Miss Sally's Company

"Miss Sally's Company" is a charming story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that showcases the warmth and complexities of small-town life. Set against the backdrop of the fictional Canadian community, the narrative follows Miss Sally, a spirited woman who opens her home to a group of diverse visitors. Through their interactions, the book explores themes of friendship, love, and the importance of community, all infused with Montgomery's signature lyrical prose and rich character development. As the characters navigate their personal struggles and desires, readers are treated to a heartwarming tale of connection and discovery.

• Short story

								
"How beautiful!" said Mary Seymour delightedly, as they dismounted
from their wheels on the crest of the hill. "Ida, who could have
supposed that such a view would be our reward for climbing that long,
tedious hill with its ruts and stones? Don't you feel repaid?"

"Yes, but I am dreadfully thirsty," said Ida, who was always practical
and never as enthusiastic over anything as Mary was. Yet she, too,
felt a keen pleasure in the beauty of the scene before them. Almost at
their feet lay the sea, creaming and shimmering in the mellow
sunshine. Beyond, on either hand, stretched rugged brown cliffs and
rocks, here running out to sea in misty purple headlands, there
curving into bays and coves that seemed filled up with sunlight and
glamour and pearly hazes; a beautiful shore and, seemingly, a lonely
one. The only house visible from where the girls stood was a tiny grey
one, with odd, low eaves and big chimneys, that stood down in the
little valley on their right, where the cliffs broke away to let a
brook run out to sea and formed a small cove, on whose sandy shore the
waves lapped and crooned within a stone's throw of the house. On
either side of the cove a headland made out to sea, curving around to
enclose the sparkling water as in a cup.

"What a picturesque spot!" said Mary.

"But what a lonely one!" protested Ida. "Why, there isn't another
house in sight. I wonder who lives in it. Anyway, I'm going down to
ask them for a drink of water."

"I'd like to ask for a square meal, too," said Mary, laughing. "I am
discovering that I am hungry. Fine scenery is very satisfying to the
soul, to be sure, but it doesn't still the cravings of the inner girl.
And we've wheeled ten miles this afternoon. I'm getting hungrier every
minute."

They reached the little grey house by way of a sloping, grassy lane.
Everything about it was very neat and trim. In front a white-washed
paling shut in the garden which, sheltered as it was by the house, was
ablaze with poppies and hollyhocks and geraniums. A path, bordered by
big white clam shells, led through it to the front door, whose steps
were slabs of smooth red sandstone from the beach.

"No children here, certainly," whispered Ida. "Every one of those clam
shells is placed just so. And this walk is swept every day. No, we
shall never dare to ask for anything to eat here. They would be afraid
of our scattering crumbs."

Ida lifted her hand to knock, but before she could do so, the door was
thrown open and a breathless little lady appeared on the threshold.

She was very small, with an eager, delicately featured face and dark
eyes twinkling behind gold-rimmed glasses. She was dressed
immaculately in an old-fashioned gown of grey silk with a white muslin
fichu crossed over her shoulders, and her silvery hair fell on each
side of her face in long, smooth curls that just touched her shoulders
and bobbed and fluttered with her every motion; behind, it was caught
up in a knot on her head and surmounted by a tiny lace cap.

She looks as if she had just stepped out of a bandbox of last century,
thought Mary.

"Are you Cousin Abner's girls?" demanded the little lady eagerly.
There was such excitement and expectation in her face and voice that
both the Seymour girls felt uncomfortably that they ought to be
"Cousin Abner's girls."

"No," said Mary reluctantly, "we're not. We are only--Martin Seymour's
girls."

All the light went out of the little lady's face, as if some
illuminating lamp had suddenly been quenched behind it. She seemed
fairly to droop under her disappointment. As for the rest, the name of
Martin Seymour evidently conveyed no especial meaning to her ears. How
could she know that he was a multi-millionaire who was popularly
supposed to breakfast on railroads and lunch on small corporations,
and that his daughters were girls whom all people delighted to honour?

"No, of course you are not Cousin Abner's girls," she said
sorrowfully. "I'd have known you couldn't be if I had just stopped to
think. Because you are dark and they would be fair, of course; Cousin
Abner and his wife were both fair. But when I saw you coming down the
lane--I was peeking through the hall window upstairs, you know, I and
Juliana--I was sure you were Helen and Beatrice at last. And I can't
help wishing you were!"

"I wish we were, too, since you expected them," said Mary, smiling.
"But--"

"Oh, I wasn't really expecting them," broke in the little lady. "Only
I am always hoping that they will come. They never have yet, but
Trenton isn't so very far away, and it is so lonely here. I just long
for company--I and Juliana--and I thought I was going to have it
today. Cousin Abner came to see me once since I moved here and he said
the girls would come, too, but that was six months ago and they
haven't come yet. But perhaps they will soon. It is always something
to look forward to, you know."

She talked in a sweet, chirpy voice like a bird's. There were pathetic
notes in it, too, as the girls instinctively felt. How very quaint and
sweet and unworldly she was! Mary found herself feeling indignant at
Cousin Abner's girls, whoever they were, for their neglect.

"We are out for a spin on our wheels," said Ida, "and we are very
thirsty. We thought perhaps you would be kind enough to give us a
drink of water."

"Oh, my dear, anything--anything I have is at your service," said the
little lady delightedly. "If you will come in, I will get you some
lemonade."

"I am afraid it is too much trouble," began Mary.

"Oh, no, no," cried the little lady. "It is a pleasure. I love doing
things for people, I wish more of them would come to give me the
chance. I never have any company, and I do so long for it. It's very
lonesome here at Golden Gate. Oh, if you would only stay to tea with
me, it would make me so happy. I am all prepared. I prepare every
Saturday morning, in particular, so that if Cousin Abner's girls did
come, I would be all ready. And when nobody comes, Juliana and I have
to eat everything up ourselves. And that is bad for us--it gives
Juliana indigestion. If you would only stay!"

"We will," agreed Ida promptly. "And we're glad of the chance. We are
both terribly hungry, and it is very good of you to ask us."

"Oh, indeed, it isn't! It's just selfishness in me, that's what it is,
pure selfishness! I want company so much. Come in, my dears, and I
suppose I must introduce myself because you don't know me, do you now?
I'm Miss Sally Temple, and this is Golden Gate Cottage. Dear me, this
is something like living. You are special providences, that you are,
indeed!"

She whisked them through a quaint little parlour, where everything was
as dainty and neat and old-fashioned as herself, and into a spare

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes