MY FIRE OPAL

AND OTHER TALES

SARAH WARNER BROOKS

MY FIRE OPAL

AND OTHER TALES

BY
SARAH WARNER BROOKS

AUTHOR OF "ENGLISH POETRY AND POETS"

BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
1896

Copyright, 1896
By Sarah Warner Brooks

Colonial Press:
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
Electrotyped at the
Dickinson Electrotype Foundery

Dedication
TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF
ISABEL CORNWELL
THESE TALES ARE GRATEFULLY AND LOVINGLY
DEDICATED BY HER GRANDDAUGHTER
THE AUTHOR

The Lilacs, January, 1896

PREFACE.

In the hope of interesting the reader in that insistent altruistic question of the hour—How may we best treat our convicted fellow sinners?—these simple tales (the outcome of intimate personal observation "behind the bars," and woven, almost equally, of fact and fiction) are offered for his kindly-indulgent perusal.

Most sincerely,

S. W. B.

West Medford, Jan. 31, 1896.

CONTENTS.

MY FIRE OPAL.

WELL, have it all your own way, Isabel," meekly conceded Alcibiades; "but really, now, you ought not to be left here alone. Couldn't you have managed to invite company for a day or two—Aunt Maria, say, or Alice Barnes, or Emma and the baby?"

"Company!" mocked I, "that now is like a man! Here am I planning to give poor, overworked Cicely a day or two off, while you are all away and the housework at its minimum, and straightway you propose company!—which, of course, implies regular meals and extra chamber work.

"No, I thank you, sir, not any company for me," said I, rising from the breakfast-table to drop my husband a derisive courtesy; "and indeed, and indeed," I urged, "you are not to give up your own vacation because your wife is scared of burglars and bugbears, with neighbors as thick as blackberries, within call, and a stout policeman snoozing away his beat against our front fence!"

Alcibiades sighed and folded his napkin. I felt that he was still unconvinced. Nevertheless, he mounted the stairs, packed his grip, and, intent upon catching the next horse-car, bade me a hurried adieu. "Au revoir!" cried I, "in the wind of his going," "and, in case of burglars—

already he had disappeared, and, closing the door, I resumed my unfinished breakfast. When Cicely came in to clear the table, I rejoiced her heart, by a full consent to her little vacation. Relieved of mind, she plunged vigorously into the Saturday scrubbing, and, having prospectively arranged my Sunday dinner, of pressed corned beef, was enabled to start for "me cousin's in South Boston" at two p. m.

As she whisked out, with a beaming smile, a brick-red face, and a huge newspaper bundle, I locked the door behind her, and found myself "Monarch of all I surveyed."

One fancies that even "Alexander Selkirk"—dreary as his lot was—must have found some slight compensation in the undisputed possession of an entire island. However it may have been with him, I must confess to acute satisfaction in the lordly consciousness of absolute sway over that miniature realm—my own domicile.

Delightful, indeed, was the prospect of regulating my "downsittings and uprisings," my bed, and meal times, in fine accordance with my own sweet will, absolutely untrammeled by the ordinary necessity of deferring to the wishes, and respecting the claims, of my fellow-mortals!

A long, lawless afternoon, with all its pleasant possibilities, lay temptingly before me. Straightway, with book and work, I established myself on the shady piazza. Pleasantly remote from the street it was, yet still so near, that, like the Lady of Shallot, "'neath her bower eaves," I could glimpse the passing sights on —— Street, could discern the distant peak of "Corey Hill," and catch, now and then, between the wind-tossed trees, a blue gleam of the "Whispering Charles."

Close at hand was my own pretty flower-plot, but lately (by the united efforts of the entire Simpleton family) reclaimed from a desolate tangle of tomato vines, string-beans, and chickweed, and planted with greenhouse beauties, which, now that summer was gone, and early frosts nightly expected, had tantalizingly put forth abundant bloom. The September evenings had already begun to draw chillingly in. By six o'clock, the piazza had become uncomfortable, and I betook myself to the house. Its absolute possession, at this sombre hour, struck me as a trifle less desirable than in the broad sunshine of noonday.

Having carefully locked the outer doors, and bestowed the scanty family silver in the garret rag-bag, a general inspection of the window fastenings seemed the next best thing to do. "Let me," I said to myself, "begin at the beginning." In accordance with this excellent maxim, I at once descended to the cellar. No sooner had I stepped into that dusky portion of my realm, than