"What on earth is this?" he asked out loud. But there was no one to
answer him, and so, after puzzling his mind for a few minutes, he rowed
on.

When that man reached the point in the creek to which he was bound, and,
with his trunk on his shoulder, walked up to the house where he used to
live, he was still more astonished; for a telegraph wire ran through one
corner of the back yard.

Cousin Maria now lived in this house, and George Mason was coming to pay
her a visit. His appearance was rather a surprise to her, but still she
welcomed him. She was a good soul.

Almost before he asked her how she was, he put the question to her:

"What telegraph line's that?"

So Cousin Maria wiped her hands on her long gingham apron (she had been
washing her best set of china), and she sat down and told him all about
it.

"You see, George," said she, "that there line was the boys' telegraph
line, afore they sold it to the mica people; and when the boys put it up
they expected to make a heap of money, which I reckon they didn't do, or
else they wouldn't have sold it. But these mica people wanted it, and
they lengthened it at both ends, and bought it of the boys--or rather
of Harry Loudon, for he was the smartest of the lot, and the real owner
of the thing--he and his sister Kate--as far as I could see. And when
they stretched the line over to Hetertown, they came to me and told me
how the line ran along the road most of the way, but that they could
save a lot of time and money (though I don't see how they could save
much of a lot of money when, accordin' to all accounts, the whole line
didn't cost much, bein' just fastened to pine-trees, trimmed off, and if
it had cost much, them boys couldn't have built it, for I reckon the
mica people didn't help 'em a great deal, after all) if I would let them
cut across my grounds with their wire, and I hadn't no objection,
anyway, for the line didn't do no harm up there in the air, and so I
said certainly they might, and they did, and there it is."

When George Mason heard all this, he walked out of the back-door and
over to the wood-pile, where he got an axe and cut down the pole that
was in Cousin Maria's back yard. And when the pole fell, it broke the
wire, just as Mr. Martin had got to the sixth word of a message he was
sending over to Hetertown.

Cousin Maria was outraged.

"George Mason!" said she, "you can stay here as long as you like, and
you can have part of whatever I've got in the house to eat, but I'll
never sit down to the table with you till you've mended that wire and
nailed it to another pole."

"All right," answered George Mason. "Then I'll eat alone."

When Mr. Martin and the mica-mine people and the Akeville people and
Harry and Kate and all the boys and everybody black and white heard what
had happened, there was great excitement. It was generally agreed that
something must be done with George Mason. He had no more right to cut
down that pole because he had once lived on the place, than he had to go
and cut down any of the neighbors' beanpoles.

So the sheriff and some deputy sheriffs, (Tony Kirk among them), and a
constable and a number of volunteer constables, went off after George
Mason, to bring him to justice.

It was more than a week before they found him, and it is probable that
they would not have captured him at all, had he not persisted in staying
in the neighborhood, so as to be on hand with his axe, in case the line
should be repaired.

"It's all along of my tellin' him that that line was got up by them
Loudon children," said Cousin Maria. "He hates Mr. Loudon worse than
pisen, because he was the man that found out all his tricks."

Mason was taken to the court-house and locked up in the jail. Almost all
the people of the county, and some people belonging to adjoining
counties, made up their minds to be at the court-house when his trial
should take place.

On the second night of his imprisonment, George Mason forced open a
window of his cell and went away. And what was more, he staid away. He
had no desire to be at the court-house when his trial took place.

No one felt more profound satisfaction when George Mason left the
country, and the telegraph line was once more in working order, than
Harry and Kate.

They had an idea that if George Mason, should persist in cutting the
telegraph line, the Mica Company would give it up, and that they might
be called upon to refund the money on which Aunt Matilda depended for
support. They had been told that they need not trouble themselves about
this, as the Mica Company had taken all risks; but still they were
delighted when they heard that George Mason had cleared out, and that
there was every reason to suppose that he would not come back.




CHAPTER XXXII.

AUNT MATILDA'S LETTER.


One afternoon, about the end of October, Aunt Matilda was sitting in her
big straight-backed chair, on one side of her fireplace. There was a
wood fire blazing on the hearth, for the days were getting cool and the
old woman liked to be warm. On the other side of the fireplace sat Uncle
Braddock. Sitting on the floor, between the two, were John William
Webster and Dick Ford. In the doorway stood Gregory Montague. He was not
on very good terms with Aunt Matilda, and was rather afraid to come in
all the way. On the bed sat Aunt Judy.

It must not be supposed that Aunt Matilda was giving a party. Nothing of
the kind. These colored people were not very much engrossed with
business at this time of the year, and as it was not far from
supper-time, and as they all happened to be near Aunt Matilda's cabin
that afternoon, they thought they'd step in and see her.

"Does any of you uns know," asked Aunt Matilda, "whar Ole Miles is now?
Dey tells me he don't carry de mails no more."

"No," said John William Webster, who was always quick to speak. "Dey
done stop dat ar. Dey got so many letters up dar at de mica mines, dat
dey send all the big ones to de pos'-office in a bag an' a buggy, and
dey send de little ones ober de telegraph."

"But whar's Ole Miles?" repeated Aunt Matilda.

"He's a-doin' jobs up aroun' de mines," said Uncle Braddock. "De las'
time I see him he was a-whitewashin' a fence."

"Well, I wants to see Ole Miles," said Aunt Matilda. "I wants him to
carry a letter fur me."

"I'll carry yer letter, Aunt Matilda," said Dick Ford; and Gregory
Montague, anxious to curry favor, as it was rapidly growing near to
ash-cake time, stated in a loud voice that he'd take it "fus thing in de
mornin'."

"I don' want none o' you uns," said Aunt Matilda. "Ole Miles is used to
carryin' letters, and I wants him to carry my letter. Ef you'd like ter
keep yerse'f out o' mischief, you Greg'ry, you kin go 'long and tell him
I wants him to carry a letter fur me."

"I'll do that," said Gregory, "fus' thing in de mornin'."

"Better go 'long now," said Aunt Matilda.

"Too late now, Aunt Matilda," said Gregory, anxiously. "Couldn't git dar
'fore dark, no how, and he'd be gone away, and I 'spect I couldn't fin'
him."

"Whar is yer letter?" asked Uncle Braddock.

"Oh, 'tain't writ yit," said Aunt Matilda. "I wants some o' you uns to
write it fur me. Kin any o' you youngsters write writin'?"

"Yes, ma'am," said John William Webster. "Greg'ry kin write fus-rate.
He's been ter school mor'n a month."

"You shet up!" cried Gregory, indignantly. "Ise been to school mor'n
dat. Ise been free or four weeks. And I know'd how to write some 'fore I
went. Mah'sr George teached me."

"You'd better git Miss Kate to write yer letter," said Aunt Judy. "She'd
spell it out a great sight better dan Gregory Montague, I reckons."

"No, I don't want Miss Kate to write dis hyar letter. She does enough,
let alone writin' letters fur me. Come 'long hyar, you Greg'ry. Reach up
dar on dat shelf and git dat piece o' paper behin' de 'lasses gourd."

Gregory obeyed promptly, and pulled out a half-sheet of note-paper from
behind the gourd. The paper had been there a good while, and was rather
yellow-looking. There was also a drop of molasses on one corner of it,
which John William said would do to seal it up with; but Gregory wiped
it carefully off on the leg of his trousers.

"Now, den," said Aunt Matilda; "sot yerse'f right down dar on de floor.
Git off dat ar smooth board, you Dick, an' let Greg'ry put his paper
dar. I hain't got no pen, but hyar's a pencil Miss Kate lef' one day. But
it ain't got no pint. Ef some of you boys has got a knife, ye kin put a
pint to it."

Uncle Braddock dived into the recesses of his dressing-gown, and
produced a great jack-knife, with a crooked iron blade and a hickory
handle.

"Look a-dar!" cried John William Webster. "Uncle Braddock's a-gwine ter
chop de pencil up fur kindlin'-wood."

"None o' yer laughin' at dis knife," said Uncle Braddock, with a frown.
"I done made dis hyar knife mese'f."

A better knife, however, was produced by Dick Ford, and the pencil was
sharpened. Then Gregory Montague stretched himself out on the floor,
resting on his elbows, with the paper before him and the pencil in his
hand.

"Is you ready?" said Aunt Matilda.

"All right," said Gregory. "Yer can go 'long."

Aunt Matilda put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and
looked into the fire. Gregory and every one else waited quite a while
for her to begin.

"Ye had better put de number ob de year fus," suggested Uncle Braddock.

"Well, ye kin put dat," said Aunt Matilda, "while I'm a-workin' out de
letter in my mind."

There now arose a discussion as to what was the "number of the year."
Aunt Judy knew that the "war" was somewhere along in "sixty," and
thought it must certainly be seventy or eighty by this time; while Uncle
Braddock, who was accustomed to look back a long way, was sure it was
"nigh on to a hun'red."

Dick Ford, however, although he was not a writer, could read, and had
quite a fancy for spelling out a newspaper, and he asserted that the
year was eighteen hundred and seventy, and so it was put down "180070,"
much to the disgust of Uncle Braddock, who did not believe it was so
much.

"Yer ought to say ef it's before Christ or after Christ," said Aunt
Judy. "Old Mah'sr Truly Mathers 'splained dat to me, 'bout years."

"Well, then," said Gregory, ready with his pencil, "which is it?"

