CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

By L. M. Montgomery

 TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. William A. Houston, A DEAR FRIEND, WHO HAS GONE BEYOND

 The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. --Whittier

Contents

 I. The Hurrying of Ludovic

 II. Old Lady Lloyd

 III. Each In His Own Tongue

 IV. Little Joscelyn

 V. The Winning of Lucinda

 VI. Old Man Shaw's Girl

 VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau

 VIII. The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's

 IX. Pa Sloane's Purchase

 X. The Courting of Prissy Strong

 XI. The Miracle at Carmody

 XII. The End of a Quarrel

CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

I. The Hurrying of Ludovic

Anne Shirley was curled up on the window-seat of Theodora Dix'ssitting-room one Saturday evening, looking dreamily afar at some fairstarland beyond the hills of sunset. Anne was visiting for a fortnightof her vacation at Echo Lodge, where Mr. And Mrs. Stephen Irving werespending the summer, and she often ran over to the old Dix homesteadto chat for awhile with Theodora. They had had their chat out, on thisparticular evening, and Anne was giving herself over to the delight ofbuilding an air-castle. She leaned her shapely head, with its braidedcoronet of dark red hair, against the window-casing, and her gray eyeswere like the moonlight gleam of shadowy pools. 

Then she saw Ludovic Speed coming down the lane. He was yet far from thehouse, for the Dix lane was a long one, but Ludovic could be recognizedas far as he could be seen. No one else in Middle Grafton had such atall, gently-stooping, placidly-moving figure. In every kink and turn ofit there was an individuality all Ludovic's own. 

Anne roused herself from her dreams, thinking it would only be tactfulto take her departure. Ludovic was courting Theodora. Everyone inGrafton knew that, or, if anyone were in ignorance of the fact, it wasnot because he had not had time to find out. Ludovic had been comingdown that lane to see Theodora, in the same ruminating, unhasteningfashion, for fifteen years!

When Anne, who was slim and girlish and romantic, rose to go, Theodora, who was plump and middle-aged and practical, said, with a twinkle in hereye:

"There isn't any hurry, child. Sit down and have your call out. You'veseen Ludovic coming down the lane, and, I suppose, you think you'll be acrowd. But you won't. Ludovic rather likes a third person around, andso do I. It spurs up the conversation as it were. When a man has beencoming to see you straight along, twice a week for fifteen years, youget rather talked out by spells. "

Theodora never pretended to bashfulness where Ludovic was concerned. She was not at all shy of referring to him and his dilatory courtship. Indeed, it seemed to amuse her. 

Anne sat down again and together they watched Ludovic coming down thelane, gazing calmly about him at the lush clover fields and the blueloops of the river winding in and out of the misty valley below. 

Anne looked at Theodora's placid, finely-moulded face and tried toimagine what she herself would feel like if she were sitting there, waiting for an elderly lover who had, seemingly, taken so long to makeup his mind. But even Anne's imagination failed her for this. 

"Anyway, " she thought, impatiently, "if I wanted him I think I'd findsome way of hurrying him up. Ludovic SPEED! Was there ever such a misfitof a name? Such a name for such a man is a delusion and a snare. "

Presently Ludovic got to the house, but stood so long on the doorstepin a brown study, gazing into the tangled green boskage of the cherryorchard, that Theodora finally went and opened the door before heknocked. As she brought him into the sitting-room she made a comicalgrimace at Anne over his shoulder. 

Ludovic smiled pleasantly at Anne. He liked her; she was the only younggirl he knew, for he generally avoided young girls--they made him feelawkward and out of place. But Anne did not affect him in this fashion. She had a way of getting on with all sorts of people, and, although theyhad not known her very long, both Ludovic and Theodora looked upon heras an old friend. 

Ludovic was tall and somewhat ungainly, but his unhesitating placiditygave him the appearance of a dignity that did not otherwise pertain tohim. He had a drooping, silky, brown moustache, and a little curly tuftof imperial, --a fashion which was regarded as eccentric in Grafton, where men had clean-shaven chins or went full-bearded. His eyes weredreamy and pleasant, with a touch of melancholy in their blue depths. 

He sat down in the big bulgy old armchair that had belonged toTheodora's father. Ludovic always sat there, and Anne declared that thechair had come to look like him. 

The conversation soon grew animated enough. Ludovic was a good talkerwhen he had somebody to draw him out. He was well read, and frequentlysurprised Anne by his shrewd comments on men and matters out in theworld, of which only the faint echoes reached Deland River. He had alsoa liking for religious arguments with Theodora, who did not care muchfor politics or the making of history, but was avid of doctrines, andread everything pertaining thereto. When the conversation driftedinto an eddy of friendly wrangling between Ludovic and Theodora overChristian Science, Anne understood that her usefulness was ended for thetime being, and that she would not be missed. 

"It's star time and good-night time, " she said, and went away quietly. 

But she had to stop to laugh when she was well out of sight of thehouse, in a green meadow bestarred with the white and gold of daisies. A wind, odour-freighted, blew daintily across it. Anne leaned against awhite birch tree in the corner and laughed heartily, as she was apt todo whenever she thought of Ludovic and Theodora. To her eager youth, this courtship of theirs seemed a very amusing thing. She liked Ludovic, but allowed herself to be provoked with him. 

"The dear, big, irritating goose!" she said aloud. "There never was sucha lovable idiot before. He's just like the alligator in the old rhyme, who wouldn't go along, and wouldn't keep still, but just kept bobbing upand down. "

Two evenings later, when Anne went over to the Dix place, she andTheodora drifted into a conversation about Ludovic. Theodora, who wasthe most industrious soul alive, and had a mania for fancy work intothe bargain, was busying her smooth, plump fingers with a very elaborateBattenburg lace centre-piece. Anne was lying back in a little rocker, with her slim hands folded in her lap, watching Theodora. She realizedthat Theodora was very handsome, in a stately, Juno-like fashion offirm, white flesh, large, clearly-chiselled outlines, and great, cowey, brown eyes. When Theodora was not smiling, she looked very imposing. Anne thought it likely that Ludovic held her in awe. 

"Did you and Ludovic talk about Christian Science ALL Saturday evening?"she asked. 

Theodora overflowed into a smile. 

"Yes, and we even quarrelled over it. At least _I_ did. Ludovic wouldn'tquarrel with anyone. You have to fight air when you spar with him. Ihate to square up to a person who won't hit back. "

"Theodora, " said Anne coaxingly, "I am going to be curious andimpertinent. You can snub me if you like. Why don't you and Ludovic getmarried?"

Theodora laughed comfortably. 

"That's the question Grafton folks have been asking for quite a while, I reckon, Anne. Well, I'd have no objection to marrying Ludovic. That'sfrank enough for you, isn't it? But it's not easy to marry a man unlesshe asks you. And Ludovic has never asked me. "

"Is he too shy?" persisted Anne. Since Theodora was in the mood, shemeant to sift this puzzling affair to the bottom. 

Theodora dropped her work and looked meditatively out over the greenslopes of the summer world. 

"No, I don't think it is that. Ludovic isn't shy. It's just his way--theSpeed way. The Speeds are all dreadfully deliberate. They spendyears thinking over a thing before they make up their minds to do it. Sometimes they get so much in the habit of thinking about it that theynever get over it--like old Alder Speed, who was always talking ofgoing to England to see his brother, but never went, though there wasno earthly reason why he shouldn't. They're not lazy, you know, but theylove to take their time. "

"And Ludovic is just an aggravated case of Speedism, " suggested Anne. 

"Exactly. He never hurried in his life. Why, he has been thinking forthe last six years of getting his house painted. He talks it over withme every little while, and picks out the colour, and there the matterstays. He's fond of me, and he means to ask me to have him sometime. Theonly question is--will the time ever come?"

"Why don't you hurry him up?" asked Anne impatiently. 

Theodora went back to her stitches with another laugh. 

"If Ludovic could be hurried up, I'm not the one to do it. I'm too shy. It sounds ridiculous to hear a woman of my age and inches say that, butit is true. Of course, I know it's the only way any Speed ever did makeout to get married. For instance, there's a cousin of mine married toLudovic's brother. I don't say she proposed to him out and out, but, mind you, Anne, it wasn't far from it. I couldn't do anything like that. I DID try once. When I realized that I was getting sere and mellow, andall the girls of my generation were going off on either hand, I tried togive Ludovic a hint. But it stuck in my throat. And now I don't mind. IfI don't change Dix to Speed until I take the initiative, it will be Dixto the end of life. Ludovic doesn't realize that we are growing old, youknow. He thinks we are giddy young folks yet, with plenty of time beforeus. That's the Speed failing. They never find out they're alive untilthey're dead. "

"You're fond of Ludovic, aren't you?" asked Anne, detecting a note ofreal bitterness among Theodora's paradoxes. 

"Laws, yes, " said Theodora candidly. She did not think it worth while toblush over so settled a fact. "I think the world and all of Ludovic. Andhe certainly does need somebody to look after HIM. He's neglected--helooks frayed. You can see that for yourself. That old aunt of his looksafter his house in some fashion, but she doesn't look after him. Andhe's coming now to the age when a man needs to be looked after andcoddled a bit. I'm lonesome here, and Ludovic is lonesome up there, and it does seem ridiculous, doesn't it? I don't wonder that we're thestanding joke of Grafton. Goodness knows, I laugh at it enough myself. I've sometimes thought that if Ludovic could be made jealous it mightspur him along. But I never could flirt and there's nobody to flirt withif I could. Everybody hereabouts looks upon me as Ludovic's property andnobody would dream of interfering with him. "

"Theodora, " cried Anne, "I have a plan!"

"Now, what are you going to do?" exclaimed Theodora. 

Anne told her. At first Theodora laughed and protested. In the end, sheyielded somewhat doubtfully, overborne by Anne's enthusiasm. 

"Well, try it, then, " she said, resignedly. "If Ludovic gets mad andleaves me, I'll be worse off than ever. But nothing venture, nothingwin. And there is a fighting chance, I suppose. Besides, I must admitI'm tired of his dilly-dallying. "

Anne went back to Echo Lodge tingling with delight in her plot. Shehunted up Arnold Sherman, and told him what was required of him. ArnoldSherman listened and laughed. He was an elderly widower, an intimatefriend of Stephen Irving, and had come down to spend part of the summerwith him and his wife in Prince Edward Island. He was handsome in amature style, and he had a dash of mischief in him still, so that heentered readily enough into Anne's plan. It amused him to think ofhurrying Ludovic Speed, and he knew that Theodora Dix could be dependedon to do her part. The comedy would not be dull, whatever its outcome. 

The curtain rose on the first act after prayer meeting on the nextThursday night. It was bright moonlight when the people came out ofchurch, and everybody saw it plainly. Arnold Sherman stood upon thesteps close to the door, and Ludovic Speed leaned up against a corner ofthe graveyard fence, as he had done for years. The boys said he had wornthe paint off that particular place. Ludovic knew of no reason why heshould paste himself up against the church door. Theodora would come outas usual, and he would join her as she went past the corner. 

This was what happened, Theodora came down the steps, her stately figureoutlined in its darkness against the gush of lamplight from the porch. Arnold Sherman asked her if he might see her home. Theodora took his armcalmly, and together they swept past the stupefied Ludovic, who stoodhelplessly gazing after them as if unable to believe his eyes. 

For a few moments he stood there limply; then he started down the roadafter his fickle lady and her new admirer. The boys and irresponsibleyoung men crowded after, expecting some excitement, but they weredisappointed. Ludovic strode on until he overtook Theodora and ArnoldSherman, and then fell meekly in behind them. 

Theodora hardly enjoyed her walk home, although Arnold Sherman laidhimself out to be especially entertaining. Her heart yearned afterLudovic, whose shuffling footsteps she heard behind her. She feared thatshe had been very cruel, but she was in for it now. She steeled herselfby the reflection that it was all for his own good, and she talked toArnold Sherman as if he were the one man in the world. Poor, desertedLudovic, following humbly behind, heard her, and if Theodora had knownhow bitter the cup she was holding to his lips really was, she wouldnever have been resolute enough to present it, no matter for whatultimate good. 

When she and Arnold turned in at her gate, Ludovic had to stop. Theodoralooked over her shoulder and saw him standing still on the road. Hisforlorn figure haunted her thoughts all night. If Anne had not run overthe next day and bolstered up her convictions, she might have spoiledeverything by prematurely relenting. 

Ludovic, meanwhile, stood still on the road, quite oblivious to thehoots and comments of the vastly amused small boy contingent, untilTheodora and his rival disappeared from his view under the firs in thehollow of her lane. Then he turned about and went home, not with hisusual leisurely amble, but with a perturbed stride which proclaimed hisinward disquiet. 

He felt bewildered. If the world had come suddenly to an end or if thelazy, meandering Grafton River had turned about and flowed up hill, Ludovic could not have been more astonished. For fifteen years he hadwalked home from meetings with Theodora; and now this elderly stranger, with all the glamour of "the States" hanging about him, had coollywalked off with her under Ludovic's very nose. Worse--most unkindestcut of all--Theodora had gone with him willingly; nay, she had evidentlyenjoyed his company. Ludovic felt the stirring of a righteous anger inhis easy-going soul. 

When he reached the end of his lane, he paused at his gate, and lookedat his house, set back from the lane in a crescent of birches. Even inthe moonlight, its weather-worn aspect was plainly visible. He thoughtof the "palatial residence" rumour ascribed to Arnold Sherman in Boston, and stroked his chin nervously with his sunburnt fingers. Then hedoubled up his fist and struck it smartly on the gate-post. 

"Theodora needn't think she is going to jilt me in this fashion, after keeping company with me for fifteen years, " he said. "I'LLhave something to say to it, Arnold Sherman or no Arnold Sherman. Theimpudence of the puppy!"

The next morning Ludovic drove to Carmody and engaged Joshua Pye tocome and paint his house, and that evening, although he was not due tillSaturday night, he went down to see Theodora. 

Arnold Sherman was there before him, and was actually sitting inLudovic's own prescriptive chair. Ludovic had to deposit himself inTheodora's new wicker rocker, where he looked and felt lamentably out ofplace. 

If Theodora felt the situation to be awkward, she carried it offsuperbly. She had never looked handsomer, and Ludovic perceived that shewore her second best silk dress. He wondered miserably if she had donnedit in expectation of his rival's call. She had never put on silk dressesfor him. Ludovic had always been the meekest and mildest of mortals, buthe felt quite murderous as he sat mutely there and listened to ArnoldSherman's polished conversation. 

"You should just have been here to see him glowering, " Theodora told thedelighted Anne the next day. "It may be wicked of me, but I felt realglad. I was afraid he might stay away and sulk. So long as he comes hereand sulks I don't worry. But he is feeling badly enough, poor soul, andI'm really eaten up by remorse. He tried to outstay Mr. Sherman lastnight, but he didn't manage it. You never saw a more depressed-lookingcreature than he was as he hurried down the lane. Yes, he actuallyhurried. "

The following Sunday evening Arnold Sherman walked to church withTheodora, and sat with her. When they came in Ludovic Speed suddenlystood up in his pew under the gallery. He sat down again at once, buteverybody in view had seen him, and that night folks in all the lengthand breadth of Grafton River discussed the dramatic occurrence with keenenjoyment. 

"Yes, he jumped right up as if he was pulled on his feet, while theminister was reading the chapter, " said his cousin, Lorella Speed, whohad been in church, to her sister, who had not. "His face was as whiteas a sheet, and his eyes were just glaring out of his head. I never feltso thrilled, I declare! I almost expected him to fly at them then andthere. But he just gave a sort of gasp and set down again. I don't knowwhether Theodora Dix saw him or not. She looked as cool and unconcernedas you please. "

Theodora had not seen Ludovic, but if she looked cool and unconcerned, her appearance belied her, for she felt miserably flustered. She couldnot prevent Arnold Sherman coming to church with her, but it seemed toher like going too far. People did not go to church and sit together inGrafton unless they were the next thing to being engaged. What if thisfilled Ludovic with the narcotic of despair instead of wakening himup! She sat through the service in misery and heard not one word of thesermon. 

But Ludovic's spectacular performances were not yet over. The Speedsmight be hard to get started, but once they were started their momentumwas irresistible. When Theodora and Mr. Sherman came out, Ludovic waswaiting on the steps. He stood up straight and stern, with his headthrown back and his shoulders squared. There was open defiance in thelook he cast on his rival, and masterfulness in the mere touch of thehand he laid on Theodora's arm. 

