THE next few days went faster than the speed limit, and ought to have been fined for "scorching." We did Chicago as thoroughly as it could be done, and saw so much that I began to feel as if my mental store-room was getting overcrowded. Bess called it my experimental-mental store-room because I had told her how I always took in everything that came along, if it looked as if it could ever be the least bit useful or interesting to me, and put it into that store-room; and then sometimes I would take a day off and go through the stock and pitch out what, upon closer examination, I was sure I wouldn't ever want, and put the things I did want in permanent storage, and the doubtful ones back in the shelves to look over again later on. Probably the next time I took 'em down, I'd know for sure whether I wanted to keep 'em or not. I had Christian Science in there on the shelf, waiting for further investigation; and for the last week I'd been piling in a lot of unsorted stuff of all kinds, until Bess said she'd bet the whole room looked like her top bureau drawer.
"Well," I said, "I'll be so busy with it all when I get home, that I won't have a chance to get lonesome."
"What are you going to do first?" asked Bess.
"I'm going to go in and kind of get things into shape, and bunch 'em in some sort of order, and then I'm going to take down Christian Science and have a look at it,—and then I suppose I'll put it up on the shelf again."
"H-m," said Bess, "What have you got on the shelf under that label?"
"Just some small samples."
"That isn't a very good stock to judge by,—just a few samples that you have happened to pick up. It doesn't give you much to go on."
"No," I said, "That's why I will probably put it back on the shelf,—I haven't enough to form a fair opinion."
Bess thought for a minute. "Chet," she said, "you are going to waste a lot of time that way. You ought to have the real thing to examine. Why don't you get the text-book?"
It was my turn to think. I had some money to spend, which I had earned making collections for Dad; but it wasn't any great amount, and I knew about what I wanted to do with it. Yet still I knew that this thing was going to stick to me until I got it decided. I couldn't pitch it out if I wanted to, until I was sure that it was no good, and I couldn't take it in for keeps until I had given it a fair going over; and I saw that I couldn't do that without the book. I knew that Bess used hers so much that it wouldn't be right to ask to borrow it. I could see that I'd got to come up against the thing some time, and I'm for doing as soon as possible anything that's standing looking at you and saying "Come on." Besides, I wanted to read the book.
"I don't know," I said, "I'll see about it, but I suppose I'll have to get it; for I can never leave things on the shelf long without their fermenting and getting the whole room mussed up."
One evening we went to a prayer-meeting at the Christian Science church. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to go or not, but decided that as long as Bess wanted to, I might as well, and it would give me some more samples for the shelf in my store-room,—and I was glad I went.
The church was different from any that I had ever been in before,—big and light and cheery, instead of dismal and heavy. I always wondered why folks thought they ought to be sober and sad when they thought of religion, and why they always associated religion with suffering and death. But here everything made you think of happiness and life, and every one seemed as if he had something to be glad about,—something that was lifting him up, instead of resting like a weight upon him. It surely did look good to me. I never saw a prayer-meeting that size before in my life. It was a tremendously big church, and it was crowded full, and people standing. When we were going home, I said to Bess.
"Was that a prayer-meeting?"
"Well," said Bess, "I don't see why it couldn't be called a prayer-meeting."
"It wasn't like any prayer-meeting I ever went to before, excepting when they said the Lord's Prayer."
Bess thought for a minute. "Prayer is communicating with God, isn't it?" she said.
"I suppose so."
"And if God knows everything, we don't have to tell Him a lot of things, do we?"
"Why, no."
"And God is Good?"
"Yes." She had explained that to me.
"Well then, thinking and talking good thoughts, must be prayer, because it is putting us right into touch with Him; and so I should think that was the very best kind of a prayer-meeting."
"Oh-h-h!" I said. I had just found something.
"What is it?" asked Bess.
"Why then, to 'pray without ceasing,' is just to think really right thoughts all the time."
Bess nodded. "Of course," she said.
"And there I always thought that phrase was an exaggeration and an impossibility, for I couldn't see how any one could attend to business and do it. This is different. It would be a mighty good thing for one's business."
We walked on for a while and I thought it over. By and by I said,—"Bess, do you suppose that all of those people are sincere?"
Bess smiled. "Are you sincere in believing that two and two are four?"
"Of course," I said, "I couldn't help believing it, if I wanted to, after I had once learned it, and knew why."
"Well, it's the same with Christian Science. If you once understand it, you haven't any more choice in the matter than you have in two and two,—you've got it, and it's got you, and it isn't a question of whether you want to be sincere or not—you, simply know it, and that settles it for you, and you can't get away from it."