Dick Ford happened to know a little on the subject, and so he told
Gregory how he should put down "B. C." for "before Christ," and "A. C."
for "after Christ," and that "A. C." was right for this year.

This was set down in Gregory's most careful lettering.

"Dat dar hind letter's got the stumic-ache," said John William Webster,
putting his long finger, black on top and yellow underneath, on the C,
which was rather doubled up.

Nobody thought of the month or the day, and so the letter was considered
dated.

"Now, den," said Gregory, "who's it to?"

"Jist never you mind who's it to," answered Aunt Matilda. "I know, an'
that's enough to know."

"But you've got to put de name on de back," said Aunt Judy, anxiously.

"Dat's so," said Uncle Braddock, with equal anxiety.

"No, I hain't," remarked Aunt Matilda. "I'll tell Ole Miles who to take
it to. Put down for de fus' thing:

"'Ise been thinkin' fur a long time dat I oughter to write about dis
hyar matter, and I s'pose you is the right one to write to.'"

"What matter's dat?" asked Aunt Judy.

"Neber you mind," replied Aunt Matilda.

Slowly and painfully, Gregory printed this sentence, with Dick Ford
close on one side of him; with John William's round, woolly head stuck
almost under his chin; with Uncle Braddock leaning over him from his
chair; and Aunt Judy standing, peering down upon him from behind.

"Dat's wrong," said Dick Ford, noticing that Gregory had written the
last words thus: "rite 1 ter rite 2." "She don't want no figgers."

"What did she say 'em fur, den?" asked Gregory.

"Now, Greg'ry," said Aunt Matilda, "put down dis:

    "'I don't want to make no trouble, and I wouldn't do nothin' to
    trouble dem chillen; but Ise been a-waitin' a good long while now,
    and I been thinkin' I'd better write an' see 'bout it.'"

"What you want to see 'bout?" asked Aunt Judy, quickly.

"Neber you min' what it is," replied Aunt Matilda. "Go on, you Greg'ry,
and put down:

    "'Dat money o' mine was reel money, and when I put it in, I thought
    I'd git it back ag'in afore dis.'"

"How much was it, Aunt Matilda?" asked Uncle Braddock, while Aunt Judy
opened her eyes and her mouth, simply because she could not open her
ears any wider than they were.

"Dat's none o' your business," replied Aunt Matilda. "Now put down:

    "'I 'spect dem telegram fixin's cost a lot o' money, but I don't
    'spect it's jist right to take all an ole woman's money to build
    'em.'"

"Lor's _ee_!" ejaculated Uncle Braddock, "dat's so!"

"Now you Greg'ry," continued Aunt Matilda, "put down:

    "'Ef you write me a letter 'bout dat ar money, you kin giv it to Ole
    Miles.'

Now sign my name to dat ar letter."

The next day, having been summoned by the obliging Gregory, Old Miles
made his appearance in Aunt Matilda's cabin.

The old woman explained to him that the letter was so important that she
could trust it to no one who was not accustomed to carry letters, and
Miles was willing and proud to exercise his skill for her benefit.

"Now, den," said she; "take dis hyar letter to de man what works de
telegrum in Hetertown, and fotch me back an answer."




CHAPTER XXXIII.

TIME TO STOP.


About a week after this letter was written, Kate said to Harry:

"You really ought to have Aunt Matilda's roof mended. There are several
holes in it. I think her house ought to be made tight and warm before
winter; don't you?"

"Certainly," said Harry. "I'll get some shingles and nail them over the
holes to-morrow."

The next day was Saturday, and a rainy day. About ten o'clock Harry went
to Aunt Matilda's cabin with his shingles and a hammer and nails. Kate
walked over with him.

To their surprise they found the old woman in bed.

"Why, what is the matter, Aunt Matilda?" asked Kate. "Are you sick?"

"No, honey, I isn't sick," said the old woman; "but somehow or other I
don't keer to git up. Ise mighty comfurt'ble jist as I is."

"But you ought to have your breakfast," said Kate. "What is this basin
of water doing on the foot of your bed?"

"Oh, don't 'sturb dat ar tin basin," said Aunt Matilda. "Dat's to ketch
der rain. Dar's a hole right ober de foot o' de bed."

"But you won't want that now," said Kate. "Harry's going to nail
shingles over all the holes in your roof."

"An' fall down an' break his neck. He needn't do no sich foolishness.
Dat ar tin basin's did me fur years in and years out, and I neber kicked
it ober yit. Dere's no use a-mendin' holes dis time o' day."

"It's a very good time of day," said Harry, who was standing in the
door; "and it isn't raining now. You used to have a ladder here, Aunt
Matilda. If you'll tell me where it is, I can mend that hole over your
bed without getting on the roof at all."

