Her Own People

The Taunton School had closed for the summer holidays. Constance
Foster and Miss Channing went down the long, elm-shaded street
together, as they generally did, because they happened to board on the
same block downtown.

Constance was the youngest teacher on the staff, and had charge of the
Primary Department. She had taught in Taunton school a year, and at
its close she was as much of a stranger in the little corps of
teachers as she had been at the beginning. The others thought her
stiff and unapproachable; she was unpopular in a negative way with all
except Miss Channing, who made it a profession to like everybody, the
more so if other people disliked them. Miss Channing was the oldest
teacher on the staff, and taught the fifth grade. She was short and
stout and jolly; nothing, not even the iciest reserve, ever daunted
Miss Channing.

“Isn’t it good to think of two whole blessed months of freedom?” she
said jubilantly. “Two months to dream, to be lazy, to go where one
pleases, no exercises to correct, no reports to make, no pupils to
keep in order. To be sure, I love them every one, but I’ll love them
all the more for a bit of a rest from them. Isn’t it good?”

A little satirical smile crossed Constance Foster’s dark, discontented
face, looking just then all the more discontented in contrast to Miss
Channing’s rosy, beaming countenance.

“It’s very good, if you have anywhere to go, or anybody who cares
where you go,” she said bitterly. “For my own part, I’m sorry school
is closed. I’d rather go on teaching all summer.”

“Heresy!” said Miss Channing. “Rank heresy! What are your vacation

“I haven’t any,” said Constance wearily. “I’ve put off thinking about
vacation as long as I possibly could. You’ll call that heresy, too,
Miss Channing.”

“It’s worse than heresy,” said Miss Channing briskly. “It’s a crying
necessity for blue pills, that’s what it is. Your whole mental and
moral and physical and spiritual system must be out of kilter, my
child. No vacation plans! You _must_ have vacation plans. You must be
going _somewhere_.”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll hunt up a boarding place somewhere in the country,
and go there and mope until September.”

“Have you no friends, Constance?”

“No–no, I haven’t anybody in the world. That is why I hate vacation,
that is why I’ve hated to hear you and the others discussing your
vacation plans. You all have somebody to go to. It has just filled me
up with hatred of my life.”

Miss Channing swallowed her honest horror at such a state of feeling.

“Constance, tell me about yourself. I’ve often wanted to ask you, but
I was always a little afraid to. You seem so reserved and–and, as if
you didn’t want to be asked about yourself.”

“I know it. I know I’m stiff and hateful, and that nobody likes me,
and that it is all my own fault. No, never mind trying to smooth it
over, Miss Channing. It’s the truth, and it hurts me, but I can’t help
it. I’m getting more bitter and pessimistic and unwholesome every day
of my life. Sometimes it seems as if I hated all the world because I’m
so lonely in it. I’m nobody. My mother died when I was born–and
Father–oh, I don’t know. One can’t say anything against one’s father,
Miss Channing. But I had a hard childhood–or rather, I didn’t have
any childhood at all. We were always moving about. We didn’t seem to
have any friends at all. My mother might have had relatives
somewhere, but I never heard of any. I don’t even know where her home
was. Father never would talk of her. He died two years ago, and since
then I’ve been absolutely alone.”

“Oh, you poor girl,” said Miss Channing softly.

“I want friends,” went on Constance, seeming to take a pleasure in
open confession now that her tongue was loosed. “I’ve always just
longed for somebody belonging to me to love. I don’t love anybody,
Miss Channing, and when a girl is in that state, she is all wrong. She
gets hard and bitter and resentful–I have, anyway. I struggled
against it at first, but it has been too much for me. It poisons
everything. There is nobody to care anything about me, whether I live
or die.”

“Oh, yes, there is One,” said Miss Channing gently. “God cares,

Constance gave a disagreeable little laugh.

“That sounds like Miss Williams–she is so religious. God doesn’t mean
anything to me, Miss Channing. I’ve just the same resentful feeling
toward him that I have for all the world, if he exists at all. There,
I’ve shocked you in good earnest now. You should have left me alone,
Miss Channing.”