I looked at her and wondered if I would ever come to see it that way. We didn't talk much the rest of the way home. I was in my experimental-mental store-room, and streets and houses and people weren't anywhere. Some one had said something about feeling kindly toward every one, whether they were of the same religion or not, and that people's opinions about God and Christ ought to be the last thing in the world to separate them from one another, and that gave me a lot to think about.
When we reached Aunt Fannie's, I got into a Morris chair and went back into my store-room until Uncle Fred, with a tease is his eyes, said,—"Chet, you're in a brown study. That's bad. Don't take up a religion where you have to think. Don't puzzle over the deep things. Take up something where all you have to do is to be good according to rules laid down,—then you don't have to exercise your gray matter. It's much easier and more comfortable, and doesn't interfere with your usual pursuits."
"But we have to think sometimes," I said, "It's in us."
Uncle Fred shook his head solemnly and pulled down the corners of his mouth. "Chester," he said, "I am compelled to believe that you and Elizabeth think too much. When one thinks too much, one asks questions—hard questions—and people who ask hard questions aren't popular in most circles."
"They are in ours," said Bess.
"Well, yours may be an exception," said Uncle Fred, "and if you get 'em answered, you'll know too much, and the rest of us will have to—"
"Have to what?" asked Aunt Fannie.
Uncle Fred heaved a funny sigh. "Do some studying to catch up."
I was in Chicago for ten days; but where they went, I'll never know. They just dropped into the past so fast that I lost count. We saw Twinny several times; but I never got real well acquainted with her; for just about the time that I began to think that I knew her pretty well, I'd find she was the other one, and then I'd have to begin all over. Other people didn't seem to have so much trouble, for they were contented to just bunch them, and let it go at that; but I liked one so much better than the other, and couldn't keep track of which one it was, and it bothered me. The day I started for home, Bess and I went down town early and I got my Christian Science text-book, and took it along to read on the train. I knew it was up to me to do it, because the subject sat on the edge of the shelf and stared at me all the time, and I had to tackle it or have it interfering with all the work I wanted to do in that room. Bess had changed the name of my store-room, and now she called it my "brown study." She got that from Uncle Fred, and it wasn't at all bad.
I didn't read on the way home, after all; for there was a man in my seat who had been a railroad man for twenty-five years, and he got to telling me about things,—how to figure on how fast the train was going, by counting the jars at the rail-ends, to see how many to the minute, and counting each rail as thirty feet long, and fifty-two hundred and eighty feet to the mile. It was mighty interesting. And he told me a lot about telegraph poles, and how long they lasted, and how they were putting in cement bases to make them last longer, because they decayed first underground. He had travelled all over the country and knew about every town in it. I asked him what was the very most satisfactory place, in every way, that he had ever found,—that is, where he would settle if he had his choice of every place where he had ever been, and he said Seattle. I was never so surprised in my life, for I had always thought of that town as being so far away from everything,—just about the jumping-off-place. I asked if it was because he liked some one there, and he said no, that it was simply the all-round nicest place that he had ever struck, and suited him down to the ground. I can't understand it yet, for on the map it looks so sort of lonesome and away from us,—but he was mighty certain in his own mind.
After I got home I was so busy for a few days that I didn't get a chance for even a peep into either the book or the brown study,—and then came a letter from Bess. It didn't begin like most letters, but started in this way:—
"Good-morning. What's the use of labelling a friendly letter at the start, just as if you were likely to forget who you were writing to, and have to turn back every now and then, to find out? When I meet you on the street, I don't start in with 'Dear Chet,' and then say what I have on my mind, and I don't see why I should in a letter.
"Father got in here last night, and we are going to leave to-morrow for Indianapolis. Don't mind that the t's and l's in this letter seem to feel themselves so much above the others. That is because my type-writer had a set-to with some expressman on the way here, and came out wabbly. At least, I suppose that is what happened. I doctored it with my manicure set, but it isn't on the level yet. I'm going to have it fixed in Indianapolis. I didn't dare to tell you, when you were here, that it wasn't working right, for I knew you would get at it—and I was afraid it would come out worse than it did with the expressman.
"Night before last I went out with Uncle Fred. We went to the University. You see, he had run across a gitl he knew, and found that a friend of both of them was attending the University and so they agreed to go out there and call, and he asked me to go along,—because it was just about the only place that I hadn't been. The girl who went with us is just as sweet as she can be. She's little and pretty and jolly and her name is Kathleen, and her eyes looked so loving that I had hold of her hand before I knew it, and she was telling me about her pansies and nasturtiums, and just how she planted sweet-peas. I don't see how she knew right off that I love flowers!
