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  Second Chronicle. DAUGHTERS OF ZION

  I

  Abijah Flagg was driving over to Wareham on an errand for old SquireWinship, whose general chore-boy and farmer's assistant he had been forsome years.

  He passed Emma Jane Perkins's house slowly, as he always did. She wasonly a little girl of thirteen and he a boy of fifteen or sixteen, butsomehow, for no particular reason, he liked to see the sun shine on herthick braids of reddish-brown hair. He admired her china-blue eyes too,and her amiable, friendly expression. He was quite alone in the world,and he always thought that if he had anybody belonging to him he wouldrather have a sister like Emma Jane Perkins than anything else withinthe power of Providence to bestow. When she herself suggested thisrelationship a few years later he cast it aside with scorn, havingchanged his mind in the interval--but that story belongs to another timeand place.

  Emma Jane was not to be seen in garden, field, or at the window, andAbijah turned his gaze to the large brick house that came next on theother side of the quiet village street. It might have been closed fora funeral. Neither Miss Miranda nor Miss Jane Sawyer sat at theirrespective windows knitting, nor was Rebecca Randall's gypsy face to bediscerned. Ordinarily that will-o'-the wispish little person could beseen, heard, or felt wherever she was.

  "The village must be abed, I guess," mused Abijah, as he neared theRobinsons' yellow cottage, where all the blinds were closed and no signof life showed on porch or in shed. "No, 't aint, neither," he thoughtagain, as his horse crept cautiously down the hill, for from thedirection of the Robinsons' barn chamber there floated out into the aircertain burning sentiments set to the tune of "Antioch." The words, to alad brought up in the orthodox faith, were quite distinguishable:

  "Daughter of Zion, from the dust, Exalt thy fallen head!"

  Even the most religious youth is stronger on first lines than others,but Abijah pulled up his horse and waited till he caught anotherfamiliar verse, beginning:

  "Rebuild thy walls, thy bounds enlarge, And send thy heralds forth."

  "That's Rebecca carrying the air, and I can hear Emma Jane's alto."

  "Say to the North, Give up thy charge, And hold not back, O South, And hold not back, O South," etc.

  "Land! ain't they smart, seesawin' up and down in that part they learntin singin' school! I wonder what they're actin' out, singin' hymn-tunesup in the barn chamber? Some o' Rebecca's doins, I'll be bound! Git dap,Aleck!"

  Aleck pursued his serene and steady trot up the hills on the Edgewoodside of the river, till at length he approached the green Common wherethe old Tory Hill meeting-house stood, its white paint and green blindsshowing fair and pleasant in the afternoon sun. Both doors were open,and as Abijah turned into the Wareham road the church melodeon pealedout the opening bars of the Missionary Hymn, and presently a score ofvoices sent the good old tune from the choir-loft out to the dusty road:

  "Shall we whose souls are lighted With Wisdom from on high, Shall we to men benighted The lamp of life deny?"

  "Land!" exclaimed Abijah under his breath. "They're at it up here, too!That explains it all. There's a missionary meeting at the church, andthe girls wa'n't allowed to come so they held one of their own, and Ibate ye it's the liveliest of the two."

  Abijah Flagg's shrewd Yankee guesses were not far from the truth, thoughhe was not in possession of all the facts. It will be remembered bythose who have been in the way of hearing Rebecca's experiences inRiverboro, that the Rev. and Mrs. Burch, returned missionaries from theFar East, together with some of their children, "all born under Syrianskies," as they always explained to interested inquirers, spent a day ortwo at the brick house, and gave parlor meetings in native costume.

  These visitors, coming straight from foreign lands to the little Mainevillage, brought with them a nameless enchantment to the children, andespecially to Rebecca, whose imagination always kindled easily. Theromance of that visit had never died in her heart, and among the manycareers that dazzled her youthful vision was that of converting suchSyrian heathen as might continue in idol worship after the Burches'efforts in their behalf had ceased. She thought at the age of eighteenshe might be suitably equipped for storming some minor citadel ofMohammedanism; and Mrs. Burch had encouraged her in the idea, not, it isto be feared, because Rebecca showed any surplus of virtue or Christiangrace, but because her gift of language, her tact and sympathy, and hermusical talent seemed to fit her for the work.