“God means nothing to you because you’ve never had him translated to
you through human love, Constance,” said Miss Channing seriously. “No,
you haven’t shocked me–at least, not in the way you mean. I’m only
terribly sorry.”

“Oh, never mind me,” said Constance, freezing up into her reserve
again as if she regretted her confidences. “I’ll get along all right.
This is one of my off days, when everything looks black.”

Miss Channing walked on in silence. She must help Constance, but
Constance was not easily helped. When school reopened, she might be
able to do something worthwhile for the girl, but just now the only
thing to do was to put her in the way of a pleasant vacation.

“You spoke of boarding,” she said, when Constance paused at the door
of her boarding-house. “Have you any particular place in view? No?
Well, I know a place which I am sure you would like. I was there two
summers ago. It is a country place about a hundred miles from here.
Pine Valley is its name. It’s restful and homey, and the people are so
nice. If you like, I’ll give you the address of the family I boarded

“Thank you,” said Constance indifferently. “I might as well go there
as anywhere else.”

“Yes, but listen to me, dear. Don’t take your morbidness with you.
Open your heart to the summer, and let its sunshine in, and when you
come back in the fall, come prepared to let us all be your friends.
We’d like to be, and while friendship doesn’t take the place of the
love of one’s own people, still it is a good and beautiful thing.
Besides, there are other unhappy people in the world–try to help them
when you meet them, and you’ll forget about yourself. Good-by for now,
and I hope you’ll have a pleasant vacation in spite of yourself.”

Constance went to Pine Valley, but she took her evil spirit with her.
Not even the beauty of the valley, with its great balmy pines, and the
cheerful friendliness of its people could exorcise it.

Nevertheless, she liked the place and found a wholesome pleasure in
the long tramps she took along the piney roads.

“I saw such a pretty spot in my ramble this afternoon,” she told her
landlady one evening. “It is about three miles from here at the end of
the valley. Such a picturesque, low-eaved little house, all covered
over with honeysuckle. It was set between a big orchard and an
old-fashioned flower garden with great pines at the back.”

“Heartsease Farm,” said Mrs. Hewitt promptly. “Bless you, there’s only
one place around here of that description. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce, Uncle
Charles and Aunt Flora, as we all call them, live there. They are the
dearest old couple alive. You ought to go and see them, they’d be
delighted. Aunt Flora just loves company. They’re real lonesome by

“Haven’t they any children?” asked Constance indifferently. Her
interest was in the place, not in the people.

“No. They had a niece once, though. They brought her up and they just
worshipped her. She ran away with a worthless fellow–I forget his
name, if I ever knew it. He was handsome and smooth-tongued, but he
was a scamp. She died soon after and it just broke their hearts. They
don’t even know where she was buried, and they never heard anything
more about her husband. I’ve heard that Aunt Flora’s hair turned
snow-white in a month. I’ll take you up to see her some day when I
find time.”

Mrs. Hewitt did not find time, but thereafter Constance ordered her
rambles that she might frequently pass Heartsease Farm. The quaint old
spot had a strange attraction for her. She found herself learning to
love it, and so unused was this unfortunate girl to loving anything
that she laughed at herself for her foolishness.

One evening a fortnight later Constance, with her arms full of ferns
and wood-lilies, came out of the pine woods above Heartsease Farm just
as heavy raindrops began to fall. She had prolonged her ramble
unseasonably, and it was now nearly night, and very certainly a rainy
night at that. She was three miles from home and without even an extra

She hurried down the lane, but by the time she reached the main road,
the few drops had become a downpour. She must seek shelter somewhere,
and Heartsease Farm was the nearest. She pushed open the gate and ran
up the slope of the yard between the hedges of sweetbriar. She was
spared the trouble of knocking, for as she came to a breathless halt
on the big red sandstone doorstep, the door was flung open, and the
white-haired, happy-faced little woman standing on the threshold had
seized her hand and drawn her in bodily before she could speak a word.

“I saw you coming from upstairs,” said Aunt Flora gleefully, “and I
just ran down as fast as I could. Dear, dear, you are a little wet.
But we’ll soon dry you. Come right in–I’ve a bit of a fire in the
grate, for the evening is chilly. They laughed at me for loving a fire
so, but there’s nothing like its snap and sparkle. You’re rained in
for the night, and I’m as glad as I can be. I know who you are–you
are Miss Foster. I’m Aunt Flora, and this is Uncle Charles.”