"Uncle Fred had telephoned to Miss Mills, at the University, that we were coming; and we started at about half-past seven, because he said it was so far out there, and when we got down town, he said we had to take a cable car. Miss Kathleen asked why it wouldn't be better to—take a suburban railroad train, because it would be so much quicker, but Uncle Fred insisted that Miss Mills said for us to take a cable car, and he was going to exactly follow her directions. Miss Kathleen didn't insist, because she doesn't know the town very well, either, and wasn't sure whether the suburban line went there. I don't believe that it would have made any difference if she had, for Uncle Fred is awfully stubborn when he isn't sure about a thing.
"We went over to Wabash Avenue and stopped on a corner to wait for a car.
"'Fred,' said Miss Kathleen, after a while, 'this is the wrong corner.'
"'No,' said Uncle Fred, 'they stop on the near side of the street here.'
"'I don't think so,' said Miss Kathleen. 'I'm almost sure they stop on the far side.'
"'You watch and see,' said Uncle Fred, grinning. 'I'll bet you that longest stemmed American Beauty,' and he pointed toward a florist's window across the street, 'against that pink cosmos you're wearing.'
"'Done,' said Miss Kathleen.
"I didn't say a word; for I knew that he would wait on that corner until a car came along, if the whole of Chicago told him differently.
"We waited a while longer. 'Guess there's a tie-up somewhere,' said Uncle Fred, standing on one foot.
"'We might save time by getting the rose while we wait,' said Miss Kathleen.
"'Not on your life,' said Uncle Fred. 'That cosmos blossom—' but just then a train of three cars came in sight around a corner up the street. 'There she comes!' he cried, 'Get ready to pile on.'
"It took the train ever so long to reach us, and when it was almost there, we stepped down from the curbing and Uncle Fred held up his hand for them to stop; but the grip-man shook his head, and as the last car sailed by, the conductor leaned off and put his hand up to his mouth and yelled, 'Go to the other corner!'
"'The dickens!' said Uncle Fred, and looked as if he wanted to punch the conductor; then he grabbed Miss Kathleen's arm and my hand, and started after the car.
"Miss Kathleen tried to hang back. 'We can't get it now, Fred,' she said. 'See, there are only two people to get on, and it won't wait for us.'
"'Yes it will,' cried Uncle Fred, hustling us along, 'Come on!' But it didn't wait, and in a minute we were standing in the middle of the muddy street, and the car was bowling along just out of reach.
"Uncle Fred looked after it for about a second, and then he shrugged his shoulders, 'Let's go in and buy that rose,' he said.
"Just as we turned toward the curb, a little newsboy, the very littlest one I ever saw, jumped off of it and started to run across the street. I hadn't noticed him before, and he started so quickly, yelling his papers, that I turned suddenly and stumbled against him, and he went sprawling into the mud
"I was never so surprised in all my life, and just stood staring, with my mouth open. Uncle Fred and Miss Kathleen turned at the sound of the fall, and I pointed to where the little fellow was scrambling to his feet, and gasped, 'I knocked that little boy down!'
"Uncle Fred looked at me indignantly. 'Well,' he said, severely, 'I'm sure that's nothing to brag of. He isn't more than half as big as you are.' Then he called the boy and gave him a quarter. 'You must excuse the young lady there,' he said, pointing to me; 'She's from the country, and is sort of savage yet; but you needn't be afraid—I'll see that she doesn't do it again.'
"The boy grinned and shoved the money into his pocket, and then we went into the flower store, and Miss Kathleen came out with three big American Beauties, and I had some Killarney buds, and Uncle Fred had the cosmos. Another car was just coming along, and Uncle Fred hurried us aboard.
"'Are you sure this is the right car?' asked Miss Kathleen.
"'Sure,' said Uncle Fred. 'She said to take a Cottage Grove car labelled "Jackson Park," and that it was blue, and I saw the name on the grip.'
"'But this car is green,' said Miss Kathleen.
"'Well, the grip and the other car are blue, and this one can't go traipsing off by itself without any grip, can it, just because it happens to be green? I guess we're safe enough. You two may as well settle down; for it takes nearly an hour to get there.' Then he and Miss Kathleen went to talking about the folks in their home town, and I began looking out of the rear window and watching the high buildings seem to rise up behind the nearer ones, as we drew away from them.
"We had been riding for about ten minutes, when at one of the stops there was a great rattling of chains and shouting, and then we started off again and turned a corner with a sharp swing, and went spinning along so differently that I sat up and began to take notice. The car was singing and buzzing, instead of rattling and jarring, as it did before, and I began to wonder. Uncle Fred and Miss Kathleen were so busy talking that they hadn't noticed anything. I leaned forward and tried to look out of the front end of the car; but the windows only reflected the inside, and so I turned and looked backward again, with my hand up beside my face; but there wasn't anything in particular to see. By and by we swung around another corner, and I could tell by the way we went around, that we weren't hitched to any other car,—there wasn't any jarring of the couplings.