  It chanced that the quarterly meeting of the Maine Missionary Societyhad been appointed just at the time when a letter from Mrs. Burch toMiss Jane Sawyer suggested that Rebecca should form a children's branchin Riverboro. Mrs. Burch's real idea was that the young people shouldsave their pennies and divert a gentle stream of financial aid intothe parent fund, thus learning early in life to be useful in such work,either at home or abroad.

  The girls themselves, however, read into her letter no such modestparticipation in the conversion of the world, and wishing to effect anorganization without delay, they chose an afternoon when every house inthe village was vacant, and seized upon the Robinsons' barn chamber asthe place of meeting.

  Rebecca, Alice Robinson, Emma Jane Perkins, Candace Milliken, and PersisWatson, each with her hymn book, had climbed the ladder leading tothe haymow a half hour before Abijah Flagg had heard the strainsof "Daughters of Zion" floating out to the road. Rebecca, being anexecutive person, had carried, besides her hymn book, a silver call-belland pencil and paper. An animated discussion regarding one of twonames for the society, The Junior Heralds or The Daughters of Zion,had resulted in a unanimous vote for the latter, and Rebecca had beenelected president at an early stage of the meeting. She had modestlysuggested that Alice Robinson, as the granddaughter of a missionary toChina, would be much more eligible.

  "No," said Alice, with entire good nature, "whoever is ELECTEDpresident, you WILL be, Rebecca--you're that kind--so you might as wellhave the honor; I'd just as lieves be secretary, anyway."

  "If you should want me to be treasurer, I could be, as well as not,"said Persis Watson suggestively; "for you know my father keeps chinabanks at his store--ones that will hold as much as two dollars if youwill let them. I think he'd give us one if I happen to be treasurer."

  The three principal officers were thus elected at one fell swoopand with an entire absence of that red tape which commonly rendersorganization so tiresome, Candace Milliken suggesting that perhaps she'dbetter be vice-president, as Emma Jane Perkins was always so bashful.

  "We ought to have more members," she reminded the other girls, "but ifwe had invited them the first day they'd have all wanted to be officers,especially Minnie Smellie, so it's just as well not to ask them tillanother time. Is Thirza Meserve too little to join?"

  "I can't think why anybody named Meserve should have called a babyThirza," said Rebecca, somewhat out of order, though the meeting wascarried on with small recognition of parliamentary laws. "It alwaysmakes me want to say:

  Thirza Meserver Heaven preserve her! Thirza Meserver Do we deserve her?

  She's little, but she's sweet, and absolutely without guile. I think weought to have her."

  "Is 'guile' the same as 'guilt?" inquired Emma Jane Perkins.

  "Yes," the president answered; "exactly the same, except one is writtenand the other spoken language." (Rebecca was rather good at imbibinginformation, and a master hand at imparting it!) "Written language isfor poems and graduations and occasions like this--kind of like a bestSunday-go-to-meeting dress that you wouldn't like to go blueberrying infor fear of getting it spotted."

  "I'd just as 'lieves get 'guile' spotted as not," affirmed theunimaginative Emma Jane. "I think it's an awful foolish word; but nowwe're all named and our officers elected, what do we do first? It'seasy enough for Mary and Martha Burch; they just play at missionaryingbecause their folks work at it, same as Living and I used to makebelieve be blacksmiths when we were little."

  "It must be nicer missionarying in those foreign pl
aces," said Persis,"because on 'Afric's shores and India's plains and other spots whereSatan reigns' (that's father's favorite hymn) there's always a heathenbowing down to wood and stone. You can take away his idols if he'll letyou and give him a bible and the beginning's all made. But who'll webegin on? Jethro Small?"

  "Oh, he's entirely too dirty, and foolish besides!" exclaimed Candace."Why not Ethan Hunt? He swears dreadfully."

  "He lives on nuts and is a hermit, and it's a mile to his camp throughthe thick woods; my mother'll never let me go there," objected Alice."There's Uncle Tut Judson."