"May I see you home, Miss Dix?" his words said. His tone said, "I amgoing to see you home whether or no. "

Theodora, with a deprecating look at Arnold Sherman, took his arm, and Ludovic marched her across the green amid a silence which the veryhorses tied to the storm fence seemed to share. For Ludovic 'twas acrowded hour of glorious life. 

Anne walked all the way over from Avonlea the next day to hear the news. Theodora smiled consciously. 

"Yes, it is really settled at last, Anne. Coming home last night Ludovicasked me plump and plain to marry him, --Sunday and all as it was. It's to be right away--for Ludovic won't be put off a week longer thannecessary. "

"So Ludovic Speed has been hurried up to some purpose at last, " said Mr. Sherman, when Anne called in at Echo Lodge, brimful with her news. "Andyou are delighted, of course, and my poor pride must be the scapegoat. Ishall always be remembered in Grafton as the man from Boston who wantedTheodora Dix and couldn't get her. "

"But that won't be true, you know, " said Anne comfortingly. 

Arnold Sherman thought of Theodora's ripe beauty, and the mellowcompanionableness she had revealed in their brief intercourse. 

"I'm not perfectly sure of that, " he said, with a half sigh. 

II. Old Lady Lloyd

I. The May Chapter

Spencervale gossip always said that "Old Lady Lloyd" was rich and meanand proud. Gossip, as usual, was one-third right and two-thirds wrong. Old Lady Lloyd was neither rich nor mean; in reality she was pitifullypoor--so poor that "Crooked Jack" Spencer, who dug her garden andchopped her wood for her, was opulent by contrast, for he, at least, never lacked three meals a day, and the Old Lady could sometimes achieveno more than one. But she WAS very proud--so proud that she would havedied rather than let the Spencervale people, among whom she had queenedit in her youth, suspect how poor she was and to what straits wassometimes reduced. She much preferred to have them think her miserly andodd--a queer old recluse who never went anywhere, even to church, andwho paid the smallest subscription to the minister's salary of anyone inthe congregation. 

"And her just rolling in wealth!" they said indignantly. "Well, shedidn't get her miserly ways from her parents. THEY were real generousand neighbourly. There never was a finer gentleman than old DoctorLloyd. He was always doing kindnesses to everybody; and he had a way ofdoing them that made you feel as if you was doing the favour, not him. Well, well, let Old Lady Lloyd keep herself and her money to herselfif she wants to. If she doesn't want our company, she doesn't have tosuffer it, that's all. Reckon she isn't none too happy for all her moneyand pride. "

No, the Old Lady was none too happy, that was unfortunately true. Itis not easy to be happy when your life is eaten up with loneliness andemptiness on the spiritual side, and when, on the material side, all youhave between you and starvation is the little money your hens bring youin. 

The Old Lady lived "away back at the old Lloyd place, " as it was alwayscalled. It was a quaint, low-eaved house, with big chimneys and squarewindows and with spruces growing thickly all around it. The Old Ladylived there all alone and there were weeks at a time when she never sawa human being except Crooked Jack. What the Old Lady did with herselfand how she put in her time was a puzzle the Spencervale people couldnot solve. The children believed she amused herself counting the gold inthe big black box under her bed. Spencervale children held the Old Ladyin mortal terror; some of them--the "Spencer Road" fry--believed shewas a witch; all of them would run if, when wandering about the woodsin search of berries or spruce gum, they saw at a distance the spare, upright form of the Old Lady, gathering sticks for her fire. Mary Moorewas the only one who was quite sure she was not a witch. 

"Witches are always ugly, " she said decisively, "and Old Lady Lloydisn't ugly. She's real pretty--she's got such a soft white hair and bigblack eyes and a little white face. Those Road children don't know whatthey're talking of. Mother says they're a very ignorant crowd. "

"Well, she doesn't ever go to church, and she mutters and talks toherself all the time she's picking up sticks, " maintained Jimmy Kimballstoutly. 

The Old Lady talked to herself because she was really very fond ofcompany and conversation. To be sure, when you have talked to nobody butyourself for nearly twenty years, it is apt to grow somewhat monotonous;and there were times when the Old Lady would have sacrificed everythingbut her pride for a little human companionship. At such times she feltvery bitter and resentful toward Fate for having taken everythingfrom her. She had nothing to love, and that is about as unwholesome acondition as is possible to anyone. 

It was always hardest in the spring. Once upon a time the Old Lady--whenshe had not been the Old Lady, but pretty, wilful, high-spiritedMargaret Lloyd--had loved springs; now she hated them because they hurther; and this particular spring of this particular May chapter hurt hermore than any that had gone before. The Old Lady felt as if she couldNOT endure the ache of it. Everything hurt her--the new green tips onthe firs, the fairy mists down in the little beech hollow below thehouse, the fresh smell of the red earth Crooked Jack spaded up in hergarden. The Old Lady lay awake all one moonlit night and cried for veryheartache. She even forgot her body hunger in her soul hunger; and theOld Lady had been hungry, more or less, all that week. She was living onstore biscuits and water, so that she might be able to pay Crooked Jackfor digging her garden. When the pale, lovely dawn-colour came stealingup the sky behind the spruces, the Old Lady buried her face in herpillow and refused to look at it. 

"I hate the new day, " she said rebelliously. "It will be just like allthe other hard, common days. I don't want to get up and live it. And, oh, to think that long ago I reached out my hands joyfully to everynew day, as to a friend who was bringing me good tidings! I loved themornings then--sunny or gray, they were as delightful as an unreadbook--and now I hate them--hate them--hate them!"

But the Old Lady got up nevertheless, for she knew Crooked Jack wouldbe coming early to finish the garden. She arranged her beautiful, thick, white hair very carefully, and put on her purple silk dress with thelittle gold spots in it. The Old Lady always wore silk from motives ofeconomy. It was much cheaper to wear a silk dress that had belonged toher mother than to buy new print at the store. The Old Lady had plentyof silk dresses which had belonged to her mother. She wore them morning, noon, and night, and Spencervale people considered it an additionalevidence of her pride. As for the fashion of them, it was, of course, just because she was too mean to have them made over. They did not dreamthat the Old Lady never put on one of the silk dresses without agonizingover its unfashionableness, and that even the eyes of Crooked Jack caston her antique flounces and overskirts was almost more than her femininevanity could endure. 

In spite of the fact that the Old Lady had not welcomed the new day, itsbeauty charmed her when she went out for a walk after her dinner--or, rather, after her mid-day biscuit. It was so fresh, so sweet, so virgin;and the spruce woods around the old Lloyd place were athrill with busyspring doings and all sprinkled through with young lights and shadows. Some of their delight found its way into the Old Lady's bitter heartas she wandered through them, and when she came out at the little plankbridge over the brook down under the beeches, she felt almost gentle andtender once more. There was one big beech there, in particular, whichthe Old Lady loved for reasons best known to herself--a great, tallbeech with a trunk like the shaft of a gray marble column and a leafyspread of branches over the still, golden-brown pool made beneath it bythe brook. It had been a young sapling in the days that were haloed bythe vanished glory of the Old Lady's life. 

The Old Lady heard childish voices and laughter afar up the lane whichled to William Spencer's place just above the woods. William Spencer'sfront lane ran out to the main road in a different direction, but this"back lane" furnished a short cut and his children always went to schoolthat way. 

The Old Lady shrank hastily back behind a clump of young spruces. Shedid not like the Spencer children because they always seemed so afraidof her. Through the spruce screen she could see them coming gaily downthe lane--the two older ones in front, the twins behind, clinging to thehands of a tall, slim, young girl--the new music teacher, probably. TheOld Lady had heard from the egg pedlar that she was going to board atWilliam Spencer's, but she had not heard her name. 

She looked at her with some curiosity as they drew near--and then, allat once, the Old Lady's heart gave a great bound and began to beat as ithad not beaten for years, while her breath came quickly and she trembledviolently. Who--WHO could this girl be?

Under the new music teacher's straw hat were masses of fine chestnuthair of the very shade and wave that the Old Lady remembered on anotherhead in vanished years; from under those waves looked large, violet-blueeyes with very black lashes and brows--and the Old Lady knew those eyesas well as she knew her own; and the new music teacher's face, with allits beauty of delicate outline and dainty colouring and glad, buoyantyouth, was a face from the Old Lady's past--a perfect resemblance inevery respect save one; the face which the Old Lady remembered hadbeen weak, with all its charm; but this girl's face possessed a fine, dominant strength compact of sweetness and womanliness. As she passed bythe Old Lady's hiding place she laughed at something one of the childrensaid; and oh, but the Old Lady knew that laughter well. She had heard itbefore under that very beech tree. 

She watched them until they disappeared over the wooded hill beyond thebridge; and then she went back home as if she walked in a dream. CrookedJack was delving vigorously in the garden; ordinarily the Old Ladydid not talk much with Crooked Jack, for she disliked his weakness forgossip; but now she went into the garden, a stately old figure in herpurple, gold-spotted silk, with the sunshine gleaming on her white hair. 

Crooked Jack had seen her go out and had remarked to himself that theOld Lady was losing ground; she was pale and peaked-looking. He nowconcluded that he had been mistaken. The Old Lady's cheeks were pink andher eyes shining. Somewhere in her walk she had shed ten years at least. Crooked Jack leaned on his spade and decided that there weren't manyfiner looking women anywhere than Old Lady Lloyd. Pity she was such anold miser!

"Mr. Spencer, " said the Old Lady graciously--she always spoke verygraciously to her inferiors when she talked to them at all--"can youtell me the name of the new music teacher who is boarding at Mr. WilliamSpencer's?"

"Sylvia Gray, " said Crooked Jack. 

The Old Lady's heart gave another great bound. But she had known it--shehad known that girl with Leslie Gray's hair and eyes and laugh must beLeslie Gray's daughter. 

Crooked Jack spat on his hand and resumed his work, but his tongue wentfaster than his spade, and the Old Lady listened greedily. For the firsttime she enjoyed and blessed Crooked Jack's garrulity and gossip. Everyword he uttered was as an apple of gold in a picture of silver to her. 

He had been working at William Spencer's the day the new music teacherhad come, and what Crooked Jack couldn't find out about any person inone whole day--at least as far as outward life went--was hardly worthfinding out. Next to discovering things did he love telling them, and itwould be hard to say which enjoyed that ensuing half-hour more--CrookedJack or the Old Lady. 

Crooked Jack's account, boiled down, amounted to this; both Miss Gray'sparents had died when she was a baby, she had been brought up by anaunt, she was very poor and very ambitious. 

"Wants a moosical eddication, " finished up Crooked Jack, "and, by jingo, she orter have it, for anything like the voice of her I never heerd. She sung for us that evening after supper and I thought 'twas an angelsinging. It just went through me like a shaft o' light. The Spenceryoung ones are crazy over her already. She's got twenty pupils aroundhere and in Grafton and Avonlea. "

When the Old Lady had found out everything Crooked Jack could tellher, she went into the house and sat down by the window of her littlesitting-room to think it all over. She was tingling from head to footwith excitement. 

Leslie's daughter! This Old Lady had had her romance once. Longago--forty years ago--she had been engaged to Leslie Gray, a youngcollege student who taught in Spencervale for the summer term oneyear--the golden summer of Margaret Lloyd's life. Leslie had been ashy, dreamy, handsome fellow with literary ambitions, which, as he andMargaret both firmly believed, would one day bring him fame and fortune. 

Then there had been a foolish, bitter quarrel at the end of that goldensummer. Leslie had gone away in anger, afterwards he had written, butMargaret Lloyd, still in the grasp of her pride and resentment, had senta harsh answer. No more letters came; Leslie Gray never returned; andone day Margaret wakened to the realization that she had put love out ofher life for ever. She knew it would never be hers again; and from thatmoment her feet were turned from youth to walk down the valley of shadowto a lonely, eccentric age. 

Many years later she heard of Leslie's marriage; then came news of hisdeath, after a life that had not fulfilled his dreams for him. Nothingmore she had heard or known--nothing to this day, when she had seen hisdaughter pass her by unseeing in the beech hollow. 

"His daughter! And she might have been MY daughter, " murmured the OldLady. "Oh, if I could only know her and love her--and perhaps win herlove in return! But I cannot. I could not have Leslie Gray's daughterknow how poor I am--how low I have been brought. I could not bear that. And to think she is living so near me, the darling--just up the laneand over the hill. I can see her go by every day--I can have that dearpleasure, at least. But oh, if I could only do something for her--giveher some little pleasure! It would be such a delight. "

When the Old Lady happened to go into her spare room that evening, shesaw from it a light shining through a gap in the trees on the hill. Sheknew that it shone from the Spencers' spare room. So it was Sylvia'slight. The Old Lady stood in the darkness and watched it until it wentout--watched it with a great sweetness breathing in her heart, such asrisen from old rose-leaves when they are stirred. She fancied Sylviamoving about her room, brushing and braiding her long, glisteninghair--laying aside her little trinkets and girlish adornments--makingher simple preparations for sleep. When the light went out the OldLady pictured a slight white figure kneeling by the window in the softstarshine, and the Old Lady knelt down then and there and said her ownprayers in fellowship. She said the simple form of words she had alwaysused; but a new spirit seemed to inspire them; and she finished witha new petition--"Let me think of something I can do for her, dearFather--some little, little thing that I can do for her. "

The Old Lady had slept in the same room all her life--the one lookingnorth into the spruces--and loved it; but the next day she moved intothe spare room without a regret. It was to be her room after this; shemust be where she could see Sylvia's light, she put the bed where shecould lie in it and look at that earth star which had suddenly shoneacross the twilight shadows of her heart. She felt very happy, shehad not felt happy for many years; but now a strange, new, dream-likeinterest, remote from the harsh realities of her existence, but none theless comforting and alluring, had entered into her life. Besides, shehad thought of something she could do for Sylvia--"a little, littlething" that might give her pleasure. 

Spencervale people were wont to say regretfully that there were noMayflowers in Spencervale; the Spencervale young fry, when they wantedMayflowers, thought they had to go over to the barrens at Avonlea, sixmiles away, for them. Old Lady Lloyd knew better. In her many long, solitary rambles, she had discovered a little clearing far back in thewoods--a southward-sloping, sandy hill on a tract of woodland belongingto a man who lived in town--which in spring was starred over with thepink and white of arbutus. 

To this clearing the Old Lady betook herself that afternoon, walkingthrough wood lanes and under dim spruce arches like a woman with a gladpurpose. All at once the spring was dear and beautiful to her once more;for love had entered again into her heart, and her starved soul wasfeasting on its divine nourishment. 

Old Lady Lloyd found a wealth of Mayflowers on the sandy hill. Shefilled her basket with them, gloating over the loveliness which was togive pleasure to Sylvia. When she got home she wrote on a slip of paper, "For Sylvia. " It was not likely anyone in Spencervale would know herhandwriting, but, to make sure, she disguised it, writing in round, bigletters like a child's. She carried her Mayflowers down to the hollowand heaped them in a recess between the big roots of the old beech, withthe little note thrust through a stem on top. 

Then the Old Lady deliberately hid behind the spruce clump. She had puton her dark green silk on purpose for hiding. She had not long towait. Soon Sylvia Gray came down the hill with Mattie Spencer. When shereached the bridge she saw the Mayflowers and gave an exclamation ofdelight. Then she saw her name and her expression changed to wonder. The Old Lady, peering through the boughs, could have laughed for verypleasure over the success of her little plot. 

"For me!" said Sylvia, lifting the flowers. "CAN they really be for me, Mattie? Who could have left them here?"

Mattie giggled. 

"I believe it was Chris Stewart, " she said. "I know he was over atAvonlea last night. And ma says he's taken a notion to you--she knowsby the way he looked at you when you were singing night before last. Itwould be just like him to do something queer like this--he's such a shyfellow with the girls. "

Sylvia frowned a little. She did not like Mattie's expressions, butshe did like Mayflowers, and she did not dislike Chris Stewart, who hadseemed to her merely a nice, modest, country boy. She lifted the flowersand buried her face in them. 

"Anyway, I'm much obliged to the giver, whoever he or she is, " she saidmerrily. "There's nothing I love like Mayflowers. Oh, how sweet theyare!"