"When I was real sure, I leaned over. 'Uncle Fred,' I said.
"'Well?' said Uncle Fred, 'Getting tired?'
"'No; but you said this car couldn't go traipsing off by itself.'
"'That's what I did,' said Uncle Fred, cheerfully.
"'Well, Uncle Fred,' I said, "It is.'
"'It is what?'
"'Going by itself.'
"He looked at me and smiled with pleased interest. 'What's the joke, Elizabeth?'
"'I don't know as there is any joke,' I said; 'but you said it was a cable car, and it sounds like a trolley, and I'm sure it isn't hitched to anything.'
"'Wake up, Elizabeth,' he said, patiently, 'Wake up, we'll soon be there. You dreamed—' and then he suddenly pricked up his ears and wrinkled his forehead; 'Does sound like a trolley, though, doesn't it? That's funny.'
"Just then the conductor came through. Uncle Fred stopped him. 'What motive power has this car?' he asked, sort of accusingly.
"'Trolley,' answered the conductor.
"Uncle Fred looked around at us and at the passengers and then back to the conductor. 'Perhaps my memory deceives me,' he remarked; 'but I had the impression that I boarded a cable car.'
"The conductor laughed. 'Yes,' he said, 'the cable takes this car to Rehenes, Street, and then she takes the trolley wire.'
"'And where does this car go?" asked Uncle Fred, keeping his face turned away from us.
"'Down Indiana Avenue.'
"'Will it land us anywhere near the University?'
"'About two miles.'
"Uncle Fred groaned. 'See here,' he said, 'if you wanted to go to the University and hadn't any tag around your neck, what would you do?'
"'Well,' said the conductor, 'if you had spoken before we got to Eighteenth Street, I could have transferred you to the car ahead; but as it is, I guess you'd better stay on until we get to Thirty-first Street, and I'll give you transfers onto the Thirty-first Street line, and then the conductor on that line will give you transfers back onto the Cottage Grove line.'
"'All right,' said Uncle Fred, meekly, 'anything you say. Give us the transfers, and if I don't get off at the right street, just kindly throw me off, will you?'
"The conductor laughed again and punched some long pink slips and held them out; but Uncle Fred shook his head and pointed to me. 'Give them to the lady,' he said, 'I'm not responsible.'
"I folded the slips and put them into my pocket, and then we rode for quite a long time. By and by the conductor came and told us to get off, and showed us which corner to go to, and warned us to take a car going the right way; and in a few minutes we were bowling along again in a trolley. We didn't ride very long that time, and when we got off, we were close to the lake again, and I could see over a stone wall, the little shining waves, with the moonlight making a path across them. I'd have liked to stay and watch it; but a blue cable train was coming, and it was labelled 'Cottage Grove Avenue' all right, so Uncle Fred hustled us on again, and we began rattling and rumbling along.
"Uncle Fred leaned back and heaved a sigh of relief, as soon as we were seated, and they went to talking again, and I put my hand up beside my face and looked out of the rear window. It wasn't a pretty street, such as you would expect from the name, for it was all made up of small stores and shops, and sometimes the entrance to a little park with trees and houses, and sometimes I could catch a gleam of the lake, at the ends of the cross streets. And then, by and by, the stores stopped and there began to be houses, and then there were a lot of trees and bushes on one side and I knew it was a large park, but I hadn't an idea which one for I was so mixed up. I saw some fountains, and it was beautiful in under the dark trees, where the moonlight spotted the ground.
"After a while Uncle Fred turned around. 'Feeling lonesome?' he asked. 'It's a shame to neglect you this way.'
"'No, no,' I said, 'I'm enjoying it. I told you not to bother about me. You can't see Miss Kathleen every day.'
"'I wish I could,' he said, and then they both laughed. 'Well, we're 'most there, anyway, I guess,' and just then the conductor came through. 'Stop at Ellis Avenue, please,' said Uncle Fred, carelessly. He had got back all his confidence.
"'Ain't on our line,' said the conductor.
"Uncle Fred's jaw dropped. He looked as if he wanted to say something large, but wasn't equal to the size of it, and so just gave up. He sat and stared at the conductor for about a minute. At last he sort of moistened his lips and swallowed hard. 'It isn't on this line?' he said, in a thin sort of a voice. 'Isn't this the Cottage Grove line?'
"'Yes.'
"'And this car doesn't go to Ellis Avenue?'
"'No.'
"'Well then, where—where in eternity does it go?'
"'To Oakwoods Cemetery,' said the conductor.