  "He's too old; he's most a hundred and deaf as a post," complained EmmaJane. "Besides, his married daughter is a Sabbath-school teacher--whydoesn't she teach him to behave? I can't think of anybody just right tostart on!"

  "Don't talk like that, Emma Jane," and Rebecca's tone had a tinge ofreproof in it. "We are a copperated body named the Daughters of Zion,and, of course, we've got to find something to do. Foreigners are theeasiest; there's a Scotch family at North Riverboro, an English one inEdgewood, and one Cuban man at Millkin's Mills."

  "Haven't foreigners got any religion of their own?" inquired Persiscuriously.

  "Ye-es, I s'pose so; kind of a one; but foreigners' religions are neverright--ours is the only good one." This was from Candace, the deacon'sdaughter.

  "I do think it must be dreadful, being born with a religion and growingup with it, and then finding out it's no use and all your time wasted!"Here Rebecca sighed, chewed a straw, and looked troubled.

  "Well, that's your punishment for being a heathen," retorted Candace,who had been brought up strictly.

  "But I can't for the life of me see how you can help being a heathen ifyou're born in Africa," persisted Persis, who was well named.

  "You can't." Rebecca was clear on this point. "I had that all out withMrs. Burch when she was visiting Aunt Miranda. She says they can't helpbeing heathen, but if there's a single mission station in the whole ofAfrica, they're accountable if they don't go there and get saved."

  "Are there plenty of stages and railroads?" asked Alice; "because theremust be dreadfully long distances, and what if they couldn't pay thefare?"

  "That part of it is so dreadfully puzzly we mustn't talk about it,please," said Rebecca, her sensitive face quivering with the force ofthe problem. Poor little soul! She did not realize that her superiorsin age and intellect had spent many a sleepless night over that same"accountability of the heathen."

  "It's too bad the Simpsons have moved away," said Candace. "It's soseldom you can find a real big wicked family like that to save, withonly Clara Belle and Susan good in it."

  "And numbers count for so much," continued Alice. "My grandmother saysif missionaries can't convert about so many in a year the Board advisesthem to come back to America and take up some other work."

  "I know," Rebecca corroborated; "and it's the same with revivalists. Atthe Centennial picnic at North Riverboro, a revivalist sat opposite toMr. Ladd and Aunt Jane and me, and he was telling about his wonderfulsuccess in Bangor last winter. He'd converted a hundred and thirty ina month, he said, or about four and a third a day. I had just finishedfractions, so I asked Mr. Ladd how the third of a man could beconverted. He laughed and said it was just the other way; that the manwas a third converted. Then he explained that if you were trying toconvince a person of his sin on a Monday, and couldn't quite finish bysundown, perhaps you wouldn't want to sit up all night with him, andperhaps he wouldn't want you to; so you'd begin again on Tuesday, andyou couldn't say just which day he was converted, because it would betwo thirds on Monday and one third on Tuesday."

  "Mr. Ladd is always making fun, and the Board couldn't expect any greatthings of us girls, new beginners," suggested Emma Jane, who was beingconstantly warned against tautology by her teacher. "I think it's awfulrude, anyway, to go right out and try to convert your neighbors; but ifyou borrow a horse and go to Edgewood Lower Corner, or Milliken's Mills,I s'pose that makes it Foreign Missions."

  "Would we each go alone or wait upon them with a committee, as they didwhen they asked Deacon Tuttle for a contribution for the new hearse?"asked Persis.

  "Oh! We must go alone," decided Rebecca; "it would be much more refinedand delicate. Aunt Miranda says that one man alone could never geta subscription from Deacon Tuttle, and that's the reason they sent acommittee. But it seems to me Mrs. Burch couldn't mean for us to tryand convert people when we're none of us even church members, exceptCandace. I think all we can do is to persuade them to go to meeting andSabbath school, or give money for the hearse, or the new horse sheds.Now let's all think quietly for a minute or two who's the very mostheathenish and reperrehensiblest person in Riverboro."

  After a very brief period of silence the words "Jacob Moody" fell fromall lips with entire accord.