When they had passed the Old Lady emerged from her lurking place, flushed with triumph. It did not vex her that Sylvia should think ChrisStewart had given her the flowers; nay, it was all the better, since shewould be the less likely to suspect the real donor. The main thing wasthat Sylvia should have the delight of them. That quite satisfied theOld Lady, who went back to her lonely house with the cockles of herheart all in a glow. 

It soon was a matter of gossip in Spencervale that Chris Stewart wasleaving Mayflowers at the beech hollow for the music teacher every otherday. Chris himself denied it, but he was not believed. Firstly, therewere no Mayflowers in Spencervale; secondly, Chris had to go to Carmodyevery other day to haul milk to the butter factory, and Mayflowers grewin Carmody, and, thirdly, the Stewarts always had a romantic streak inthem. Was not that enough circumstantial evidence for anybody?

As for Sylvia, she did not mind if Chris had a boyish admiration forher and expressed it thus delicately. She thought it very nice of him, indeed, when he did not vex her with any other advances, and she wasquite content to enjoy his Mayflowers. 

Old Lady Lloyd heard all the gossip about it from the egg pedlar, andlistened to him with laughter glimmering far down in her eyes. The eggpedlar went away and vowed he'd never seen the Old Lady so spry as shewas this spring; she seemed real interested in the young folk's doings. 

The Old Lady kept her secret and grew young in it. She walked back tothe Mayflower hill as long as the Mayflowers lasted; and she always hidin the spruces to see Sylvia Gray go by. Every day she loved her more, and yearned after her more deeply. All the long repressed tenderness ofher nature overflowed to this girl who was unconscious of it. She wasproud of Sylvia's grace and beauty, and sweetness of voice and laughter. She began to like the Spencer children because they worshipped Sylvia;she envied Mrs. Spencer because the latter could minister to Sylvia'sneeds. Even the egg pedlar seemed a delightful person because he broughtnews of Sylvia--her social popularity, her professional success, thelove and admiration she had won already. 

The Old Lady never dreamed of revealing herself to Sylvia. That, in herpoverty, was not to be thought of for a moment. It would have been verysweet to know her--sweet to have her come to the old house--sweet totalk to her--to enter into her life. But it might not be. The Old Lady'spride was still far stronger than her love. It was the one thing she hadnever sacrificed and never--so she believed--could sacrifice. 

II. The June Chapter

There were no Mayflowers in June; but now the Old Lady's garden wasfull of blossoms and every morning Sylvia found a bouquet of them by thebeech--the perfumed ivory of white narcissus, the flame of tulips, thefairy branches of bleeding-heart, the pink-and-snow of little, thorny, single, sweetbreathed early roses. The Old Lady had no fear ofdiscovery, for the flowers that grew in her garden grew in every otherSpencervale garden as well, including the Stewart garden. Chris Stewart, when he was teased about the music teacher, merely smiled and heldhis peace. Chris knew perfectly well who was the real giver of thoseflowers. He had made it his business to find out when the Mayflowergossip started. But since it was evident Old Lady Lloyd did not wish itto be known, Chris told no one. Chris had always liked Old Lady Lloydever since the day, ten years before, when she had found him crying inthe woods with a cut foot and had taken him into her house, and bathedand bound the wound, and given him ten cents to buy candy at the store. The Old Lady went without supper that night because of it, but Chrisnever knew that. 

The Old Lady thought it a most beautiful June. She no longer hated thenew days; on the contrary, she welcomed them. 

"Every day is an uncommon day now, " she said jubilantly to herself--fordid not almost every day bring her a glimpse of Sylvia? Even on rainydays the Old Lady gallantly braved rheumatism to hide behind her clumpof dripping spruces and watch Sylvia pass. The only days she could notsee her were Sundays; and no Sundays had ever seemed so long to Old LadyLloyd as those June Sundays did. 

One day the egg pedlar had news for her. 

"The music teacher is going to sing a solo for a collection pieceto-morrow, " he told her. 

The Old Lady's black eyes flashed with interest. 

"I didn't know Miss Gray was a member of the choir, " she said. 

"Jined two Sundays ago. I tell you, our music is something worthlistening to now. The church'll be packed to-morrow, I reckon--hername's gone all over the country for singing. You ought to come and hearit, Miss Lloyd. "

The pedlar said this out of bravado, merely to show he wasn't scared ofthe Old Lady, for all her grand airs. The Old Lady made no answer, andhe thought he had offended her. He went away, wishing he hadn't said it. Had he but known it, the Old Lady had forgotten the existence of all andany egg pedlars. He had blotted himself and his insignificance out ofher consciousness by his last sentence. All her thoughts, feelings, andwishes were submerged in a very whirlpool of desire to hear Sylvia singthat solo. She went into the house in a tumult and tried to conquer thatdesire. She could not do it, even thought she summoned all her pride toher aid. Pride said:

"You will have to go to church to hear her. You haven't fit clothes togo to church in. Think what a figure you will make before them all. "

But, for the first time, a more insistent voice than pride spoke to hersoul--and, for the first time, the Old Lady listened to it. It was tootrue that she had never gone to church since the day on which she hadto begin wearing her mother's silk dresses. The Old Lady herself thoughtthat this was very wicked; and she tried to atone by keeping Sunday verystrictly, and always having a little service of her own, morning andevening. She sang three hymns in her cracked voice, prayed aloud, andread a sermon. But she could not bring herself to go to church in herout-of-date clothes--she, who had once set the fashions in Spencervale, and the longer she stayed away, the more impossible it seemed that sheshould ever again go. Now the impossible had become, not only possible, but insistent. She must go to church and hear Sylvia sing, no matter howridiculous she appeared, no matter how people talked and laughed at her. 

Spencervale congregation had a mild sensation the next afternoon. Justbefore the opening of service Old Lady Lloyd walked up the aisle and satdown in the long-unoccupied Lloyd pew, in front of the pulpit. 

The Old Lady's very soul was writhing within her. She recalled thereflection she had seen in her mirror before she left--the old blacksilk in the mode of thirty years agone and the queer little bonnet ofshirred black satin. She thought how absurd she must look in the eyes ofher world. 

As a matter of fact, she did not look in the least absurd. Some womenmight have; but the Old Lady's stately distinction of carriage andfigure was so subtly commanding that it did away with the considerationof garmenting altogether. 

The Old Lady did not know this. But she did know that Mrs. Kimball, the storekeeper's wife, presently rustled into the next pew in the verylatest fashion of fabric and mode; she and Mrs. Kimball were the sameage, and there had been a time when the latter had been contentto imitate Margaret Lloyd's costumes at a humble distance. But thestorekeeper had proposed, and things were changed now; and there satpoor Old Lady Lloyd, feeling the change bitterly, and half wishing shehad not come to church at all. 

Then all at once the Angel of Love touched there foolish thoughts, bornof vanity and morbid pride, and they melted away as if they had neverbeen. Sylvia Gray had come into the choir, and was sitting just wherethe afternoon sunshine fell over her beautiful hair like a halo. The OldLady looked at her in a rapture of satisfied longing and thenceforth theservice was blessed to her, as anything is blessed which comes throughthe medium of unselfish love, whether human or divine. Nay, are they notone and the same, differing in degree only, not in kind?

The Old Lady had never had such a good, satisfying look at Sylviabefore. All her former glimpses had been stolen and fleeting. Nowshe sat and gazed upon her to her hungry heart's content, lingeringdelightedly over every little charm and loveliness--the way Sylvia'sshining hair rippled back from her forehead, the sweet little trick shehad of dropping quickly her long-lashed eyelids when she encounteredtoo bold or curious a glance, and the slender, beautifully modelledhands--so like Leslie Gray's hands--that held her hymn book. She wasdressed very plainly in a black skirt and a white shirtwaist; but noneof the other girls in the choir, with all their fine feathers, couldhold a candle to her--as the egg pedlar said to his wife, going homefrom church. 

The Old Lady listened to the opening hymns with keen pleasure. Sylvia'svoice thrilled through and dominated them all. But when the ushers gotup to take the collection, an undercurrent of subdued excitement flowedover the congregation. Sylvia rose and came forward to Janet Moore'sside at the organ. The next moment her beautiful voice soared throughthe building like the very soul of melody--true, clear, powerful, sweet. Nobody in Spencervale had ever listened to such a voice, except OldLady Lloyd herself, who, in her youth, had heard enough good singing toenable her to be a tolerable judge of it. She realized instantly thatthis girl of her heart had a great gift--a gift that would some daybring her fame and fortune, if it could be duly trained and developed. 

"Oh, I'm so glad I came to church, " thought Old Lady Lloyd. 

When the solo was ended, the Old Lady's conscience compelled her to dragher eyes and thoughts from Sylvia, and fasten them on the minister, who had been flattering himself all through the opening portion of theservice that Old Lady Lloyd had come to church on his account. He wasnewly settled, having been in charge of the Spencervale congregationonly a few months; he was a clever little fellow and he honestly thoughtit was the fame of his preaching that had brought Old Lady Lloyd out tochurch. 

When the service was over all the Old Lady's neighbours came to speakto her, with kindly smile and handshake. They thought they ought toencourage her, now that she had made a start in the right direction; theOld Lady liked their cordiality, and liked it none the less because shedetected in it the same unconscious respect and deference she had beenwont to receive in the old days--a respect and deference which herpersonality compelled from all who approached her. The Old Lady wassurprised to find that she could command it still, in defiance ofunfashionable bonnet and ancient attire. 

Janet Moore and Sylvia Gray walked home from church together. "Did yousee Old Lady Lloyd out to-day?" asked Janet. "I was amazed when shewalked in. She has never been to church in my recollection. What aquaint old figure she is! She's very rich, you know, but she wears hermother's old clothes and never gets a new thing. Some people thinkshe is mean; but, " concluded Janet charitably, "I believe it is simplyeccentricity. "

"I felt that was Miss Lloyd as soon as I saw her, although I had neverseen her before, " said Sylvia dreamily. "I have been wishing to seeher--for a certain reason. She has a very striking face. I should liketo meet her--to know her. "

"I don't think it's likely you ever will, " said Janet carelessly. "Shedoesn't like young people and she never goes anywhere. I don't think I'dlike to know her. I'd be afraid of her--she has such stately ways andsuch strange, piercing eyes. "

"_I_ shouldn't be afraid of her, " said Sylvia to herself, as she turnedinto the Spencer lane. "But I don't expect I'll ever become acquaintedwith her. If she knew who I am I suppose she would dislike me. I supposeshe never suspects that I am Leslie Gray's daughter. "

The minister, thinking it well to strike while the iron was hot, went upto call on Old Lady Lloyd the very next afternoon. He went in fear andtrembling, for he had heard things about Old Lady Lloyd; but she madeherself so agreeable in her high-bred fashion that he was delighted, and told his wife when he went home that Spencervale people didn'tunderstand Miss Lloyd. This was perfectly true; but it is by no meanscertain that the minister understood her either. 

He made only one mistake in tact, but, as the Old Lady did not snub himfor it, he never knew he made it. When he was leaving he said, "I hopewe shall see you at church next Sunday, Miss Lloyd. "

"Indeed, you will, " said the Old Lady emphatically. 

III. The July Chapter

The first day of July Sylvia found a little birch bark boat full ofstrawberries at the beech in the hollow. They were the earliest of theseason; the Old Lady had found them in one of her secret haunts. Theywould have been a toothsome addition to the Old Lady's own slender billof fare; but she never thought of eating them. She got far more pleasureout of the thought of Sylvia's enjoying them for her tea. Thereafterthe strawberries alternated with the flowers as long as they lasted, andthen came blueberries and raspberries. The blueberries grew far away andthe Old Lady had many a tramp after them. Sometimes her bones ached atnight because of it; but what cared the Old Lady for that? Bone acheis easier to endure than soul ache; and the Old Lady's soul had stoppedaching for the first time in many year. It was being nourished withheavenly manna. 

One evening Crooked Jack came up to fix something that had gone wrongwith the Old Lady's well. The Old Lady wandered affably out to him; forshe knew he had been working at the Spencers' all day, and there mightbe crumbs of information about Sylvia to be picked up. 

"I reckon the music teacher's feeling pretty blue this evening, " CrookedJack remarked, after straining the Old Lady's patience to the last vergeof human endurance by expatiating on William Spencer's new pump, andMrs. Spencer's new washing-machine, and Amelia Spencer's new young man. 

"Why?" asked the Old Lady, turning very pale. Had anything happened toSylvia?

"Well, she's been invited to a big party at Mrs. Moore's brother's intown, and she hasn't got a dress to go in, " said Crooked Jack. "They'regreat swells and everybody will be got up regardless. Mrs. Spencer wastelling me about it. She says Miss Gray can't afford a new dress becauseshe's helping to pay her aunt's doctor's bills. She says she's sure MissGray feels awful disappointed over it, though she doesn't let on. ButMrs. Spencer says she knows she was crying after she went to bed lastnight. "

The Old Lady turned and went into the house abruptly. This was dreadful. Sylvia must go to that party--she MUST. But how was it to be managed?Through the Old Lady's brain passed wild thoughts of her mother's silkdresses. But none of them would be suitable, even if there were time tomake one over. Never had the Old Lady so bitterly regretted her vanishedwealth. 

"I've only two dollars in the house, " she said, "and I've got to live onthat till the next day the egg pedlar comes round. Is there anything Ican sell--ANYTHING? Yes, yes, the grape jug!"

Up to this time, the Old Lady would as soon have thought of trying tosell her head as the grape jug. The grape jug was two hundred years oldand had been in the Lloyd family ever since it was a jug at all. It wasa big, pot-bellied affair, festooned with pink-gilt grapes, and with averse of poetry printed on one side, and it had been given as a weddingpresent to the Old Lady's great-grandmother. As long as the Old Ladycould remember it had sat on the top shelf in the cupboard in thesitting-room wall, far too precious ever to be used. 

Two years before, a woman who collected old china had exploredSpencervale, and, getting word of the grape jug, had boldly invadedthe old Lloyd place and offered to buy it. She never, to her dying day, forgot the reception the Old Lady gave her; but, being wise in herday and generation, she left her card, saying that if Miss Lloyd everchanged her mind about selling the jug, she would find that she, theaforesaid collector, had not changed hers about buying it. People whomake a hobby of heirloom china must meekly overlook snubs, and thisparticular person had never seen anything she coveted so much as thatgrape jug. 

The Old Lady had torn the card to pieces; but she remembered the nameand address. She went to the cupboard and took down the beloved jug. 

"I never thought to part with it, " she said wistfully, "but Sylvia musthave a dress, and there is no other way. And, after all, when I'm gone, who would there be to have it? Strangers would get it then--it mightas well go to them now. I'll have to go to town to-morrow morning, forthere's no time to lose if the party is Friday night. I haven't been totown for ten years. I dread the thought of going, more than parting withthe jug. But for Sylvia's sake!"

It was all over Spencervale by the next morning that Old Lady Lloyd hadgone to town, carrying a carefully guarded box. Everybody wondered whyshe went; most people supposed she had become too frightened to keep hermoney in a black box below her bed, when there had been two burglariesover at Carmody, and had taken it to the bank. 

The Old Lady sought out the address of the china collector, tremblingwith fear that she might be dead or gone. But the collector was there, very much alive, and as keenly anxious to possess the grape jug as ever. The Old Lady, pallid with the pain of her trampled pride, sold the grapejug and went away, believing that her great-grandmother must have turnedover in her grave at the moment of the transaction. Old Lady Lloyd feltlike a traitor to her traditions. 

But she went unflinchingly to a big store and, guided by that specialProvidence which looks after simple-minded old souls in their dangerousexcursions into the world, found a sympathetic clerk who knew justwhat she wanted and got it for her. The Old Lady selected a very daintymuslin gown, with gloves and slippers in keeping; and she orderedit sent at once, expressage prepaid, to Miss Sylvia Gray, in care ofWilliam Spencer, Spencervale. 

Then she paid down the money--the whole price of the jug, minus a dollarand a half for railroad fare--with a grand, careless air and departed. As she marched erectly down the aisle of the store, she encountereda sleek, portly, prosperous man coming in. As their eyes met, the manstarted and his bland face flushed crimson; he lifted his hat and bowedconfusedly. But the Old Lady looked through him as if he wasn't there, and passed on with not a sign of recognition about her. He took onestep after her, then stopped and turned away, with a rather disagreeablesmile and a shrug of his shoulders. 

Nobody would have guessed, as the Old Lady swept out, how her heart wasseething with abhorrence and scorn. She would not have had the courageto come to town, even for Sylvia's sake, if she had thought she wouldmeet Andrew Cameron. The mere sight of him opened up anew a sealedfountain of bitterness in her soul; but the thought of Sylvia somehowstemmed the torrent, and presently the Old Lady was smiling rathertriumphantly, thinking rightly that she had come off best in thatunwelcome encounter. SHE, at any rate, had not faltered and coloured, and lost her presence of mind. 

"It is little wonder HE did, " thought the Old Lady vindictively. Itpleased her that Andrew Cameron should lose, before her, the front ofadamant he presented to the world. He was her cousin and the only livingcreature Old Lady Lloyd hated, and she hated and despised him with allthe intensity of her intense nature. She and hers had sustained grievouswrong at his hands, and the Old Lady was convinced that she would ratherdie than take any notice of his existence. 

Presently, she resolutely put Andrew Cameron out of her mind. It wasdesecration to think of him and Sylvia together. When she laid her wearyhead on her pillow that night she was so happy that even the thought ofthe vacant shelf in the room below, where the grape jug had always been, gave her only a momentary pang. 

"It's sweet to sacrifice for one we love--it's sweet to have someone tosacrifice for, " thought the Old Lady. 

Desire grows by what it feeds on. The Old Lady thought she was content;but Friday evening came and found her in a perfect fever to see Sylviain her party dress. It was not enough to fancy her in it; nothing woulddo the Old Lady but seeing her. 

"And I SHALL see her, " said the Old Lady resolutely, looking out fromher window at Sylvia's light gleaming through the firs. She wrappedherself in a dark shawl and crept out, slipping down to the hollow andup the wood lane. It was a misty, moonlight night, and a wind, fragrantwith the aroma of clover fields, blew down the lane to meet her. 

"I wish I could take your perfume--the soul of you--and pour it into herlife, " said the Old Lady aloud to that wind. 

Sylvia Gray was standing in her room, ready for the party. Before herstood Mrs. Spencer and Amelia Spencer and all the little Spencer girls, in an admiring semi-circle. There was another spectator. Outside, under the lilac bush, Old Lady Lloyd was standing. She could see Sylviaplainly, in her dainty dress, with the pale pink roses Old Lady Lloydhad left at the beech that day for her in her hair. Pink as they were, they were not so pink as her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars. Amelia Spencer put up her hand to push back a rose that had fallen alittle out of place, and the Old Lady envied her fiercely. 

"That dress couldn't have fitted better if it had been made for you, "said Mrs. Spencer admiringly. "Ain't she lovely, Amelia? Who COULD havesent it?"

"Oh, I feel sure that Mrs. Moore was the fairy godmother, " said Sylvia. "There is nobody else who would. It was dear of her--she knew I wishedso much to go to the party with Janet. I wish Aunty could see me now. "Sylvia gave a little sigh in spite of her joy. "There's nobody else tocare very much. "

Ah, Sylvia, you were wrong! There was somebody else--somebody who caredvery much--an Old Lady, with eager, devouring eyes, who was standingunder the lilac bush and who presently stole away through the moonlitorchard to the woods like a shadow, going home with a vision of you inyour girlish beauty to companion her through the watches of that summernight. 

IV. The August Chapter

One day the minister's wife rushed in where Spencervale people hadfeared to tread, went boldly to Old Lady Lloyd, and asked her if shewouldn't come to their Sewing Circle, which met fortnightly on Saturdayafternoons. 

"We are filling a box to send to our Trinidad missionary, " said theminister's wife, "and we should be so pleased to have you come, MissLloyd. "

The Old Lady was on the point of refusing rather haughtily. Not that shewas opposed to missions--or sewing circles either--quite the contrary, but she knew that each member of the Circle was expected to pay tencents a week for the purpose of procuring sewing materials; and thepoor Old Lady really did not see how she could afford it. But a suddenthought checked her refusal before it reached her lips. 

"I suppose some of the young girls go to the Circle?" she said craftily. 

"Oh, they all go, " said the minister's wife. "Janet Moore and Miss Grayare our most enthusiastic members. It is very lovely of Miss Gray togive her Saturday afternoons--the only ones she has free from pupils--toour work. But she really has the sweetest disposition. "

"I'll join your Circle, " said the Old Lady promptly. She was determinedshe would do it, if she had to live on two meals a day to save thenecessary fee. 

She went to the Sewing Circle at James Martin's the next Saturday, anddid the most beautiful hand sewing for them. She was so expert atit that she didn't need to think about it at all, which was ratherfortunate, for all her thoughts were taken up with Sylvia, who sat inthe opposite corner with Janet Moore, her graceful hands busy with alittle boy's coarse gingham shirt. Nobody thought of introducing Sylviato Old Lady Lloyd, and the Old Lady was glad of it. She sewed finelyaway, and listened with all her ears to the girlish chatter which wenton in the opposite corner. One thing she found out--Sylvia's birthdaywas the twentieth of August. And the Old Lady was straightway fired witha consuming wish to give Sylvia a birthday present. She lay awakemost of the night wondering if she could do it, and most sorrowfullyconcluded that it was utterly out of the question, no matter how shemight pinch and contrive. Old Lady Lloyd worried quite absurdly overthis, and it haunted her like a spectre until the next Sewing Circleday. 

It met at Mrs. Moore's and Mrs. Moore was especially gracious to OldLady Lloyd, and insisted on her taking the wicker rocker in the parlour. The Old Lady would rather have been in the sitting-room with the younggirls, but she submitted for courtesy's sake--and she had her reward. Her chair was just behind the parlour door, and presently Janet Mooreand Sylvia Gray came and sat on the stairs in the hall outside, where acool breeze blew in through the maples before the front door. 

They were talking of their favourite poets. Janet, it appeared, adoredByron and Scott. Sylvia leaned to Tennyson and Browning. 

"Do you know, " said Sylvia softly, "my father was a poet? He publisheda little volume of verse once; and, Janet, I've never seen a copy ofit, and oh, how I would love to! It was published when he was atcollege--just a small, private edition to give his friends. He neverpublished any more--poor father! I think life disappointed him. But Ihave such a longing to see that little book of his verse. I haven'ta scrap of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I possessedsomething of him--of his heart, his soul, his inner life. He would besomething more than a mere name to me. "

"Didn't he have a copy of his own--didn't your mother have one?" askedJanet. 

"Mother hadn't. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty says therewas no copy of father's poems among mother's books. Mother didn't carefor poetry, Aunty says--Aunty doesn't either. Father went to Europeafter mother died, and he died there the next year. Nothing that he hadwith him was ever sent home to us. He had sold most of his books beforehe went, but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep forme. HIS book wasn't among them. I don't suppose I shall ever find acopy, but I should be so delighted if I only could. "

When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer an inlaidbox of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp volume, wrapped intissue paper--the Old Lady's most treasured possession. On the fly-leafwas written, "To Margaret, with the author's love. "

The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling fingers and, through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses, although she hadknown them all by heart for years. She meant to give the book to Sylviafor a birthday present--one of the most precious gifts ever given, ifthe value of gifts is gauged by the measure of self-sacrifice involved. In that little book was immortal love--old laughter--old tears--oldbeauty which had bloomed like a rose years ago, holding still itssweetness like old rose leaves. She removed the telltale fly-leaf; andlate on the night before Sylvia's birthday, the Old Lady crept, undercover of the darkness, through byways and across fields, as if bent onsome nefarious expedition, to the little Spencervale store where thepost-office was kept. She slipped the thin parcel through the slit inthe door, and then stole home again, feeling a strange sense of lossand loneliness. It was as if she had given away the last link betweenherself and her youth. But she did not regret it. It would give Sylviapleasure, and that had come to be the overmastering passion of the OldLady's heart. 

The next night the light in Sylvia's room burned very late, and theOld Lady watched it triumphantly, knowing the meaning of it. Sylvia wasreading her father's poems, and the Old Lady in her darkness read themtoo, murmuring the lines over and over to herself. After all, givingaway the book had not mattered so very much. She had the soul of itstill--and the fly-leaf with the name, in Leslie's writing, by whichnobody ever called her now. 

The Old Lady was sitting on the Marshall sofa the next Sewing Circleafternoon when Sylvia Gray came and sat down beside her. The Old Lady'shands trembled a little, and one side of a handkerchief, which wasafterwards given as a Christmas present to a little olive-skinned cooliein Trinidad, was not quite so exquisitely done as the other three sides. 

Sylvia at first talked of the Circle, and Mrs. Marshall's dahlias, andthe Old Lady was in the seventh heaven of delight, though she took carenot to show it, and was even a little more stately and finely manneredthan usual. When she asked Sylvia how she liked living in Spencervale, Sylvia said, "Very much. Everybody is so kind to me. Besides"--Sylvia lowered hervoice so that nobody but the Old Lady could hear it--"I have a fairygodmother here who does the most beautiful and wonderful things for me. "

Sylvia, being a girl of fine instincts, did not look at Old Lady Lloydas she said this. But she would not have seen anything if she hadlooked. The Old Lady was not a Lloyd for nothing. 

"How very interesting, " she said, indifferently. 

"Isn't it? I am so grateful to her and I have wished so much she mightknow how much pleasure she has given me. I have found lovely flowersand delicious berries on my path all summer; I feel sure she sent memy party dress. But the dearest gift came last week on my birthday--alittle volume of my father's poems. I can't express what I felt onreceiving them. But I longed to meet my fairy godmother and thank her. "

"Quite a fascinating mystery, isn't it? Have you really no idea who sheis?"

The Old Lady asked this dangerous question with marked success. Shewould not have been so successful if she had not been so sure thatSylvia had no idea of the old romance between her and Leslie Gray. As itwas, she had a comfortable conviction that she herself was the very lastperson Sylvia would be likely to suspect. 

Sylvia hesitated for an almost unnoticeable moment. Then she said, "Ihaven't tried to find out, because I don't think she wants me to know. At first, of course, in the matter of the flowers and dress, I did tryto solve the mystery; but, since I received the book, I became convincedthat it was my fairy godmother who was doing it all, and I haverespected her wish for concealment and always shall. Perhaps some dayshe will reveal herself to me. I hope so, at least. "

"I wouldn't hope it, " said the Old Lady discouragingly. "Fairygodmothers--at least, in all the fairy tales I ever read--are somewhatapt to be queer, crochety people, much more agreeable when wrapped up inmystery than when met face to face. "

"I'm convinced that mine is the very opposite, and that the better Ibecame acquainted with her, the more charming a personage I should findher, " said Sylvia gaily. 

Mrs. Marshall came up at this juncture and entreated Miss Gray to singfor them. Miss Gray consenting sweetly, the Old Lady was left alone andwas rather glad of it. She enjoyed her conversation with Sylvia muchmore in thinking it over after she got home than while it was takingplace. When an Old Lady has a guilty conscience, it is apt to make hernervous and distract her thoughts from immediate pleasure. She wondereda little uneasily if Sylvia really did suspect her. Then she concludedthat it was out of the question. Who would suspect a mean, unsociableOld Lady, who had no friends, and who gave only five cents to the SewingCircle when everyone else gave ten or fifteen, to be a fairy godmother, the donor of beautiful party dresses, and the recipient of gifts fromromantic, aspiring young poets?

V. The September Chapter

In September the Old Lady looked back on the summer and owned to herselfthat it had been a strangely happy one, with Sundays and Sewing Circledays standing out like golden punctuation marks in a poem of life. She felt like an utterly different woman; and other people thought herdifferent also. The Sewing Circle women found her so pleasant, and evenfriendly, that they began to think they had misjudged her, and thatperhaps it was eccentricity after all, and not meanness, which accountedfor her peculiar mode of living. Sylvia Gray always came and talked toher on Circle afternoons now, and the Old Lady treasured every word shesaid in her heart and repeated them over and over to her lonely self inthe watches of the night. 

Sylvia never talked of herself or her plans, unless asked about them;and the Old Lady's self-consciousness prevented her from asking anypersonal questions: so their conversation kept to the surface of things, and it was not from Sylvia, but from the minister's wife that the OldLady finally discovered what her darling's dearest ambition was. 

The minister's wife had dropped in at the old Lloyd place one eveninglate in September, when a chilly wind was blowing up from the northeastand moaning about the eaves of the house, as if the burden of itslay were "harvest is ended and summer is gone. " The Old Lady had beenlistening to it, as she plaited a little basket of sweet grass forSylvia. She had walked all the way to Avonlea sand-hills for it theday before, and she was very tired. And her heart was sad. This summer, which had so enriched her life, was almost over; and she knew thatSylvia Gray talked of leaving Spencervale at the end of October. TheOld Lady's heart felt like very lead within her at the thought, andshe almost welcomed the advent of the minister's wife as a distraction, although she was desperately afraid that the minister's wife had calledto ask for a subscription for the new vestry carpet, and the Old Ladysimply could not afford to give one cent. 

But the minister's wife had merely dropped in on her way home from theSpencers' and she did not make any embarrassing requests. Instead, shetalked about Sylvia Gray, and her words fell on the Old Lady's ears likeseparate pearl notes of unutterably sweet music. The minister's wifehad nothing but praise for Sylvia--she was so sweet and beautiful andwinning. 

"And with SUCH a voice, " said the minister's wife enthusiastically, adding with a sigh, "It's such a shame she can't have it properlytrained. She would certainly become a great singer--competent criticshave told her so. But she is so poor she doesn't think she can everpossibly manage it--unless she can get one of the Cameron scholarships, as they are called; and she has very little hope of that, although theprofessor of music who taught her has sent her name in. "

"What are the Cameron scholarships?" asked the Old Lady. 

"Well, I suppose you have heard of Andrew Cameron, the millionaire?"said the minister's wife, serenely unconscious that she was causing thevery bones of the Old Lady's family skeleton to jangle in their closet. 

Into the Old Lady's white face came a sudden faint stain of colour, asif a rough hand had struck her cheek. 

"Yes, I've heard of him, " she said. 

"Well, it seems that he had a daughter, who was a very beautiful girl, and whom he idolized. She had a fine voice, and he was going to send herabroad to have it trained. And she died. It nearly broke his heart, Iunderstand. But ever since, he sends one young girl away to Europe everyyear for a thorough musical education under the best teachers--in memoryof his daughter. He has sent nine or ten already; but I fear there isn'tmuch chance for Sylvia Gray, and she doesn't think there is herself. "

"Why not?" asked the Old Lady spiritedly. "I am sure that there can befew voices equal to Miss Gray's. "

"Very true. But you see, these so-called scholarships are privateaffairs, dependent solely on the whim and choice of Andrew Cameronhimself. Of course, when a girl has friends who use their influence withhim, he will often send her on their recommendation. They say he sent agirl last year who hadn't much of a voice at all just because her fatherhad been an old business crony of his. But Sylvia doesn't know anyone atall who would, to use a slang term, have any 'pull' with Andrew Cameron, and she is not acquainted with him herself. Well, I must be going; we'llsee you at the Manse on Saturday, I hope, Miss Lloyd. The Circle meetsthere, you know. "

"Yes, I know, " said the Old Lady absently. When the minister's wife hadgone, she dropped her sweetgrass basket and sat for a long, long timewith her hands lying idly in her lap, and her big black eyes staringunseeingly at the wall before her. 

Old Lady Lloyd, so pitifully poor that she had to eat six crackers theless a week to pay her fee to the Sewing Circle, knew that it was in herpower--HERS--to send Leslie Gray's daughter to Europe for her musicaleducation! If she chose to use her "pull" with Andrew Cameron--if shewent to him and asked him to send Sylvia Gray abroad the nextyear--she had no doubt whatever that it would be done. It all lay withher--if--if--IF she could so far crush and conquer her pride as to stoopto ask a favour of the man who had wronged her and hers so bitterly. 

Years ago, her father, acting under the advice and urgency of AndrewCameron, had invested all his little fortune in an enterprise that hadturned out a failure. Abraham Lloyd lost every dollar he possessed, andhis family were reduced to utter poverty. Andrew Cameron might have beenforgiven for a mistake; but there was a strong suspicion, amounting toalmost certainty, that he had been guilty of something far worse thana mistake in regard to his uncle's investment. Nothing could be legallyproved; but it was certain that Andrew Cameron, already noted for his"sharp practices, " emerged with improved finances from an entanglementthat had ruined many better men; and old Doctor Lloyd had diedbrokenhearted, believing that his nephew had deliberately victimizedhim. 

Andrew Cameron had not quite done this; he had meant well enough byhis uncle at first, and what he had finally done he tried to justify tohimself by the doctrine that a man must look out for Number One. 

Margaret Lloyd made no such excuses for him; she held him responsible, not only for her lost fortune, but for her father's death, and neverforgave him for it. When Abraham Lloyd had died, Andrew Cameron, perhapspricked by his conscience, had come to her, sleekly and smoothly, tooffer her financial aid. He would see, he told her, that she neversuffered want. 

Margaret Lloyd flung his offer back in his face after a fashion thatleft nothing to be desired in the way of plain speaking. She would die, she told him passionately, before she would accept a penny or a favourfrom him. He had preserved an unbroken show of good temper, expressedhis heartfelt regret that she should cherish such an unjust opinion ofhim, and had left her with an oily assurance that he would always be herfriend, and would always be delighted to render her any assistance inhis power whenever she should choose to ask for it. 

The Old Lady had lived for twenty years in the firm conviction that shewould die in the poorhouse--as, indeed, seemed not unlikely--before shewould ask a favour of Andrew Cameron. And so, in truth, she would have, had it been for herself. But for Sylvia! Could she so far humble herselffor Sylvia's sake?

The question was not easily or speedily settled, as had been the case inthe matters of the grape jug and the book of poems. For a whole weekthe Old Lady fought her pride and bitterness. Sometimes, in the hoursof sleepless night, when all human resentments and rancours seemed pettyand contemptible, she thought she had conquered it. But in the daytime, with the picture of her father looking down at her from the wall, and the rustle of her unfashionable dresses, worn because of AndrewCameron's double dealing, in her ears, it got the better of her again. 

But the Old Lady's love for Sylvia had grown so strong and deep andtender that no other feeling could endure finally against it. Love isa great miracle worker; and never had its power been more strongly mademanifest than on the cold, dull autumn morning when the Old Lady walkedto Bright River railway station and took the train to Charlottetown, bent on an errand the very thought of which turned her soul sick withinher. The station master who sold her her ticket thought Old Lady Lloydlooked uncommonly white and peaked--"as if she hadn't slept a winkor eaten a bite for a week, " he told his wife at dinner time. "Guessthere's something wrong in her business affairs. This is the second timeshe's gone to town this summer. "

When the Old Lady reached the town, she ate her slender little lunch andthen walked out to the suburb where the Cameron factories and warehouseswere. It was a long walk for her, but she could not afford to drive. Shefelt very tired when she was shown into the shining, luxurious officewhere Andrew Cameron sat at his desk. 

After the first startled glance of surprise, he came forward beamingly, with outstretched hand. 

"Why, Cousin Margaret! This is a pleasant surprise. Sit down--allow me, this is a much more comfortable chair. Did you come in this morning? Andhow is everybody out in Spencervale?"

The Old Lady had flushed at his first words. To hear the name by whichher father and mother and lover had called her on Andrew Cameron's lipsseemed like profanation. But, she told herself, the time was past forsqueamishness. If she could ask a favour of Andrew Cameron, she couldbear lesser pangs. For Sylvia's sake she shook hands with him, forSylvia's sake she sat down in the chair he offered. But for no livinghuman being's sake could this determined Old Lady infuse any cordialityinto her manner or her words. She went straight to the point with Lloydsimplicity. 

"I have come to ask a favour of you, " she said, looking him in the eye, not at all humbly or meekly, as became a suppliant, but challenginglyand defiantly, as if she dared him to refuse. 

"DE-lighted to hear it, Cousin Margaret. " Never was anything so blandand gracious as his tone. "Anything I can do for you I shall be onlytoo pleased to do. I am afraid you have looked upon me as an enemy, Margaret, and I assure you I have felt your injustice keenly. I realizethat some appearances were against me, but--"

The Old Lady lifted her hand and stemmed his eloquence by that onegesture. 

"I did not come here to discuss that matter, " she said. "We will notrefer to the past, if you please. I came to ask a favour, not formyself, but for a very dear young friend of mine--a Miss Gray, who has aremarkably fine voice which she wishes to have trained. She is poor, so I came to ask you if you would give her one of your musicalscholarships. I understand her name has already been suggested to you, with a recommendation from her teacher. I do not know what he has saidof her voice, but I do know he could hardly overrate it. If you send herabroad for training, you will not make any mistake. "

The Old Lady stopped talking. She felt sure Andrew Cameron wouldgrant her request, but she did hope he would grant it rather rudely orunwillingly. She could accept the favour so much more easily if it wereflung to her like a bone to a dog. But not a bit of it. Andrew Cameronwas suaver than ever. Nothing could give him greater pleasure than togrant his dear Cousin Margaret's request--he only wished it involvedmore trouble on his part. Her little protege should have her musicaleducation assuredly--she should go abroad next year--and he wasDE-lighted--

"Thank you, " said the Old Lady, cutting him short again. "I am muchobliged to you--and I ask you not to let Miss Gray know anything of myinterference. And I shall not take up any more of your valuable time. Good afternoon. "

"Oh, you mustn't go so soon, " he said, with some real kindness orclannishness permeating the hateful cordiality of his voice--for AndrewCameron was not entirely without the homely virtues of the average man. He had been a good husband and father; he had once been very fond of hisCousin Margaret; and he was really very sorry that "circumstances" had"compelled" him to act as he had done in that old affair of her father'sinvestment. "You must be my guest to-night. "

"Thank you. I must return home to-night, " said the Old Lady firmly, andthere was that in her tone which told Andrew Cameron that it would beuseless to urge her. But he insisted on telephoning for his carriage todrive her to the station. The Old Lady submitted to this, because shewas secretly afraid her own legs would not suffice to carry her there;she even shook hands with him at parting, and thanked him a second timefor granting her request. 

"Not at all, " he said. "Please try to think a little more kindly of me, Cousin Margaret. "

When the Old Lady reached the station she found, to her dismay, that hertrain had just gone and that she would have to wait two hours for theevening one. She went into the waiting-room and sat down. She was verytired. All the excitement that had sustained her was gone, and she feltweak and old. She had nothing to eat, having expected to get home intime for tea; the waiting-room was chilly, and she shivered in her thin, old, silk mantilla. Her head ached and her heart likewise. She had wonSylvia's desire for her; but Sylvia would go out of her life, and theOld Lady did not see how she was to go on living after that. Yet she satthere unflinchingly for two hours, an upright, indomitable old figure, silently fighting her losing battle with the forces of physical andmental pain, while happy people came and went, and laughed and talkedbefore her. 

At eight o'clock the Old Lady got off the train at Bright River station, and slipped off unnoticed into the darkness of the wet night. She hadtwo miles to walk, and a cold rain was falling. Soon the Old Lady waswet to the skin and chilled to the marrow. She felt as if she werewalking in a bad dream. Blind instinct alone guided her over the lastmile and up the lane to her own house. As she fumbled at her door, she realized that a burning heat had suddenly taken the place of herchilliness. She stumbled in over her threshold and closed the door. 

VI. The October Chapter

On the second morning after Old Lady Lloyd's journey to town, SylviaGray was walking blithely down the wood lane. It was a beautiful autumnmorning, clear and crisp and sunny; the frosted ferns, drenched andbattered with the rain of yesterday, gave out a delicious fragrance;here and there in the woods a maple waved a gay crimson banner, or abranch of birch showed pale golden against the dark, unchanging spruces. The air was very pure and exhilarating. Sylvia walked with a joyouslightness of step and uplift of brow. 

At the beech in the hollow she paused for an expectant moment, but therewas nothing among the gray old roots for her. She was just turningaway when little Teddy Kimball, who lived next door to the manse, came running down the slope from the direction of the old Lloyd place. Teddy's freckled face was very pale. 

"Oh, Miss Gray!" he gasped. "I guess Old Lady Lloyd has gone clean crazyat last. The minister's wife asked me to run up to the Old Lady, with amessage about the Sewing Circle--and I knocked--and knocked--and nobodycame--so I thought I'd just step in and leave the letter on thetable. But when I opened the door, I heard an awful queer laugh in thesitting-room, and next minute, the Old Lady came to the sitting-roomdoor. Oh, Miss Gray, she looked awful. Her face was red and her eyesawful wild--and she was muttering and talking to herself and laughinglike mad. I was so scared I just turned and run. "

Sylvia, without stopping for reflection, caught Teddy's hand and ranup the slope. It did not occur to her to be frightened, although shethought with Teddy that the poor, lonely, eccentric Old Lady had reallygone out of her mind at last. 

The Old Lady was sitting on the kitchen sofa when Sylvia entered. Teddy, too frightened to go in, lurked on the step outside. The Old Lady stillwore the damp black silk dress in which she had walked from the station. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild, her voice hoarse. But she knewSylvia and cowered down. 

"Don't look at me, " she moaned. "Please go away--I can't bear that YOUshould know how poor I am. You're to go to Europe--Andrew Cameron isgoing to send you--I asked him--he couldn't refuse ME. But please goaway. "

Sylvia did not go away. At a glance she had seen that this was sicknessand delirium, not insanity. She sent Teddy off in hot haste for Mrs. Spencer and when Mrs. Spencer came they induced the Old Lady to go tobed, and sent for the doctor. By night everybody in Spencervale knewthat Old Lady Lloyd had pneumonia. 

Mrs. Spencer announced that she meant to stay and nurse the OldLady. Several other women offered assistance. Everybody was kind andthoughtful. But the Old Lady did not know it. She did not even knowSylvia Gray, who came and sat by her every minute she could spare. Sylvia Gray now knew all that she had suspected--the Old Lady was herfairy godmother. The Old Lady babbled of Sylvia incessantly, revealingall her love for her, betraying all the sacrifices she had made. Sylvia's heart ached with love and tenderness, and she prayed earnestlythat the Old Lady might recover. 

"I want her to know that I give her love for love, " she murmured. 

Everybody knew now how poor the Old Lady really was. She let slip allthe jealously guarded secrets of her existence, except her old love forLeslie Gray. Even in delirium something sealed her lips as to that. But all else came out--her anguish over her unfashionable attire, her pitiful makeshifts and contrivances, her humiliation over wearingunfashionable dresses and paying only five cents where every otherSewing Circle member paid ten. The kindly women who waited on herlistened to her with tear-filled eyes, and repented of their harshjudgments in the past. 

"But who would have thought it?" said Mrs. Spencer to the minister'swife. "Nobody ever dreamed that her father had lost ALL his money, though folks supposed he had lost some in that old affair of the silvermine out west. It's shocking to think of the way she has lived all theseyears, often with not enough to eat--and going to bed in winter days tosave fuel. Though I suppose if we had known we couldn't have done muchfor her, she's so desperate proud. But if she lives, and will let ushelp her, things will be different after this. Crooked Jack says he'llnever forgive himself for taking pay for the few little jobs he did forher. He says, if she'll only let him, he'll do everything she wants donefor her after this for nothing. Ain't it strange what a fancy she's tookto Miss Gray? Think of her doing all those things for her all summer, and selling the grape jug and all. Well, the Old Lady certainly isn'tmean, but nobody made a mistake in calling her queer. It all does seemdesperate pitiful. Miss Gray's taking it awful hard. She seems to thinkabout as much of the Old Lady as the Old Lady thinks of her. She's soworked up she don't even seem to care about going to Europe next year. She's really going--she's had word from Andrew Cameron. I'm awful glad, for there never was a sweeter girl in the world; but she says it willcost too much if the Old Lady's life is to pay for it. "

Andrew Cameron heard of the Old Lady's illness and came out toSpencervale himself. He was not allowed to see the Old Lady, of course;but he told all concerned that no expense or trouble was to be spared, and the Spencervale doctor was instructed to send his bill to AndrewCameron and hold his peace about it. Moreover, when Andrew Cameronwent back home, he sent a trained nurse out to wait on the Old Lady, acapable, kindly woman who contrived to take charge of the case withoutoffending Mrs. Spencer--than which no higher tribute could be paid toher tact!

The Old Lady did not die--the Lloyd constitution brought her through. One day, when Sylvia came in, the Old Lady smiled up at her, with aweak, faint, sensible smile, and murmured her name, and the nurse saidthat the crisis was past. 

The Old Lady made a marvellously patient and tractable invalid. She didjust as she was told, and accepted the presence of the nurse as a matterof course. 

But one day, when she was strong enough to talk a little, she said toSylvia, "I suppose Andrew Cameron sent Miss Hayes here, did he?" "Yes, " saidSylvia, rather timidly. 

The Old Lady noticed the timidity and smiled, with something of her oldhumour and spirit in her black eyes. 

"Time has been when I'd have packed off unceremoniously any personAndrew Cameron sent here, " she said. "But, Sylvia, I have gone throughthe Valley of the Shadow of Death, and I have left pride and resentmentbehind me for ever, I hope. I no longer feel as I felt towards Andrew. I can even accept a personal favour from him now. At last I can forgivehim for the wrong he did me and mine. Sylvia, I find that I have beenletting no ends of cats out of bags in my illness. Everybody knows nowhow poor I am--but I don't seem to mind it a bit. I'm only sorry thatI ever shut my neighbours out of my life because of my foolish pride. Everyone has been so kind to me, Sylvia. In the future, if my life isspared, it is going to be a very different sort of life. I'm going toopen it to all the kindness and companionship I can find in young andold. I'm going to help them all I can and let them help me. I CAN helppeople--I've learned that money isn't the only power for helping people. Anyone who has sympathy and understanding to give has a treasure that iswithout money and without price. And oh, Sylvia, you've found out what Inever meant you to know. But I don't mind that now, either. "

Sylvia took the Old Lady's thin white hand and kissed it. 

"I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me, dearestMiss Lloyd, " she said earnestly. "And I am so glad that all mystery isdone away with between us, and I can love you as much and as openly asI have longed to do. I am so glad and so thankful that you love me, dearfairy godmother. "

"Do you know WHY I love you so?" said the Old Lady wistfully. "Did I letTHAT out in my raving, too?"

"No, but I think I know. It is because I am Leslie Gray's daughter, isn't it? I know that father loved you--his brother, Uncle Willis, toldme all about it. "

"I spoiled my own life because of my wicked pride, " said the Old Ladysadly. "But you will love me in spite of it all, won't you, Sylvia? Andyou will come to see me sometimes? And write me after you go away?"

"I am coming to see you every day, " said Sylvia. "I am going to stayin Spencervale for a whole year yet, just to be near you. And next yearwhen I go to Europe--thanks to you, fairy godmother--I'll write youevery day. We are going to be the best of chums, and we are going tohave a most beautiful year of comradeship!"

The Old Lady smiled contentedly. Out in the kitchen, the minister'swife, who had brought up a dish of jelly, was talking to Mrs. Spencerabout the Sewing Circle. Through the open window, where the red vineshung, came the pungent, sun-warm October air. The sunshine fell overSylvia's chestnut hair like a crown of glory and youth. 

"I do feel so perfectly happy, " said the Old Lady, with a long, rapturous breath. 

III. Each In His Own Tongue

The honey-tinted autumn sunshine was falling thickly over the crimsonand amber maples around old Abel Blair's door. There was only one outerdoor in old Abel's house, and it almost always stood wide open. A littleblack dog, with one ear missing and a lame forepaw, almost always slepton the worn red sandstone slab which served old Abel for a doorstep;and on the still more worn sill above it a large gray cat almost alwaysslept. Just inside the door, on a bandy-legged chair of elder days, oldAbel almost always sat. 

He was sitting there this afternoon--a little old man, sadly twistedwith rheumatism; his head was abnormally large, thatched with long, wiryblack hair; his face was heavily lined and swarthily sunburned; hiseyes were deep-set and black, with occasional peculiar golden flashes inthem. A strange looking man was old Abel Blair; and as strange was he ashe looked. Lower Carmody people would have told you. 

Old Abel was almost always sober in these, his later years. He was soberto-day. He liked to bask in that ripe sunlight as well as his dog andcat did; and in such baskings he almost always looked out of his doorwayat the far, fine blue sky over the tops of the crowding maples. Butto-day he was not looking at the sky, instead, he was staring at theblack, dusty rafters of his kitchen, where hung dried meats and stringsof onions and bunches of herbs and fishing tackle and guns and skins. 

