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years into plentiful white blossoms, like shallow ivory cups with a haunting, spicy
fragrance. It was in honour of Sara's home-coming--so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy. All
things, even the sulky rose-bush, knew she was coming back, and were making glad
because of it.
He was gloating over Sara's letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came. She told him she had
run up to see how he was getting on, and if he wanted anything seen to before Sara
came.
"No'm, thank you, ma'am. Everything is attended to. I couldn't let anyone else prepare
for Blossom. Only to think, ma'am, she'll be home the day after to-morrow. I'm just filled
clear through, body, soul, and spirit, with joy to think of having my little Blossom at home
again."
Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled it foretokened trouble, and wise
people had learned to have sudden business elsewhere before the smile could be
translated into words. But Old Man Shaw had never learned to be wise where Mrs.
Blewett was concerned, although she had been his nearest neighbour for years, and
had pestered his life out with advice and "neighbourly turns."
Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry. The effect on her was to render
happiness to other people a personal insult. She resented Old Man Shaw's beaming
delight in his daughter's return, and she "considered it her duty" to rub the bloom off
straightway.
"Do you think Sary'll be contented in White Sands now?" she asked.
Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered.
"Of course she'll be contented," he said slowly. "Isn't it her home? And ain't I here?"
Mrs. Blewett smiled again, with double distilled contempt for such simplicity.
"Well, it's a good thing you're so sure of it, I suppose. If 'twas my daughter that was
coming back to White Sands, after three years of fashionable life among rich, stylish
folks, and at a swell school, I wouldn't have a minute's peace of mind. I'd know perfectly
well that she'd look down on everything here, and be discontented and miserable."
"YOUR daughter might," said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm than he had supposed
he had possessed, "but Blossom won't."
Mrs. Blewett shrugged her sharp shoulders.
"Maybe not. It's to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I'm sure. But I'd be worried if 'twas
me. Sary's been living among fine folks, and having a gay, exciting time, and it stands to
reason she'll think White Sands fearful lonesome and dull. Look at Lauretta Bradley.
She was up in Boston for just a month last winter and she's never been able to endure
White Sands since."
"Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people," said Sara's father, trying to
smile.
"And your house, too," pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. "It's such a queer, little, old
place. What'll she think of it after her aunt's? I've heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect
palace. I'll just warn you kindly that Sary'll probably look down on you, and you might as
well be prepared for it. Of course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to come back,
seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I'm certain she doesn't want to, and
I don't blame her either."
Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found his opportunity. He
had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she were dealing him physical blows, but now a
swift change swept over him. His blue eyes flashed ominously, straight into Mrs.
Blewett's straggling, ferrety gray orbs.
"If you're said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go," he said passionately. "I'm not
going to listen to another such word. Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious
tongue out of my hearing!"
Mrs. Blewett went, too dumfounded by such an unheard-of outburst in mild Old Man
Shaw to say a word of defence or attack. When she had gone Old Man Shaw, the fire
all faded from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was full
of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was a warped and ill-natured woman, but he
feared there was altogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never thought
of it before? Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom; of course
the little gray house where she was born would seem a poor abode after the splendours
of her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw walked through his garden and looked at everything
with new eyes. How poor and simple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten
the old house! He went in, and up-stairs to Sara's room. It was neat and clean, just as
she had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured,
the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean place. Even the
orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards.
She would be ashamed of her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate
White Sands, and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything that went to
make up his uneventful life.
Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied even Mrs. Blewett had
she known. He saw himself as he thought White Sands folk must see him--a poor,
shiftless, foolish old man, who had only one thing in the world worthwhile, his little girl,
and had not been of enough account to keep her.
"Oh, Blossom, Blossom!" he said, and when he spoke her name it sounded as if he
spoke the name of one dead.
After a little the worst sting passed away. He refused to believe long that Blossom would
be ashamed of him; he knew she would not. Three years could not so alter her loyal
nature-- no, nor ten times three years. But she would be changed--she would have
grown away from him in those three busy, brilliant years. His companionship could no
longer satisfy her. How simple and childish he had been to expect it! She would be
sweet and kind--Blossom could never be anything else. She would not show open
discontent or dissatisfaction; she would not be like Lauretta Bradley; but it would be
there, and he would divine it, and it would break his heart. Mrs. Blewett was right. When
he had given Blossom up he should not have made a half-hearted thing of his sacrifice--
he should not have bound her to come back to him.
He walked about in his little garden until late at night, under the stars, with the sea
crooning and calling to him down the slope. When he finally went to bed he did not
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