Constance let herself be put into a cushiony chair and fussed over
with an unaccustomed sense of pleasure. The rain was coming down in
torrents, and she certainly was domiciled at Heartsease Farm for the
night. Somehow, she felt glad of it. Mrs. Hewitt was right in calling
Aunt Flora sweet, and Uncle Charles was a big, jolly, ruddy-faced old
man with a hearty manner. He shook Constance’s hand until it ached,
threw more pine knots in the fire and told her he wished it would rain
every night if it rained down a nice little girl like her.

She found herself strangely attracted to the old couple. The name of
their farm was in perfect keeping with their atmosphere. Constance’s
frozen soul expanded in it. She chatted merrily and girlishly, feeling
as if she had known them all her life.

When bedtime came, Aunt Flora took her upstairs to a little gable

“My spare room is all in disorder just now, dearie, we have been
painting its floor. So I’m going to put you here in Jeannie’s room.
Someway you remind me of her, and you are just about the age she was
when she left us. If it wasn’t for that, I don’t think I could put you
in her room, not even if every other floor in the house were being
painted. It is so sacred to me. I keep it just as she left it, not a
thing is changed. Good night dearie, and I hope you’ll have pleasant

When Constance found herself alone in the room, she looked about her
with curiosity. It was a very dainty, old-fashioned little room. The
floor was covered with braided mats; the two square, small-paned
windows were draped with snowy muslin. In one corner was a little
white bed with white curtains and daintily ruffled pillows, and in the
other a dressing table with a gilt-framed mirror and the various
knick-knacks of a girlish toilet. There was a little blue rocker and
an ottoman with a work-basket on it. In the work-basket was a bit of
unfinished, yellowed lace with a needle sticking in it. A small
bookcase under the sloping ceiling was filled with books.

Constance picked up one and opened it at the yellowing title-page. She
gave a little cry of surprise. The name written across the page in a
fine, dainty script was “Jean Constance Irving,” her mother’s name!

For a moment Constance stood motionless. Then she turned impulsively
and hurried downstairs again. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce were still in the
sitting room talking to each other in the firelight.

“Oh,” cried Constance excitedly. “I must know, I must ask you. This is
my mother’s name, Jean Constance Irving, can it be possible she was
your little Jeannie?”

* * * * *

A fortnight later Miss Channing received a letter from Constance.

“I am so happy,” she wrote. “Oh, Miss Channing, I have found ‘mine own
people,’ and Heartsease Farm is to be my own, own dear home for

“It was such a strange coincidence, no, Aunt Flora says it was
Providence, and I believe it was, too. I came here one rainy night,
and Aunty put me in my mother’s room, think of it! My own dear
mother’s room, and I found her name in a book. And now the mystery is
all cleared up, and we are so happy.

“Everything is dear and beautiful, and almost the dearest and most
beautiful thing is that I am getting acquainted with my mother, the
mother I never knew before. She no longer seems dead to me. I feel
that she lives and loves me, and I am learning to know her better
every day. I have her room and her books and all her little girlish
possessions. When I read her books, with their passages underlined by
her hand, I feel as if she were speaking to me. She was very good and
sweet, in spite of her one foolish, bitter mistake, and I want to be
as much like her as I can.

“I said that this was _almost_ the dearest and most beautiful thing.
The very dearest and most beautiful is this–God means something to me
now. He means so much! I remember that you said to me that he meant
nothing to me because I had no human love in my heart to translate the
divine. But I have now, and it has led me to Him.

“I am not going back to Taunton. I have sent in my resignation. I am
going to stay home with Aunty and Uncle. It is so sweet to say _home_
and know what it means.

“Aunty says you must come and spend all your next vacation with us.
You see, I have lots of vacation plans now, even for a year ahead.
After all, there is no need of the blue pills!

“I feel like a new creature, made over from the heart and soul out. I
look back with shame and contrition on the old Constance. I want you
to forget her and only remember your grateful friend, the _new_