But old Abel saw not these things; his face was the face of a man whobeholds visions, compact of heavenly pleasure and hellish pain, for oldAbel was seeing what he might have been--and what he was; as he alwayssaw when Felix Moore played to him on the violin. And the awful joy ofdreaming that he was young again, with unspoiled life before him, wasso great and compelling that it counterbalanced the agony in therealization of a dishonoured old age, following years in which he hadsquandered the wealth of his soul in ways where Wisdom lifted not hervoice. 

Felix Moore was standing opposite to him, before an untidy stove, wherethe noon fire had died down into pallid, scattered ashes. Under his chinhe held old Abel's brown, battered fiddle; his eyes, too, were fixedon the ceiling; and he, too, saw things not lawful to be uttered in anylanguage save that of music; and of all music, only that given forth bythe anguished, enraptured spirit of the violin. And yet this Felix waslittle more than twelve years old, and his face was still the face of achild who knows nothing of either sorrow or sin or failure or remorse. Only in his large, gray-black eyes was there something not of thechild--something that spoke of an inheritance from many hearts, nowashes, which had aforetime grieved and joyed, and struggled and failed, and succeeded and grovelled. The inarticulate cries of their longingshad passed into this child's soul, and transmuted themselves into theexpression of his music. 

Felix was a beautiful child. Carmody people, who stayed at home, thoughtso; and old Abel Blair, who had roamed afar in many lands, thought so;and even the Rev. Stephen Leonard, who taught, and tried to believe, that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, thought so. 

He was a slight lad, with sloping shoulders, a slim brown neck, and ahead set on it with stag-like grace and uplift. His hair, cut straightacross his brow and falling over his ears, after some caprice of JanetAndrews, the minister's housekeeper, was a glossy blue-black. Theskin of his face and hands was like ivory; his eyes were large andbeautifully tinted--gray, with dilating pupils; his features had theoutlines of a cameo. Carmody mothers considered him delicate, and hadlong foretold that the minister would never bring him up; but old Abelpulled his grizzled moustache when he heard such forebodings and smiled. 

"Felix Moore will live, " he said positively. "You can't kill that kinduntil their work is done. He's got a work to do--if the minister'll lethim do it. And if the minister don't let him do it, then I wouldn't bein that minister's shoes when he comes to the judgment--no, I'd ratherbe in my own. It's an awful thing to cross the purposes of the Almighty, either in your own life or anybody else's. Sometimes I think it's what'smeant by the unpardonable sin--ay, that I do!"

Carmody people never asked what old Abel meant. They had long ago givenup such vain questioning. When a man had lived as old Abel had lived forthe greater part of his life, was it any wonder he said crazy things?And as for hinting that Mr. Leonard, a man who was really almosttoo good to live, was guilty of any sin, much less an unpardonableone--well, there now! what use was it to be taking any account of oldAbel's queer speeches? Though, to be sure, there was no great harm ina fiddle, and maybe Mr. Leonard was a mite too strict that way with thechild. But then, could you wonder at it? There was his father, you see. 

Felix finally lowered the violin, and came back to old Abel's kitchenwith a long sigh. Old Abel smiled drearily at him--the smile of a manwho has been in the hands of the tormentors. 

"It's awful the way you play--it's awful, " he said with a shudder. "Inever heard anything like it--and you that never had any teaching sinceyou were nine years old, and not much practice, except what you couldget here now and then on my old, battered fiddle. And to think you makeit up yourself as you go along! I suppose your grandfather would neverhear to your studying music--would he now?"

Felix shook his head. 

"I know he wouldn't, Abel. He wants me to be a minister. Ministers aregood things to be, but I'm afraid I can't be a minister. "

"Not a pulpit minister. There's different kinds of ministers, and eachmust talk to men in his own tongue if he's going to do 'em any realgood, " said old Abel meditatively. "YOUR tongue is music. Strange thatyour grandfather can't see that for himself, and him such a broad-mindedman! He's the only minister I ever had much use for. He's God's own ifever a man was. And he loves you--yes, sir, he loves you like the appleof his eye. "

"And I love him, " said Felix warmly. "I love him so much that I'll eventry to be a minister for his sake, though I don't want to be. "

"What do you want to be?"

"A great violinist, " answered the child, his ivory-hued face suddenlywarming into living rose. "I want to play to thousands--and see theireyes look as yours do when I play. Sometimes your eyes frighten me, butoh, it's a splendid fright! If I had father's violin I could do better. I remember that he once said it had a soul that was doing purgatory forits sins when it had lived on earth. I don't know what he meant, but itdid seem to me that HIS violin was alive. He taught me to play on it assoon as I was big enough to hold it. "

"Did you love your father?" asked old Abel, with a keen look. 

Again Felix crimsoned; but he looked straightly and steadily into hisold friend's face. 

"No, " he said, "I didn't; but, " he added, gravely and deliberately, "Idon't think you should have asked me such a question. "

It was old Abel's turn to blush. Carmody people would not have believedhe could blush; and perhaps no living being could have called thatdeepening hue into his weather-beaten cheek save only this gray-eyedchild of the rebuking face. 

"No, I guess I shouldn't, " he said. "But I'm always making mistakes. I've never made anything else. That's why I'm nothing more than 'OldAbel' to the Carmody people. Nobody but you and your grandfather evercalls me 'Mr. Blair. ' Yet William Blair at the store up there, rich andrespected as he is, wasn't half as clever a man as I was when we startedin life: you mayn't believe that, but it's true. And the worst of it is, young Felix, that most of the time I don't care whether I'm Mr. Blair ofold Abel. Only when you play I care. It makes me feel just as a look Isaw in a little girl's eyes some years ago made me feel. Her name wasAnne Shirley and she lived with the Cuthberts down at Avonlea. We gotinto a conversation at Blair's store. She could talk a blue streakto anyone, that girl could. I happened to say about something that itdidn't matter to a battered old hulk of sixty odd like me. She lookedat me with her big, innocent eyes, a little reproachful like, as if I'dsaid something awful heretical. 'Don't you think, Mr. Blair, ' she says, 'that the older we get the more things ought to matter to us?'--as graveas if she'd been a hundred instead of eleven. 'Things matter SO much tome now, ' she says, clasping her hands thisaway, 'and I'm sure that whenI'm sixty they'll matter just five times as much to me. ' Well, theway she looked and the way she spoke made me feel downright ashamed ofmyself because things had stopped mattering with me. But never mind allthat. My miserable old feelings don't count for much. What come of yourfather's fiddle?"

"Grandfather took it away when I came here. I think he burned it. And Ilong for it so often. "

"Well, you've always got my old brown fiddle to come to when you must. "

"Yes, I know. And I'm glad for that. But I'm hungry for a violin all thetime. And I only come here when the hunger gets too much to bear. Ifeel as if I oughtn't to come even then--I'm always saying I won't do itagain, because I know grandfather wouldn't like it, if he knew. "

"He has never forbidden it, has he?"

"No, but that is because he doesn't know I come here for that. He neverthinks of such a thing. I feel sure he WOULD forbid it, if he knew. Andthat makes me very wretched. And yet I HAVE to come. Mr. Blair, do youknow why grandfather can't bear to have me play on the violin? He lovesmusic, and he doesn't mind my playing on the organ, if I don't neglectother things. I can't understand it, can you?"

"I have a pretty good idea, but I can't tell you. It isn't my secret. Maybe he'll tell you himself some day. But, mark you, young Felix, hehas got good reasons for it all. Knowing what I know, I can't blame himover much, though I think he's mistaken. Come now, play something morefor me before you go--something that's bright and happy this time, soas to leave me with a good taste in my mouth. That last thing you playedtook me straight to heaven, --but heaven's awful near to hell, and at thelast you tipped me in. "

"I don't understand you, " said Felix, drawing his fine, narrow blackbrows together in a perplexed frown. 

"No--and I wouldn't want you to. You couldn't understand unless you wasan old man who had it in him once to do something and be a MAN, and justwent and made himself a devilish fool. But there must be something inyou that understands things--all kinds of things--or you couldn't put itall into music the way you do. How do you do it? How in--how DO you doit, young Felix?"

"I don't know. But I play differently to different people. I don't knowhow that is. When I'm alone with you I have to play one way; andwhen Janet comes over here to listen I feel quite another way--not sothrilling, but happier and lonelier. And that day when Jessie Blair washere listening I felt as if I wanted to laugh and sing--as if the violinwanted to laugh and sing all the time. "

The strange, golden gleam flashed through old Abel's sunken eyes. 

"God, " he muttered under his breath, "I believe the boy can get intoother folk's souls somehow, and play out what HIS soul sees there. "

"What's that you say?" inquired Felix, petting his fiddle. 

"Nothing--never mind--go on. Something lively now, young Felix. Stopprobing into my soul, where you haven't no business to be, you infant, and play me something out of your own--something sweet and happy andpure. "

"I'll play the way I feel on sunshiny mornings, when the birds aresinging and I forget I have to be a minister, " said Felix simply. 

A witching, gurgling, mirthful strain, like mingled bird and brook song, floated out on the still air, along the path where the red and goldenmaple leaves were falling very softly, one by one. The Reverend StephenLeonard heard it, as he came along the way, and the Reverend StephenLeonard smiled. Now, when Stephen Leonard smiled, children ran to him, and grown people felt as if they looked from Pisgah over to some fairland of promise beyond the fret and worry of their care-dimmed earthlylives. 

Mr. Leonard loved music, as he loved all things beautiful, whether inthe material or the spiritual world, though he did not realize how muchhe loved them for their beauty alone, or he would have been shocked andremorseful. He himself was beautiful. His figure was erect and youthful, despite seventy years. His face was as mobile and charming as a woman's, yet with all a man's tried strength and firmness in it, and his darkblue eyes flashed with the brilliance of one and twenty; even his silkensilvery hair could not make an old man of him. He was worshipped byeveryone who knew him, and he was, in so far as mortal man may be, worthy of that worship. 

"Old Abel is amusing himself with his violin again, " he thought. "Whata delicious thing he is playing! He has quite a gift for the violin. Buthow can he play such a thing as that, --a battered old hulk of a man whohas, at one time or another, wallowed in almost every sin to which humannature can sink? He was on one of his sprees three days ago--thefirst one for over a year--lying dead-drunk in the market square inCharlottetown among the dogs; and now he is playing something that onlya young archangel on the hills of heaven ought to be able to play. Well, it will make my task all the easier. Abel is always repentant by thetime he is able to play on his fiddle. "

Mr. Leonard was on the door-stone. The little black dog had frisked downto meet him, and the gray cat rubbed her head against his leg. Old Abeldid not notice him; he was beating time with uplifted hand and smilingface to Felix's music, and his eyes were young again, glowing withlaughter and sheer happiness. 

"Felix! what does this mean?"

The violin bow clattered from Felix's hand upon the floor; he swungaround and faced his grandfather. As he met the passion of grief andhurt in the old man's eyes, his own clouded with an agony of repentance. 

"Grandfather--I'm sorry, " he cried brokenly. 

"Now, now!" Old Abel had risen deprecatingly. "It's all my fault, Mr. Leonard. Don't you blame the boy. I coaxed him to play a bit for me. Ididn't feel fit to touch the fiddle yet myself--too soon after Friday, you see. So I coaxed him on--wouldn't give him no peace till he played. It's all my fault. "

"No, " said Felix, throwing back his head. His face was as white asmarble, yet it seemed ablaze with desperate truth and scorn of oldAbel's shielding lie. "No, grandfather, it isn't Abel's fault. I cameover here on purpose to play, because I thought you had gone to theharbour. I have come here often, ever since I have lived with you. "

"Ever since you have lived with me you have been deceiving me like this, Felix?"

There was no anger in Mr. Leonard's tone--only measureless sorrow. Theboy's sensitive lips quivered. 

"Forgive me, grandfather, " he whispered beseechingly. 

"You never forbid him to come, " old Abel broke in angrily. "Be just, Mr. Leonard--be just. "

"I AM just. Felix knows that he has disobeyed me, in the spirit if notin the letter. Do you not know it, Felix?"

"Yes, grandfather, I have done wrong--I've known that I was doing wrongevery time I came. Forgive me, grandfather. "

"Felix, I forgive you, but I ask you to promise me, here and now, that you will never again, as long as you live, touch a violin. " Duskycrimson rushed madly over the boy's face. He gave a cry as if he hadbeen lashed with a whip. Old Abel sprang to his feet. 

"Don't you ask such a promise of him, Mr. Leonard, " he cried furiously. "It's a sin, that's what it is. Man, man, what blinds you? You AREblind. Can't you see what is in the boy? His soul is full of music. It'll torture him to death--or to worse--if you don't let it have way. "

"There is a devil in such music, " said Mr. Leonard hotly. 

"Ay, there may be, but don't forget that there's a Christ in it, too, "retorted old Abel in a low tense tone. 

Mr. Leonard looked shocked; he considered that old Abel had utteredblasphemy. He turned away from him rebukingly. 

"Felix, promise me. "

There was no relenting in his face or tone. He was merciless in theuse of the power he possessed over that young, loving spirit. Felixunderstood that there was no escape; but his lips were very white as hesaid, "I promise, grandfather. "

Mr. Leonard drew a long breath of relief. He knew that promise would bekept. So did old Abel. The latter crossed the floor and sullenly tookthe violin from Felix's relaxed hand. Without a word or look he wentinto the little bedroom off the kitchen and shut the door with a slamof righteous indignation. But from its window he stealthily watched hisvisitors go away. Just as they entered on the maple path Mr. Leonardlaid his hand on Felix's head and looked down at him. Instantly the boyflung his arm up over the old man's shoulder and smiled at him. Inthe look they exchanged there was boundless love and trust--ay, andgood-fellowship. Old Abel's scornful eyes again held the golden flash. 

"How those two love each other!" he muttered enviously. "And how theytorture each other!"

Mr. Leonard went to his study to pray when he got home. He knew thatFelix had run for comforting to Janet Andrews, the little, thin, sweet-faced, rigid-lipped woman who kept house for them. Mr. Leonardknew that Janet would disapprove of his action as deeply as old Abel haddone. She would say nothing, she would only look at him with reproachfuleyes over the teacups at suppertime. But Mr. Leonard believed he haddone what was best and his conscience did not trouble him, though hisheart did. 

Thirteen years before this, his daughter Margaret had almost broken thatheart by marrying a man of whom he could not approve. Martin Moore wasa professional violinist. He was a popular performer, though not in anysense a great one. He met the slim, golden-haired daughter of the manseat the house of a college friend she was visiting in Toronto, andfell straightway in love with her. Margaret had loved him with allher virginal heart in return, and married him, despite her father'sdisapproval. It was not to Martin Moore's profession that Mr. Leonardobjected, but to the man himself. He knew that the violinist's pastlife had not been such as became a suitor for Margaret Leonard; and hisinsight into character warned him that Martin Moore could never make anywoman lastingly happy. 

Margaret Leonard did not believe this. She married Martin Moore andlived one year in paradise. Perhaps that atoned for the three bitteryears which followed--that, and her child. At all events, she died asshe had lived, loyal and uncomplaining. She died alone, for her husbandwas away on a concert tour, and her illness was so brief that her fatherhad not time to reach her before the end. Her body was taken home to beburied beside her mother in the little Carmody churchyard. Mr. Leonardwished to take the child, but Martin Moore refused to give him up. 

Six years later Moore, too, died, and at last Mr. Leonard had hisheart's desire--the possession of Margaret's son. The grandfatherawaited the child's coming with mingled feelings. His heart yearned forhim, yet he dreaded to meet a second edition of Martin Moore. SupposeMargaret's son resembled his handsome vagabond of a father! Or, worsestill, suppose he were cursed with his father's lack of principle, hisinstability, his Bohemian instincts. Thus Mr. Leonard tortured himselfwretchedly before the coming of Felix. 

The child did not look like either father or mother. Instead, Mr. Leonard found himself looking into a face which he had put away underthe grasses thirty years before--the face of his girl bride, who haddied at Margaret's birth. Here again were her lustrous gray-black eyes, her ivory outlines, her fine-traced arch of brow; and here, looking outof those eyes, seemed her very spirit again. From that moment the soulof the old man was knit to the soul of the child, and they loved eachother with a love surpassing that of women. 

Felix's only inheritance from his father was his love of music. But thechild had genius, where his father had possessed only talent. ToMartin Moore's outward mastery of the violin was added the mystery andintensity of his mother's nature, with some more subtle quality still, which had perhaps come to him from the grandmother he so stronglyresembled. Moore had understood what a career was naturally before thechild, and he had trained him in the technique of his art from the timethe slight fingers could first grasp the bow. When nine-year-old Felixcame to the Carmody manse, he had mastered as much of the science ofthe violin as nine out of ten musicians acquire in a lifetime; and hebrought with him his father's violin; it was all Martin Moore had toleave his son--but it was an Amati, the commercial value of which nobodyin Carmody suspected. Mr. Leonard had taken possession of it and Felixhad never seen it since. He cried himself to sleep many a night forthe loss of it. Mr. Leonard did not know this, and if Janet Andrewssuspected it she held her tongue--an art in which she excelled. She "sawno harm in a fiddle, " herself, and thought Mr. Leonard absurdly strictin the matter, though it would not have been well for the lucklessoutsider who might have ventured to say as much to her. She had connivedat Felix's visits to old Abel Blair, squaring the matter with herPresbyterian conscience by some peculiar process known only to herself. 

When Janet heard of the promise which Mr. Leonard had exacted from Felixshe seethed with indignation; and, though she "knew her place" betterthan to say anything to Mr. Leonard about it, she made her disapprovalso plainly manifest in her bearing that the stern, gentle old man foundthe atmosphere of his hitherto peaceful manse unpleasantly chill andhostile for a time. 

It was the wish of his heart that Felix should be a minister, as hewould have wished his own son to be, had one been born to him. Mr. Leonard thought rightly that the highest work to which any man could becalled was a life of service to his fellows; but he made the mistake ofsupposing the field of service much narrower than it is--of failing tosee that a man may minister to the needs of humanity in many differentbut equally effective ways. 

Janet hoped that Mr. Leonard might not exact the fulfilment of Felix'spromise; but Felix himself, with the instinctive understanding ofperfect love, knew that it was vain to hope for any change of viewpointin his grandfather. He addressed himself to the keeping of his promisein letter and in spirit. He never went again to old Abel's; he did noteven play on the organ, though this was not forbidden, because anymusic wakened in him a passion of longing and ecstasy which demandedexpression with an intensity not to be borne. He flung himself grimlyinto his studies and conned Latin and Greek verbs with a persistencywhich soon placed him at the head of all competitors. 

Only once in the long winter did he come near to breaking his promise. One evening, when March was melting into April, and the pulses of springwere stirring under the lingering snow, he was walking home from schoolalone. As he descended into the little hollow below the manse a livelylilt of music drifted up to meet him. It was only the product of amouth-organ, manipulated by a little black-eyed, French-Canadian hiredboy, sitting on the fence by the brook; but there was music in theragged urchin and it came out through his simple toy. It tingled overFelix from head to foot; and, when Leon held out the mouth-organ with afraternal grin of invitation, he snatched at it as a famished creaturemight snatch at food. 

Then, with it half-way to his lips, he paused. True, it was only theviolin he had promised never to touch; but he felt that if he gave wayever so little to the desire that was in him, it would sweep everythingbefore it. If he played on Leon Buote's mouth-organ, there in that mistyspring dale, he would go to old Abel's that evening; he KNEW he wouldgo. To Leon's amazement, Felix threw the mouth-organ back at him andran up the hill as if he were pursued. There was something in his boyishface that frightened Leon; and it frightened Janet Andrews as Felixrushed past her in the hall of the manse. 

"Child, what's the matter with you?" she cried. "Are you sick? Have youbeen scared?"

"No, no. Leave me alone, Janet, " said Felix chokingly, dashing up thestairs to his own room. 

He was quite composed when he came down to tea, an hour later, though hewas unusually pale and had purple shadows under his large eyes. 

Mr. Leonard scrutinized him somewhat anxiously; it suddenly occurred tothe old minister that Felix was looking more delicate than his wontthis spring. Well, he had studied hard all winter, and he was certainlygrowing very fast. When vacation came he must be sent away for a visit. 

"They tell me Naomi Clark is real sick, " said Janet. "She has beenailing all winter, and now she's fast to her bed. Mrs. Murphy says shebelieves the woman is dying, but nobody dares tell her so. She won'tgive in she's sick, nor take medicine. And there's nobody to wait on herexcept that simple creature, Maggie Peterson. "

"I wonder if I ought to go and see her, " said Mr. Leonard uneasily. 

"What use would it be to bother yourself? You know she wouldn't seeyou--she'd shut the door in your face like she did before. She's anawful wicked woman--but it's kind of terrible to think of her lyingthere sick, with no responsible person to tend her. "

"Naomi Clark is a bad woman and she lived a life of shame, but I likeher, for all that, " remarked Felix, in the grave, meditative tone inwhich he occasionally said rather startling things. 

Mr. Leonard looked somewhat reproachfully at Janet Andrews, as if to askher why Felix should have attained to this dubious knowledge of goodand evil under her care; and Janet shot a dour look back which, beinginterpreted, meant that if Felix went to the district school she couldnot and would not be held responsible if he learned more there thanarithmetic and Latin. 

"What do you know of Naomi Clark to like or dislike?" she askedcuriously. "Did you ever see her?"

"Oh, yes, " Felix replied, addressing himself to his cherry preserve withconsiderable gusto. "I was down at Spruce Cove one night last summerwhen a big thunderstorm came up. I went to Naomi's house for shelter. The door was open, so I walked right in, because nobody answered myknock. Naomi Clark was at the window, watching the cloud coming up overthe sea. She just looked at me once, but didn't say anything, and thenwent on watching the cloud. I didn't like to sit down because she hadn'tasked me to, so I went to the window by her and watched it, too. It wasa dreadful sight--the cloud was so black and the water so green, andthere was such a strange light between the cloud and the water; yetthere was something splendid in it, too. Part of the time I watched thestorm, and the other part I watched Naomi's face. It was dreadful tosee, like the storm, and yet I liked to see it. 

"After the thunder was over it rained a while longer, and Naomi sat downand talked to me. She asked me who I was, and when I told her she askedme to play something for her on her violin, "--Felix shot a deprecatingglance at Mr. Leonard--"because, she said, she'd heard I was a greathand at it. She wanted something lively, and I tried just as hard as Icould to play something like that. But I couldn't. I played somethingthat was terrible--it just played itself--it seemed as if something waslost that could never be found again. And before I got through, Naomicame at me, and tore the violin from me, and--SWORE. And she said, 'Youbig-eyed brat, how did you know THAT?' Then she took me by the arm--andshe hurt me, too, I can tell you--and she put me right out in the rainand slammed the door. "

"The rude, unmannerly creature!" said Janet indignantly. 

"Oh, no, she was quite in the right, " said Felix composedly. "It servedme right for what I played. You see, she didn't know I couldn't helpplaying it. I suppose she thought I did it on purpose. "

"What on earth did you play, child?"

"I don't know. " Felix shivered. "It was awful--it was dreadful. It wasfit to break you heart. But it HAD to be played, if I played anything atall. "

"I don't understand what you mean--I declare I don't, " said Janet inbewilderment. 

"I think we'll change the subject of conversation, " said Mr. Leonard. 

It was a month later when "the simple creature, Maggie" appeared at themanse door one evening and asked for the preached. 

"Naomi wants ter see yer, " she mumbled. "Naomi sent Maggie ter tell yerter come at onct. "

"I shall go, certainly, " said Mr. Leonard gently. "Is she very ill?"

"Her's dying, " said Maggie with a broad grin. "And her's awful skeeredof hell. Her just knew ter-day her was dying. Maggie told her--herwouldn't believe the harbour women, but her believed Maggie. Her yelledawful. "

Maggie chuckled to herself over the gruesome remembrance. Mr. Leonard, his heart filled with pity, called Janet and told her to give the poorcreature some refreshment. But Maggie shook her head. 

"No, no, preacher, Maggie must get right back to Naomi. Maggie'll tellher the preacher's coming ter save her from hell. "

She uttered an eerie cry, and ran at full speed shoreward through thespruce woods. 

"The Lord save us!" said Janet in an awed tone. "I knew the poor girlwas simple, but I didn't know she was like THAT. And are you going, sir?"

"Yes, of course. I pray God I may be able to help the poor soul, " saidMr. Leonard sincerely. He was a man who never shirked what he believedto be his duty; but duty had sometimes presented itself to him inpleasanter guise than this summons to Naomi Clark's death-bed. 

The woman had been the plague spot of Lower Carmody and CarmodyHarbour for a generation. In the earlier days of his ministry to thecongregation he had tried to reclaim her, and Naomi had mocked andflouted him to his face. Then, for the sake of those to whom she wasa snare or a heart-break, he had endeavoured to set the law in motionagainst her, and Naomi had laughed the law to scorn. Finally, he hadbeen compelled to let her alone. 

Yet Naomi had not always been an outcast. Her girlhood had beeninnocent; but she was the possessor of a dangerous beauty, and hermother was dead. Her father was a man notorious for his harshness andviolence of temper. When Naomi made the fatal mistake of trusting to afalse love that betrayed and deserted, he drove her from his door withtaunts and curses. 

Naomi took up her quarters in a little deserted house at Spruce Cove. Had her child lived it might have saved her. But it died at birth, andwith its little life went her last chance of worldly redemption. Fromthat time forth, her feet were set in the way that takes hold on hell. 

For the past five years, however, Naomi had lived a tolerablyrespectable life. When Janet Peterson had died, her idiot daughter, Maggie, had been left with no kin in the world. Nobody knew what was tobe done with her, for nobody wanted to be bothered with her. Naomi Clarkwent to the girl and offered her a home. People said she was no fitperson to have charge of Maggie, but everybody shirked the unpleasanttask of interfering in the matter, except Mr. Leonard, who went toexpostulate with Naomi, and, as Janet said, for his pains got her doorshut in his face. 

But from the day when Maggie Peterson went to live with her, Naomiceased to be the harbour Magdalen. 

The sun had set when Mr. Leonard reached Spruce Cove, and the harbourwas veiling itself in a wondrous twilight splendour. Afar out, thesea lay throbbing and purple, and the moan of the bar came through thesweet, chill spring air with its burden of hopeless, endless longing andseeking. The sky was blossoming into stars above the afterglow; outto the east the moon was rising, and the sea beneath it was a thing ofradiance and silver and glamour; and a little harbour boat that wentsailing across it was transmuted into an elfin shallop from the coast offairyland. 

Mr. Leonard sighed as he turned from the sinless beauty of the sea andsky to the threshold of Naomi Clark's house. It was very small--one roombelow, and a sleeping-loft above; but a bed had been made up for thesick woman by the down-stairs window looking out on the harbour; andNaomi lay on it, with a lamp burning at her head and another at herside, although it was not yet dark. A great dread of darkness had alwaysbeen one of Naomi's peculiarities. 

She was tossing restlessly on her poor couch, while Maggie crouched on abox at the foot. Mr. Leonard had not seen her for five years, and hewas shocked at the change in her. She was much wasted; her clear-cut, aquiline features had been of the type which becomes indescribablywitch-like in old age, and, though Naomi Clark was barely sixty, shelooked as if she might be a hundred. Her hair streamed over the pillowin white, uncared-for tresses, and the hands that plucked at thebed-clothes were like wrinkled claws. Only her eyes were unchanged; theywere as blue and brilliant as ever, but now filled with such agonizedterror and appeal that Mr. Leonard's gentle heart almost stood stillwith the horror of them. They were the eyes of a creature driven wildwith torture, hounded by furies, clutched by unutterable fear. 

Naomi sat up and dragged at his arm. 

"Can you help me? Can you help me?" she gasped imploringly. "Oh, Ithought you'd never come! I was skeered I'd die before you got here--dieand go to hell. I didn't know before today that I was dying. None ofthose cowards would tell me. Can you help me?"

"If I cannot, God can, " said Mr. Leonard gently. He felt himself veryhelpless and inefficient before this awful terror and frenzy. He hadseen sad death-beds--troubled death-beds--ay, and despairing death-beds, but never anything like this. "God!" Naomi's voice shrilled terribly asshe uttered the name. "I can't go to God for help. Oh, I'm skeered ofhell, but I'm skeereder still of God. I'd rather go to hell a thousandtimes over than face God after the life I've lived. I tell you, I'msorry for living wicked--I was always sorry for it all the time. Thereain't never been a moment I wasn't sorry, though nobody would believeit. I was driven on by fiends of hell. Oh, you don't understand--youCAN'T understand--but I was always sorry!"

"If you repent, that is all that is necessary. God will forgive you ifyou ask Him. "

"No, He can't! Sins like mine can't be forgiven. He can't--and Hewon't. "

"He can and He will. He is a God of love, Naomi. "

"No, " said Naomi with stubborn conviction. "He isn't a God of love atall. That's why I'm skeered of him. No, no. He's a God of wrath andjustice and punishment. Love! There ain't no such thing as love! I'venever found it on earth, and I don't believe it's to be found in God. "

"Naomi, God loves us like a father. "

"Like MY father?" Naomi's shrill laughter, pealing through the stillroom, was hideous to hear. 

The old minister shuddered. 

"No--no! As a kind, tender, all-wise father, Naomi--as you would haveloved your little child if it had lived. "

Naomi cowered and moaned. 

"Oh, I wish I could believe THAT. I wouldn't be frightened if I couldbelieve that. MAKE me believe it. Surely you can make me believe thatthere's love and forgiveness in God if you believe it yourself. "

"Jesus Christ forgave and loved the Magdalen, Naomi. "

"Jesus Christ? Oh, I ain't afraid of HIM. Yes, HE could understand andforgive. He was half human. I tell you, it's God I'm skeered of. "

"They are one and the same, " said Mr. Leonard helplessly. He knew hecould not make Naomi realize it. This anguished death-bed was no placefor a theological exposition on the mysteries of the Trinity. 

"Christ died for you, Naomi. He bore your sins in His own body on thecross. "

"We bear our own sins, " said Naomi fiercely. "I've borne mine all mylife--and I'll bear them for all eternity. I can't believe anythingelse. I CAN'T believe God can forgive me. I've ruined people body andsoul--I've broken hearts and poisoned homes--I'm worse than a murderess. No--no--no, there's no hope for me. " Her voice rose again into thatshrill, intolerable shriek. "I've got to go to hell. It ain't so muchthe fire I'm skeered of as the outer darkness. I've always been soskeered of darkness--it's so full of awful things and thoughts. Oh, there ain't nobody to help me! Man ain't no good and I'm too skeered ofGod. "

She wrung her hands. Mr. Leonard walked up and down the room in thekeenest anguish of spirit he had ever known. What could he do? Whatcould he say? There was healing and peace in his religion for this womanas for all others, but he could express it in no language which thistortured soul could understand. He looked at her writhing face; helooked at the idiot girl chuckling to herself at the foot of the bed;he looked through the open door to the remote, starlit night--anda horrible sense of utter helplessness overcame him. He could donothing--nothing! In all his life he had never known such bitterness ofsoul as the realization brought home to him. 

"What is the good of you if you can't help me?" moaned the dying woman. "Pray--pray--pray!" she shrilled suddenly. 

Mr. Leonard dropped on his knees by the bed. He did not know whatto say. No prayer that he had ever prayed was of use here. The old, beautiful formulas, which had soothed and helped the passing of many asoul, were naught save idle, empty words to Naomi Clark. In his anguishof mind Stephen Leonard gasped out the briefest and sincerest prayer hislips had ever uttered. 

"O, God, our Father! Help this woman. Speak to her in a tongue which shecan understand. "

A beautiful, white face appeared for a moment in the light that streamedout of the doorway into the darkness of the night. No one noticed it, and it quickly drew back into the shadow. Suddenly, Naomi fell back onher pillow, her lips blue, her face horribly pinched, her eyes rolled upin her head. Maggie started up, pushed Mr. Leonard aside, and proceededto administer some remedy with surprising skill and deftness. Mr. Leonard, believing Naomi to be dying, went to the door, feeling sick andbruised in soul. 

Presently a figure stole out into the light. 