"Jist you keep away from de roof," said the old woman. "Ef you go
hammerin' on dat ole roof you'll have it all down on me head. I don't
want no mendin' dis time o' day."

Finding that Aunt Matilda was so much opposed to any carpenter-work on
her premises at that time, Harry went home, while Kate remained to get
the old woman some breakfast.

Aunt Matilda felt better that afternoon, and she sat up and ate her
supper with Uncle Braddock (who happened to be there); but as she was
evidently feeling the effects of her great age, an arrangement was made,
by which Aunt Judy gave up her cabin and came to live with Aunt Matilda
and take care of her.

One morning, about a week after the rainy Saturday, Mrs. Loudon came
over to see Aunt Matilda. She found the old woman lying on the bed, and
evidently worried about something.

"You see, Miss Mary," said Aunt Matilda, "Ise kind o' disturbed in me
min'. I rit a letter a long time ago, and Ole Miles ain't fetched me no
answer yit, and it sorter worries me."

"I didn't know you could write," said Mrs. Loudon, somewhat surprised.

"Neither I kin," said Aunt Matilda. "I jist got dat Greg'ry Montague to
write it fur me, and dear knows what he put in it."

"Who was your letter to, Aunt Matilda?" asked Mrs. Loudon.

"I do' know his name, but he works de telegrum at Hetertown. An' I do'
min' tellin' you 'bout it, Miss Mary, ef you do' worry dem chillen. De
letter was 'bout my money in de telegrum comp'ny. Dat was reel silber
money, an' I hain't heerd nor seed nothin' of it sence."

When Mrs. Loudon went home she told Harry and Kate of Aunt Matilda's
troubles.

Neither of them said anything at the time, but Harry put on his hat and
went up to the store, while Kate sat down to her sewing.

After a while, she said:

"I think, mother, it's pretty hard in Aunt Matilda, after all we've done
for her, to think of nothing but the ten cents she put into the stock of
the company."

"It is perfectly natural," said Mrs. Loudon. "That ten cents was her own
private property, and no matter how small a private property may be, it
is of greater interest to the owner than any other property in the
world. To be sure, the money that was paid for the telegraph line is for
Aunt Matilda's benefit, but you and Harry have the management and the
spending of it. But that ten cents was all her own, and she could spend
it just as she chose."

The next day Kate went over to Aunt Matilda with two silver ten-cent
pieces that Harry had got from Mr. Darby.

"Aunt Matilda," said she, "this is not the very same ten-cent piece you
put into the company, but it's just as good; and Harry thinks that you
have about doubled your money, and so here's another one."

The old woman, who was sitting alone by the fire wrapped up in a shawl,
took the money, and putting it in the hollow of her bony hand, gazed at
it with delight.

Then she looked up at Kate.

"You is good chillen," she said. "You is mighty good chillen. I don't
'spect I'll lib much longer in dis hyar world. Ise so precious old dat
it's 'bout time to stop. But I don't 'spects I'll find nobody in heben
that'll be more reel comfort to me dan you chillen."

"Oh Aunt Matilda!" cried Kate. "Why, you'll meet all your friends and
relations that you talk so much about and who died so long ago."

"Well," said Aunt Matilda, very deliberately, "perhaps I shall, and
perhaps I sha'n't; dere's no tellin'. But dere ain't no mistakin' 'bout
you chillen."

That afternoon, when Uncle Braddock called, Aunt Matilda said to him:

"Ef you see Ole Miles ye kin tell him he needn't bring me no answer to
dat letter."

Very early one morning, a few days after this, Kate went over to Aunt
Matilda's cabin.

She saw Aunt Judy standing at the door.

"How's Aunt Matilda?" asked Kate.

"Gone to glory," said Aunt Judy.

Aunt Matilda was buried under a birch-tree near the church that she used
to attend when able to walk.

That portion of her "fund" which remained unexpended at the time of her
death was used to pay her funeral expenses and to erect a suitable
tombstone over her grave. On the stone was an inscription. Harry
composed it, and Kate copied it carefully for the stonecutter.

And thus, after much hard labor and anxious thought, after many
disappointments and a great deal of discouragement, Harry and Kate
performed to the end the generous task they had set themselves, which
was just what might have been expected of such a boy and such a girl.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.

2. Typographic errors corrected from original:
   p. 13 "find" to "fine" ("fine head for mathematics")
   p. 63 "Mr. Mr." to "Mr." ("pacify Mr. Matthews")
   p. 78 "hubhub" to "hubbub" ("heard above the hubbub")
   p. 96 "grumly" to "grimly" ("said Aunt Matilda, grimly")
   p. 129 "buiness" to "business" ("business should not be diverted")
   p. 181 "or" to "for" ("for it was quite evident")