  "You are right," said the president tersely; "and after singing hymnnumber two hundred seventy four, to be found on the sixty-sixth page,we will take up the question of persuading Mr. Moody to attend divineservice or the minister's Bible class, he not having been in themeeting-house for lo! these many years.

  'Daughter of Zion, the power that hath saved thee Extolled with the harp and the timbrel should be.'

  "Sing without reading, if you please, omitting the second stanza. Hymntwo seventy four, to be found on the sixty-sixth page of the new hymnbook or on page thirty two of Emma Jane Perkins's old one."

  II

  It is doubtful if the Rev. Mr. Burch had ever found in Syria a personmore difficult to persuade than the already "gospel-hardened" JacobMoody of Riverboro.

  Tall, gaunt, swarthy, black-bearded--his masses of grizzled, uncombedhair and the red scar across his nose and cheek added to his sinisterappearance. His tumble-down house stood on a rocky bit of land back ofthe Sawyer pasture, and the acres of his farm stretched out on all sidesof it. He lived alone, ate alone, plowed, planted, sowed, harvestedalone, and was more than willing to die alone, "unwept, unhonored, andunsung." The road that bordered upon his fields was comparatively littleused by any one, and notwithstanding the fact that it was thickly setwith chokecherry trees and blackberry bushes it had been for yearspractically deserted by the children. Jacob's Red Astrakhan and GrannyGarland trees hung thick with apples, but no Riverboro or Edgewood boystole them; for terrifying accounts of the fate that had overtaken oneurchin in times agone had been handed along from boy to boy, protectingthe Moody fruit far better than any police patrol.

  Perhaps no circumstances could have extenuated the old man's surlymanners or his lack of all citizenly graces and virtues; but hisneighbors commonly rebuked his present way of living and forgot thetroubled past that had brought it about: the sharp-tongued wife, theunloving and disloyal sons, the daughter's hapless fate, and all theother sorry tricks that fortune had played upon him--at least that wasthe way in which he had always regarded his disappointments and griefs.

  This, then, was the personage whose moral rehabilitation was to beaccomplished by the Daughters of Zion. But how?

  "Who will volunteer to visit Mr. Moody?" blandly asked the president.

  VISIT MR. MOODY! It was a wonder the roof of the barn chamber did notfall; it did, indeed echo the words and in some way make them sound moregrim and satirical.

  "Nobody'll volunteer, Rebecca Rowena Randall, and you know it," saidEmma Jane.

  "Why don't we draw lots, when none of us wants to speak to him and yetone of us must?"

  This suggestion fell from Persis Watson, who had been pale andthoughtful ever since the first mention of Jacob Moody. (She was fond ofGranny Garlands; she had once met Jacob; and, as to what befell, well,we all have our secret tragedies!)

  "Wouldn't it be wicked to settle it that way?"

  "It's gamblers that draw lots."

  "People did it in the Bible ever so often."

  "It doesn't seem nice for a missionary meeting."

  These remarks fell all together upon the president's bewildered ear thewhile (as she always said in compositions)--"the whi
le" she was tryingto adjust the ethics of this unexpected and difficult dilemma.

  "It is a very puzzly question," she said thoughtfully. "I could ask AuntJane if we had time, but I suppose we haven't. It doesn't seem nice todraw lots, and yet how can we settle it without? We know we mean right,and perhaps it will be. Alice, take this paper and tear off five narrowpieces, all different lengths."

  At this moment a voice from a distance floated up to the haymow--a voicesaying plaintively: "Will you let me play with you, girls? Huldah hasgone to ride, and I'm all alone."

  It was the voice of the absolutely-without-guile Thirza Meserve, and itcame at an opportune moment.

  "If she is going to be a member," said Persis, "why not let her come upand hold the lots? She'd be real honest and not favor anybody."

  It seemed an excellent idea, and was followed up so quickly thatscarcely three minutes ensued before the guileless one was holding thefive scraps in her hot little palm, laboriously changing their placesagain and again until they looked exactly alike and all rather soiledand wilted.

  "Come, girls, draw!" commanded the president. "Thirza, you mustn't chewgum at a missionary meeting, it isn't polite nor holy. Take it out andstick it somewhere till the exercises are over."

  The five Daughters of Zion approached the spot so charged with fate, andextended their trembling hands one by one. Then after a moment's silentclutch of their papers they drew nearer to one another and comparedthem.

  Emma Jane Perkins had drawn the short one, becoming thus the destinedinstrument for Jacob Moody's conversion to a more seemly manner of life!

  She looked about her despairingly, as if to seek some painless andrespectable method of self-destruction.

  "Do let's draw over again," she pleaded. "I'm the worst of all of us.I'm sure to make a mess of it till I kind o' get trained in."

  Rebecca's heart sank at this frank confession, which only corroboratedher own fears.

  "I'm sorry, Emmy, dear," she said, "but our only excuse for drawing lotsat all would be to have it sacred. We must think of it as a kind of asign, almost like God speaking to Moses in the burning bush."

  "Oh, I WISH there was a burning bush right here!" cried the distractedand recalcitrant missionary. "How quick I'd step into it without evenstopping to take off my garnet ring!"

  "Don't be such a scare-cat, Emma Jane!" exclaimed Candace bracingly."Jacob Moody can't kill you, even if he has an awful temper. Trot rightalong now before you get more frightened. Shall we go cross lots withher, Rebecca, and wait at the pasture gate? Then whatever happens Alicecan put it down in the minutes of the meeting."

  In these terrible crises of life time gallops with such incrediblevelocity that it seemed to Emma Jane only a breath before she was beingdragged through the fields by the other Daughters of Zion, the guilelesslittle Thirza panting in the rear.

  At the entrance to the pasture Rebecca gave her an impassioned embrace,and whispering, "WHATEVER YOU DO, BE CAREFUL HOW YOU LEAD UP," liftedoff the top rail and pushed her through the bars. Then the girls turnedtheir backs reluctantly on the pathetic figure, and each sought a treeunder whose friendly shade she could watch, and perhaps pray, until themissionary should return from her field of labor.

  Alice Robinson, whose compositions were always marked 96 or 97,--100symbolizing such perfection as could be attained in the mortal world ofRiverboro,--Alice, not only Daughter, but Scribe of Zion, sharpened herpencil and wrote a few well-chosen words of introduction, to be usedwhen the records of the afternoon had been made by Emma Jane Perkins andJacob Moody.

  Rebecca's heart beat tumultuously under her gingham dress. She feltthat a drama was being enacted, and though unfortunately she was not thecentral figure, she had at least a modest part in it. The short lot hadnot fallen to the properest Daughter, that she quite realized; yet wouldany one of them succeed in winning Jacob Moody's attention, inengaging him in pleasant conversation, and finally in bringing him toa realization of his mistaken way of life? She doubted, but at the samemoment her spirits rose at the thought of the difficulties involved inthe undertaking.

  Difficulties always spurred Rebecca on, but they daunted poor Emma Jane,who had no little thrills of excitement and wonder and fear and longingto sustain her lagging soul. That her interview was to be entered as"minutes" by a secretary seemed to her the last straw. Her blue eyeslooked lighter than usual and had the glaze of china saucers; herusually pink cheeks were pale, but she pressed on, determined to bea faithful Daughter of Zion, and above all to be worthy of Rebecca'sadmiration and respect.

  "Rebecca can do anything," she thought, with enthusiastic loyalty, "andI mustn't be any stupider than I can help, or she'll choose one ofthe other girls for her most intimate friend." So, mustering all hercourage, she turned into Jacob Moody's dooryard, where he was choppingwood.

  "It's a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Moody," she said in a polite but hoarsewhisper, Rebecca's words, "LEAD UP! LEAD UP!" ringing in clarion tonesthrough her brain.

  Jacob Moody looked at her curiously. "Good enough, I guess," he growled;"but I don't never have time to look at afternoons."

  Emma Jane seated herself timorously on the end of a large log near thechopping block, supposing that Jacob, like other hosts, would pause inhis tasks and chat.

  "The block is kind of like an idol," she thought; "I wish I could takeit away from him, and then perhaps he'd talk."

  At this moment Jacob raised his axe and came down on the block with sucha stunning blow that Emma Jane fairly leaped into the air.

