over the teacups.

Marvel it was, nothing less. For here was a new Phœbe, a Phœbe who simpered and giggled, who pouted and purred and prattled, who scolded playfully and made shallow pretence of being displeased. And within was the old Phœbe who demanded petulantly of the new one: "Why do you do it? Why don't you give him a piece of your mind and send him about his business? The idea! Look at him, eating your best strawberry preserves and your sliced ham. Him! Hi Doolittle, whom you despise! Why don't you turn him out?"

But the new Phœbe said, "Hush! hush!" and the protesting voice grew fainter and fainter.

But why? Well, why did Hannah stick to the wash-tub during all those years? Why was Ethan so completely tamed? Why did the judge and the lawyers and doctors of the town, who knew as well as any one else how Hiram existed,—why did they accept him as an equal, and depart from his presence secretly pleased by something too subtle for them to define? Whatever the key to the riddle, he held it.

"And to think, Phœbe," he said just before leaving, "that all these years I have been missing the charm of your society, the sparkle of your wit. To think that you, the one woman whose companionship I value most, have been a stranger to me. But it shall be so no longer. This has been a delightful meal. I am coming to take dinner with you tomorrow noon."

He did. Also he came to supper. And the next day and the next. Before the end of the week a note reached the landlord of the Cedarton House. The communication was marked "Personal—Private," and it was signed by Phœbe Needlefit. Immediately following its delivery Mr. Hiram Doolittle became a hotel guest; and the next event, which left Cedarton gasping from amazement, was the wedding.

On the very top of what Cedarton calls Nabob Hill is a big, white, comfortable-looking, old-fashioned house. It has a deep front veranda half screened by honeysuckle. The boxwood hedge and the gravel carriage-drive winding stablewards about it give the place a dignified and genteel appearance.

Sauntering down the path from the front door you may see, along about nine o'clock of any pleasant morning, a tall, square-shouldered, well-groomed gentleman. He holds his chin well up and looks with calm confidence on the world. Doubtless he twirls a light cane in his gloved fingers. Back in the doorway you may catch a glimpse of a black-eyed, thin-nosed lady watching with evident admiration the confident saunterer. You will find a new name on the sign over the Cedarton Bazar.

Yes, it is well to have a definite attitude towards life and to hold fast to that, no matter what happens. Philosophy teaches this; so does the career of Hiram Doolittle.