OLD LADY NUMBER 31 BY LOUISE FORSSLUND AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF SARAH," "THE SHIP OF DREAMS," ETC. 1909 TO MY MOTHER CONTENTS I. THE TEA-TABLE II. "GOOD-BY" III. THE CANDIDATE IV. ONE OF THEM V. THE HEAD OF THE CORNER VI. INDIAN SUMMER VII. OLD LETTERS AND NEW VIII. THE ANNIVERSARY IX. A WINTER BUTTERFLY X. THE TURN OF THE TIDE XI. MENTAL TREATMENT XII. "A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS" XIII. THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE XIV. CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS XV. THE "HARDENING" PROCESS XVI. "A REG'LAR HOSS" XVII. THE DESERTER XVIII. SAMUEL'S WELCOME XIX. EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH XX. THE FATTED CALF XXI. "OUR BELOVED BROTHER" I THE TEA-TABLE Angeline's slender, wiry form and small, glossy gray head bent over the squat brown tea-pot as she shook out the last bit of leaf from the canister. The canister was no longer hers, neither the tea-pot, nor even the battered old pewter spoon with which she tapped the bottom of the tin to dislodge the last flicker of tea-leaf dust. The three had been sold at auction that day in response to the auctioneer's inquiry, "What am I bid for the lot?" Nothing in the familiar old kitchen was hers, Angeline reflected, except Abraham, her aged husband, who was taking his last gentle ride in the old rocking-chair--the old arm-chair with painted roses blooming as brilliantly across its back as they had bloomed when the chair was first purchased forty years ago. Those roses had come to be a source of perpetual wonder to the old wife, an ever present example. Neither time nor stress could wilt them in a single leaf. When Abe took the first mortgage on the house in order to invest in an indefinitely located Mexican gold-mine, the melodeon dropped one of its keys, but the roses nodded on with the same old sunny hope; when Abe had to take the second mortgage and Tenafly Gold became a forbidden topic of conversation, the minute-hand fell off the parlor clock, but the flowers on the back of the old chair blossomed on none the less serenely. The soil grew more and more barren as the years went by; but still the roses had kept fresh and young, so why, argued Angy, should not she? If old age and the pinch of poverty had failed to conquer their valiant spirit, why should she listen to the croaking tale? If they bloomed on with the same crimson flaunt of color, though the rockers beneath them had grown warped and the body of the chair creaked and groaned every time one ventured to sit in it, why should she not ignore the stiffness which the years seemed to bring to her joints, the complaints which her body threatened every now and again to utter, and fare on herself, a hardy perennial bravely facing life's winter-time?