  "You'd better look out, Sissy, or you'll git chips in the eye!" saidMoody, grimly going on with his work.

  The Daughter of Zion sent up a silent prayer for inspiration, but nonecame, and she sat silent, giving nervous jumps in spite of herselfwhenever the axe fell upon the log Jacob was cutting.

  Finally, the host became tired of his dumb visitor, and leaning onhis axe he said, "Look here, Sis, what have you come for? What's yourerrant? Do you want apples? Or cider? Or what? Speak out, or GIT out,one or t'other."

  Emma Jane, who had wrung her handkerchief into a clammy ball, gave ita last despairing wrench, and faltered: "Wouldn't you like--hadn't youbetter--don't you think you'd ought to be more constant at meeting andSabbath school?"

  Jacob's axe almost dropped from his nerveless hand, and he regardedthe Daughter of Zion with unspeakable rage and disdain. Then, the bloodmounting in his face, he gathered himself together, and shouted: "Youtake yourself off that log and out o' this dooryard double-quick, youimperdent sanct'omus young one! You just let me ketch Bill Perkins'child trying to teach me where I shall go, at my age! Scuttle, I tellye! And if I see your pious cantin' little mug inside my fence ag'in onsech a business I'll chase ye down the hill or set the dog on ye! SCOOT,I TELL YE!"

  Emma Jane obeyed orders summarily, taking herself off the log, out thedooryard, and otherwise scuttling and scooting down the hill at a pacenever contemplated even by Jacob Moody, who stood regarding her flyingheels with a sardonic grin.

  Down she stumbled, the tears coursing over her cheeks and mingling withthe dust of her flight; blighted hope, shame, fear, rage, all tearingher bosom in turn, till with a hysterical shriek she fell over the barsand into Rebecca's arms outstretched to receive her. The other Daughterswiped her eyes and supported her almost fainting form, while Thirza,thoroughly frightened, burst into sympathetic tears, and refused to becomforted.

  No questions were asked, for it was felt by all parties that Emma Jane'sdemeanor was answering them before they could be framed.

  "He threatened to set the dog on me!" she wailed presently, when, asthey neared the Sawyer pasture, she was able to control her voice. "Hecalled me a pious, cantin' young one, and said he'd chase me out o' thedooryard if I ever came again! And he'll tell my father--I know he will,for he hates him like poison."

  All at once the adult point of view dawned upon Rebecca. She neversaw it until it was too obvious to be ignored. Had they done wrong ininterviewing Jacob Moody? Would Aunt Miranda be angry,
as well as Mr.Perkins?

  "Why was he so dreadful, Emmy?" she questioned tenderly. "What did yousay first? How did you lead up to it?"

  Emma Jane sobbed more convulsively, and wiped her nose and eyesimpartially as she tried to think.

  "I guess I never led up at all; not a mite. I didn't know what youmeant. I was sent on an errant, and I went and done it the best I could!(Emma Jane's grammar always lapsed in moments of excitement.) And thenJake roared at me like Squire Winship's bull.... And he called my facea mug.... You shut up that secretary book, Alice Robinson! If you writedown a single word I'll never speak to you again.... And I don't want tobe a member' another minute for fear of drawing another short lot. I'vegot enough of the Daughters or Zion to last me the rest o' my life! Idon't care who goes to meetin' and who don't."

  The girls were at the Perkins's gate by this time, and Emma Jane wentsadly into the empty house to remove all traces of the tragedy from herperson before her mother should come home from the church.

  The others wended their way slowly down the street, feeling that theirpromising missionary branch had died almost as soon as it had budded.

  "Goodby," said Rebecca, swallowing lumps of disappointment and chagrinas she saw the whole inspiring plan break and vanish into thin air likean iridescent bubble. "It's all over and we won't ever try it again.I'm going in to do overcasting as hard as I can, because I hate that theworst. Aunt Jane must write to Mrs. Burch that we don't want to behome missionaries. Perhaps we're not big enough, anyway. I'm perfectlycertain it's nicer to convert people when they're yellow or brown orany color but white; and I believe it must be easier to save their soulsthan it is to make them go to meeting."