what are you doing?” she was standing on tiptoe, her eyes barely over the edge of the table, watching simeon’s pencil as it moved over the paper.
the pencil continued its curious tracks. simeon’s eyes were fixed on it intently. there was no reply.
she watched it a few minutes in silence. she and simeon were good friends. they did not mind the silence, but he would answer—if he heard—“what are you doing?” it was very quiet—but firm—in the clear, high voice.
he looked down. then he smiled into the level eyes. “i’m drawing a map,” he said.
she found a chair and pushed it to the table. she climbed into it and knelt with her fat arms folded in front of her on the table, bending toward the paper.
simeon paid no heed to her. the pencil went its absent-minded way.
it was no unusual thing for them to be silent a long while, with an occasional smile or nod between them, she intent on grave matters, simeon following hazy, wavering thoughts.
but he had never chosen to make pictures. this was something important and different. she leaned closer, her shoulder touching his. “is that a pig?” she asked politely. her finger indicated a shape in one corner.
“that is a mountain,” said simeon. he sketched in a tree or two to verify it.
“it ’s a funny mountain,” she said. she drew in her breath a little, watching the pencil respectfully.
“it is full of beautiful things,” said simeon.
she bent closer to examine it. “can you see them?” she lifted serious eyes to his.
“yes, i see them—very plain. there is iron and copper and lead—” his pencil touched the paper, here and there, in little dots, “and silver.”
“and gold—” said the child in a soft, monotonous voice. they were playing a game.
“not much gold, i’m afraid,” said simeon, shaking his head, “but it is a wonderful mountain full of beautiful things—that can’t get out.”
“why can’t they get out?” she demanded as if some foolish mystery lay behind his talk.
he hesitated a moment. “a bad man keeps them there,” he said. “he has the key.”
“won’t he let ’em out?” it was a shrewd little wondering, groping question toward the truth, but it was full of sing-song happiness.
she nestled closer while the pencil went its way, drawing two long lines that stretched side by side across the paper. they readied the mountain and stopped.
“what is that?” she asked.
“that is a railroad that the bad man will build,” he said, putting in some extra lines.
they watched the pencil in silence.
“i know a bad man,” she said idly, as if it were not important, but worth mentioning since it concerned ellen.
“do you?” the surprise in the tone was partly real. “do you know a bad man?”
“yes—i know one.” it was a modest little drawl—an assertion of wisdom tinged with importance. “he’s a very bad man,” she added.
“no?”
the half-teasing note did not touch her. “he kills folks—he killed my father,” she said tersely. the words were light on her tongue, but she nodded to him with deep serious eyes that his could not fathom. something in the eyes hurt him—a kind of trust and ignorance and deep appeal. he put his arm protectingly about the little form, drawing it close.
“you must not say things like that, ellen.”
“gran’ther says it.”
“but you must not.... you will not say it again—?” it was half a command. “don’t ever say it again, ellen.”
“no—o—” it was reassuring and polite-half drawled; and it dismissed the subject idly—they had dwelt on it too long.
“where is the key?” she was dipping toward the paper, peering close.
“the key?” he stared a little—“oh—yes—this is the key.” his pencil touched the parallel lines.
“that ’s a railroad,” she said promptly.
he smiled. “it is the key, too—see—” he drew more lines rapidly, “when this touches the mountain, the iron and silver will come pouring out and it will run down this track—here, and here—” the pencil moved fast.
she followed it with grave eyes. she drew a deep breath and leaned closer to him. she lifted her face with a smile. it had caught the glow in his—but she did not speak.
he fell to sketching again and she nestled in his arm. by-and-by she put out a short finger. “does folks live there—or brownies!” she said, half whispering the words.
he looked up absently—“where—oh—on the mountain?—people live there—i suppose—”
“you ever seen them?”
“no,”—still absently.
she sighed a little. “i like folks,” she said.
“what?” he paused in his thought and looked at her with a smile—tolerant and old—“you like folks, do you?” the look teased her.
she nodded gravely. “they ’ll be glad—” her finger was tapping at the mountain—“they ’ll like to have the beautiful things come pouring out—” she spread her hands with a little gesture of beneficent plenty.
he stared at her a minute—then he laughed. “i suppose they will.... i had n’t thought of it.” his eyes dwelt on her fondly.
“yes.—they ’ll like it.—they ’re nice folks.”
“how do you know?—you seen them?” they often played like this.
“i know.” she nodded wisely. “there’s fahvers and muwers and little uns—bairns-like me.” she was looking at something far away—then her eyes flashed back to his. “they ’ll like it,” she said swiftly, “they ’ll help—they ’ll bring out the beautiful things—great handfuls!” she threw them out with her lavish little hands.
he caught them both in one of his. but he was not looking at her. he was seeing something far off... something the child’s words made him see.... he looked at it so long that one of the hands freed itself and reached up to the intent face, stroking it.... then he looked down and saw her. he smiled at her—with deep eyes... with the little shadow playing in them—far back.... “so you love folks?” he said slowly.
“we must e’en love everybody,” she repeated as if it were a lesson.
“everybody?” he looked at her, a little startled at the words.
the clear eyes lifted themselves—“gran-’ther says we must do justice to all men,” she said gravely. “but grannie says we must forgi’e ’em—she says we must e’en love ’em.”
“then you must love him—the bad man.” he said the words half teasingly, half gravely.
her face clouded. but the eyes were untroubled. “i don’t fink anybody loves him,” she said simply, “but grannie says we e’en must.” she gave a little sigh.
“so you will!”
“yes—i love him.”
the voice was full of her ignorance—a kind of sing-song chant, but somehow it gripped him strangely.... as if he heard in some inner world—faint, ringing little bells of joy and sadness and the mystery of life.
