CHAPTER XVI.
CONCLUSION.
I have entitled this chapter "Conclusion," because it seems necessaryto have the last chapter of a book named in that way. But the authormight as well have named it "Beginning," for there is no such thing inlife as a "conclusion," unless, indeed (as Randolph, looking over myshoulder, and fresh from the classic shades of Cambridge, suggests),we take the literal meaning of the word, a "shutting together"--of thecovers of this book!
No; life is full of beginnings, and stories can never, never, to alleternity, "conclude." Because the "Pine Cone Stories" can have butjust six volumes, of so many pages each, we must let the story go onwithout us. But it will not conclude, any more than your life or mineforever. With which little "preachment," as Miss Alcott's young peoplesomewhere call it, let us take a last look at the friends whose storiesare drifting away out of our sight.
More than three years have passed since Tom delivered that lucky shotat old Silver-Tip; since Bessie gazed thoughtfully down into the mightycanon in the Yellowstone, and took in her hand the slender ribbon ofgrass for a token.
It is Christmas time, and we are in an old mansion house in the depthsof a deep forest in the Pine Tree State. You recognize the room atonce, I hope--for it is Uncle Will's little secret chamber at the Pines.
It is night, and the North Wind is smiting grandly his "thunder harpof pines," while the window panes whiten and rattle with the sheets ofsnow that are flung against them by the storm.
There is a glorious fire in the fireplace, throwing great billows offlame far up the chimney, crackling, snapping and purring, sending aruddy glow into every corner of the room and over its inmates.
For the chamber is not empty; the fire is not talking to itself, butto a goodly company that gather around it, with all the old-time cheer.
Uncle Will is there, sturdy and broad-shouldered as ever, with haironly a little whiter than when we first met him, standing beside hisgood horses at the Pineville depot years ago.
Aunt Puss, too, is not far away, and her husband's occasional "Eunice"is even more full of tenderness than in earlier days, when they met bythe lilac bushes.
Close by her side nestles golden-haired Pet, who turns, however, as shetalks, to a tall youth with a dark curling mustache, whom she addressesas Randolph. The flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her happyeyes is not alone borrowed from the dancing fire; for Randolph has juststooped down and whispered to his aunt--Pet knew perfectly well, too,what he was saying, sly puss!--that the wedding-day was set for thefirst of May.
In another corner of the room Tom, now a grave senior at Harvard, isreading by the fire-light a letter postmarked "Portland, Oregon." Idon't believe Bert Martin wrote it, though there is a great deal in theletter about him; for the handwriting is decidedly feminine. Can it bethat Bert employs his sister as an amanuensis?
The young lady in navy blue, next to Tom, must be Kittie, whoseengagement to Fred Seacomb "came out" simultaneously with Randolphand Pet's. She tells me privately that she can not help teasing him,he's so dignified with his new instructorship in the University ofPennsylvania; but then he's good-natured and don't seem to mind it abit--"'so long as he has me,' he says--foolish fellow!"
"Have you heard from Bess lately?" asks Uncle Will.
"Only last week," replies Tom, throwing a handful of cones on the fire,and then trying to get the pitch off his white hands. "She and Rosswere in Geneva, and having a glorious time."
"I shall be glad when she is back in this country again," remarks AuntPuss, stroking Pet's bright hair. "If all my girls should run away sofar, as soon as they were married, I don't know what I should do!"
Pet laughs and blushes a little, and assures her aunt that "there's nodanger!" For she and Randolph have talked it over, you see, and haveresolved on another Alaskan trip, where they can renew their memoriesof that bright summer among the gulfs and glaciers of the far Northwest.
"Just for the sake of old times" Uncle Will tells a story, while thered blaze crackles around a plentiful supply of cones and curlingsheets of "silver rags." Without, the northern crosses all through thewood are white with snow, and the wind rises until in its continuousvoice can be heard a roar as of the kelp-laden surges around the lonelyreefs of Appledore.
There is silence in the little chamber as young folk and old gazedreamily into the heart of the fire, their thoughts full of dear olddays, yet looking forward, strong, trustful, hopeful, to the shelterthat shall be for them in the heart of every storm that may assailthem; to the work and the joy and the gladness of life that is setbefore them.
* * * * *
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