"Felix, is that you?" said Mr. Leonard in a startled tone. 

"Yes, sir. " Felix came up to the stone step. "Janet got frightened whatyou might fall on that rough road after dark, so she made me come afteryou with a lantern. I've been waiting behind the point, but at last Ithought I'd better come and see if you would be staying much longer. Ifyou will be, I'll go back to Janet and leave the lantern here with you. ""Yes, that will be the best thing to do. I may not be ready to go homefor some time yet, " said Mr. Leonard, thinking that the death-bed of sinbehind him was no sight for Felix's young eyes. 

"Is that your grandson you're talking to?" Naomi spoke clearly andstrongly. The spasm had passed. "If it is, bring him in. I want to seehim. "

Reluctantly, Mr. Leonard signed Felix to enter. The boy stood by Naomi'sbed and looked down at her with sympathetic eyes. But at first she didnot look at him--she looked past him at the minister. 

"I might have died in that spell, " she said, with sullen reproach in hervoice, "and if I had, I'd been in hell now. You can't help me--I'm donewith you. There ain't any hope for me, and I know it now. "

She turned to Felix. 

"Take down that fiddle on the wall and play something for me, " she saidimperiously. "I'm dying--and I'm going to hell--and I don't want tothink of it. Play me something to take my thoughts off it--I don't carewhat you play. I was always fond of music--there was always something init for me I never found anywhere else. "

Felix looked at his grandfather. The old man nodded, he felt too ashamedto speak; he sat with his fine silver head in his hands, while Felixtook down and tuned the old violin, on which so many godless lilts hadbeen played in many a wild revel. Mr. Leonard felt that he had failedhis religion. He could not give Naomi the help that was in it for her. 

Felix drew the bow softly, perplexedly over the strings. He had noidea what he should play. Then his eyes were caught and held by Naomi'sburning, mesmeric, blue gaze as she lay on her crumpled pillow. Astrange, inspired look came over the boy's face. He began to play as ifit were not he who played, but some mightier power, of which he was butthe passive instrument. 

Sweet and soft and wonderful was the music that stole through theroom. Mr. Leonard forgot his heartbreak and listened to it in puzzledamazement. He had never heard anything like it before. How could thechild play like that? He looked at Naomi and marvelled at the changein her face. The fear and frenzy were going out of it; she listenedbreathlessly, never taking her eyes from Felix. At the foot of the bedthe idiot girl sat with tears on her cheeks. 

In that strange music was the joy of the innocent, mirthful childhood, blent with the laughter of waves and the call of glad winds. Then itheld the wild, wayward dreams of youth, sweet and pure in all theirwildness and waywardness. They were followed by a rapture of younglove--all-surrendering, all-sacrificing love. The music changed. Itheld the torture of unshed tears, the anguish of a heart deceived anddesolate. Mr. Leonard almost put his hands over his ears to shut out itsintolerable poignancy. But on the dying woman's face was only a strangerelief, as if some dumb, long-hidden pain had at last won to the healingof utterance. 

The sullen indifference of despair came next, the bitterness ofsmouldering revolt and misery, the reckless casting away of all good. There was something indescribably evil in the music now--so evil thatMr. Leonard's white soul shuddered away in loathing, and Maggie coweredand whined like a frightened animal. 

Again the music changed. And in it now there was agony and fear--andrepentance and a cry for pardon. To Mr. Leonard there was somethingstrangely familiar in it. He struggled to recall where he had heardit before; then he suddenly knew--he had heard it before Felix came inNaomi's terrible words! He looked at his grandson with something likeawe. Here was a power of which he knew nothing--a strange and dreadfulpower. Was it of God? Or of Satan?

For the last time the music changed. And now it was not music at all--itwas a great, infinite forgiveness, an all-comprehending love. It washealing for a sick soul; it was light and hope and peace. A Bible text, seemingly incongruous, came into Mr. Leonard's mind--"This is the houseof God; this is the gate of heaven. "

Felix lowered the violin and dropped wearily on a chair by the bed. Theinspired light faded from his face; once more he was only a tired boy. But Stephen Leonard was on his knees, sobbing like a child; and NaomiClark was lying still, with her hands clasped over her breast. 

"I understand now, " she said very softly. "I couldn't see it before--andnow it's so plain. I just FEEL it. God IS a God of love. He can forgiveanybody--even me--even me. He knows all about it. I ain't skeered anymore. He just loves me and forgives me as I'd have loved and forgivenmy baby if she'd lived, no matter how bad she was, or what she did. Theminister told me that but I couldn't believe it. I KNOW it now. And Hesent you here to-night, boy, to tell it to me in a way that I could feelit. "

Naomi Clark died just as the dawn came up over the sea. Mr. Leonard rosefrom his watch at her bedside and went to the door. Before him spreadthe harbour, gray and austere in the faint light, but afar out the sunwas rending asunder the milk-white mists in which the sea was scarfed, and under it was a virgin glow of sparkling water. 

The fir trees on the point moved softly and whispered together. Thewhole world sang of spring and resurrection and life; and behind himNaomi Clark's dead face took on the peace that passes understanding. 

The old minister and his grandson walked home together in a silence thatneither wished to break. Janet Andrews gave them a good scolding and anexcellent breakfast. Then she ordered them both to bed; but Mr. Leonard, smiling at her, said:

"Presently, Janet, presently. But now, take this key, go up to the blackchest in the garret, and bring me what you will find there. "

When Janet had gone, he turned to Felix. 

"Felix, would you like to study music as your life-work?"

Felix looked up, with a transfiguring flush on his wan face. 

"Oh, grandfather! Oh, grandfather!"

"You may do so, my child. After this night I dare not hinder you. Gowith my blessing, and may God guide and keep you, and make you strong todo His work and tell His message to humanity in you own appointed way. It is not the way I desired for you--but I see that I was mistaken. OldAbel spoke truly when he said there was a Christ in your violin as wellas a devil. I understand what he meant now. "

He turned to meet Janet, who came into the study with a violin. Felix'sheart throbbed; he recognized it. Mr. Leonard took it from Janet andheld it out to the boy. 

"This is your father's violin, Felix. See to it that you never makeyour music the servant of the power of evil--never debase it to unworthyends. For your responsibility is as your gift, and God will exact theaccounting of it from you. Speak to the world in your own tongue throughit, with truth and sincerity; and all I have hoped for you will beabundantly fulfilled. "

IV. Little Joscelyn

"It simply isn't to be thought of, Aunty Nan, " said Mrs. WilliamMorrison decisively. Mrs. William Morrison was one of those people whoalways speak decisively. If they merely announce that they are goingto peel the potatoes for dinner their hearers realize that there isno possible escape for the potatoes. Moreover, these people are alwaysgiven their full title by everybody. William Morrison was called Billyoftener than not; but, if you had asked for Mrs. Billy Morrison, nobodyin Avonlea would have known what you meant at first guess. 

"You must see that for yourself, Aunty, " went on Mrs. William, hullingstrawberries nimbly with her large, firm, white fingers as she talked. Mrs. William always improved every shining moment. "It is ten miles toKensington, and just think how late you would be getting back. You arenot able for such a drive. You wouldn't get over it for a month. Youknow you are anything but strong this summer. "

Aunty Nan sighed, and patted the tiny, furry, gray morsel of a kitten inher lap with trembling fingers. She knew, better than anyone else couldknow it, that she was not strong that summer. In her secret soul, AuntyNan, sweet and frail and timid under the burden of her seventy years, felt with mysterious unmistakable prescience that it was to be her lastsummer at the Gull Point Farm. But that was only the more reason whyshe should go to hear little Joscelyn sing; she would never have anotherchance. And oh, to hear little Joscelyn sing just once--Joscelyn, whosevoice was delighting thousands out in the big world, just as in theyears gone by it had delighted Aunty Nan and the dwellers at the GullPoint Farm for a whole golden summer with carols at dawn and dusk aboutthe old place!

"Oh, I know I'm not very strong, Maria. " said Aunty Nan pleadingly, "butI am strong enough for that. Indeed I am. I could stay at Kensingtonover night with George's folks, you know, and so it wouldn't tireme much. I do so want to hear Joscelyn sing. Oh, how I love littleJoscelyn. "

"It passes my understanding, the way you hanker after that child, " criedMrs. William impatiently. "Why, she was a perfect stranger to you whenshe came here, and she was here only one summer!"

"But oh, such a summer!" said Aunty Nan softly. "We all loved littleJoscelyn. She just seemed like one of our own. She was one of God'schildren, carrying love with them everywhere. In some ways that littleAnne Shirley the Cuthberts have got up there at Green Gables remindsme of her, though in other ways they're not a bit alike. Joscelyn was abeauty. "

"Well, that Shirley snippet certainly isn't that, " said Mrs. Williamsarcastically. "And if Joscelyn's tongue was one third as long as AnneShirley's the wonder to me is that she didn't talk you all to death outof hand. "

"Little Joscelyn wasn't much of a talker, " said Aunty Nan dreamily. "Shewas kind of a quiet child. But you remember what she did say. And I'venever forgotten little Joscelyn. "

Mrs. William shrugged her plump, shapely shoulders. 

"Well, it was fifteen years ago, Aunty Nan, and Joscelyn can't be very'little' now. She is a famous woman, and she has forgotten all aboutyou, you can be sure of that. "

"Joscelyn wasn't the kind that forgets, " said Aunty Nan loyally. "And, anyway, the point is, _I_ haven't forgotten HER. Oh, Maria, I've longedfor years and years just to hear her sing once more. It seems as if IMUST hear my little Joscelyn sing once again before I die. I've neverhad the chance before and I never will have it again. Do please askWilliam to take me to Kensington. "

"Dear me, Aunty Nan, this is really childish, " said Mrs. William, whisking her bowlful of berries into the pantry. "You must let otherfolks be the judge of what is best for you now. You aren't strong enoughto drive to Kensington, and, even if you were, you know well enough thatWilliam couldn't go to Kensington to-morrow night. He has got to attendthat political meeting at Newbridge. They can't do without him. "

"Jordan could take me to Kensington, " pleaded Aunty Nan, with veryunusual persistence. 

"Nonsense! You couldn't go to Kensington with the hired man. Now, AuntyNan, do be reasonable. Aren't William and I kind to you? Don't we doeverything for your comfort?"

"Yes, oh, yes, " admitted Aunty Nan deprecatingly. 

"Well, then, you ought to be guided by our opinion. And you must justgive up thinking about the Kensington concert, Aunty, and not worryyourself and me about it any more. I am going down to the shore fieldnow to call William to tea. Just keep an eye on the baby in chance hewakes up, and see that the teapot doesn't boil over. "

Mrs. William whisked out of the kitchen, pretending not to see the tearsthat were falling over Aunty Nan's withered pink cheeks. Aunty Nan wasreally getting very childish, Mrs. William reflected, as she marcheddown to the shore field. Why, she cried now about every littlething! And such a notion--to want to go to the Old Timers' concert atKensington and be so set on it! Really, it was hard to put up with herwhims. Mrs. William sighed virtuously. 

As for Aunty Nan, she sat alone in the kitchen, and cried bitterly, asonly lonely old age can cry. It seemed to her that she could not bearit, that she MUST go to Kensington. But she knew that it was not to be, since Mrs. William had decided otherwise. Mrs. William's word was law atGull Point Farm. 

"What's the matter with my old Aunty Nan?" cried a hearty young voicefrom the doorway. Jordan Sloane stood there, his round, freckled facelooking as anxious and sympathetic as it was possible for such a veryround, very freckled face to look. Jordan was the Morrisons' hired boythat summer, and he worshipped Aunty Nan. 

"Oh, Jordan, " sobbed Aunty Nan, who was not above telling her troublesto the hired help, although Mrs. William thought she ought to be, "Ican't go to Kensington to-morrow night to hear little Joscelyn sing atthe Old Timers' concert. Maria says I can't. "

"That's too bad, " said Jordan. "Old cat, " he muttered after theretreating and serenely unconscious Mrs. William. Then he shambled inand sat down on the sofa beside Aunty Nan. 

"There, there, don't cry, " he said, patting her thin little shoulderwith his big, sunburned paw. "You'll make yourself sick if you go oncrying, and we can't get along without you at Gull Point Farm. "

Aunty Nan smiled wanly. 

"I'm afraid you'll soon have to get on without me, Jordan. I'm not goingto be here very long now. No, I'm not, Jordan, I know it. Somethingtells me so very plainly. But I would be willing to go--glad to go, forI'm very tired, Jordan--if I could only have heard little Joscelyn singonce more. "

"Why are you so set on hearing her?" asked Jordan. "She ain't no kin toyou, is she?"

"No, but dearer to me--dearer to me than many of my own. Maria thinksthat is silly, but you wouldn't if you'd known her, Jordan. Even Mariaherself wouldn't, if she had known her. It is fifteen years since shecame here one summer to board. She was a child of thirteen then, andhadn't any relations except an old uncle who sent her to school inwinter and boarded her out in summer, and didn't care a rap about her. The child was just starving for love, Jordan, and she got it here. William and his brothers were just children then, and they hadn'tany sister. We all just worshipped her. She was so sweet, Jordan. Andpretty, oh my! like a little girl in a picture, with great long curls, all black and purply and fine as spun silk, and big dark eyes, and suchpink cheeks--real wild rose cheeks. And sing! My land! But couldn't shesing! Always singing, every hour of the day that voice was ringing roundthe old place. I used to hold my breath to hear it. She always said thatshe meant to be a famous singer some day, and I never doubted it a mite. It was born in her. Sunday evening she used to sing hymns for us. Oh, Jordan, it makes my old heart young again to remember it. A sweet childshe was, my little Joscelyn! She used to write me for three or fouryears after she went away, but I haven't heard a word from her for longand long. I daresay she has forgotten me, as Maria says. 'Twouldn't beany wonder. But I haven't forgotten her, and oh, I want to see and hearher terrible much. She is to sing at the Old Timers' concert to-morrownight at Kensington. The folks who are getting the concert up arefriends of hers, or, of course, she'd never have come to a littlecountry village. Only sixteen miles away--and I can't go. "

Jordan couldn't think of anything to say. He reflected savagely that ifhe had a horse of his own he would take Aunty Nan to Kensington, Mrs. William or no Mrs. William. Though, to be sure, it WAS a long drive forher; and she was looking very frail this summer. 

"Ain't going to last long, " muttered Jordan, making his escape by theporch door as Mrs. William puffed in by the other. "The sweetest oldcreetur that ever was created'll go when she goes. Yah, ye old madam, I'd like to give you a piece of my mind, that I would!"

This last was for Mrs. William, but was delivered in a prudentundertone. Jordan detested Mrs. William, but she was a power to bereckoned with, all the same. Meek, easy-going Billy Morrison did justwhat his wife told him to. 

So Aunty Nan did not get to Kensington to hear little Joscelyn sing. Shesaid nothing more about it but after that night she seemed to fail veryrapidly. Mrs. William said it was the hot weather, and that Aunty Nangave way too easily. But Aunty Nan could not help giving way now; shewas very, very tired. Even her knitting wearied her. She would sit forhours in her rocking chair with the gray kitten in her lap, looking outof the window with dreamy, unseeing eyes. She talked to herself a gooddeal, generally about little Joscelyn. Mrs. William told Avonlea folkthat Aunty Nan had got terribly childish and always accompanied theremark with a sigh that intimated how much she, Mrs. William, had tocontend with. 

Justice must be done to Mrs. William, however. She was not unkind toAunty Nan; on the contrary, she was very kind to her in the letter. Hercomfort was scrupulously attended to, and Mrs. William had the grace toutter none of her complaints in the old woman's hearing. If Aunty Nanfelt the absence of the spirit she never murmured at it. 

One day, when the Avonlea slopes were golden-hued with the ripenedharvest, Aunty Nan did not get up. She complained of nothing but greatweariness. Mrs. William remarked to her husband that if SHE lay in bedevery day she felt tired, there wouldn't be much done at Gull PointFarm. But she prepared an excellent breakfast and carried it patientlyup to Aunty Nan, who ate little of it. 

After dinner Jordan crept up by way of the back stairs to see her. AuntyNan was lying with her eyes fixed on the pale pink climbing roses thatnodded about the window. When she saw Jordan she smiled. 

"Them roses put me so much in mind of little Joscelyn, " she said softly. "She loved them so. If I could only see her! Oh, Jordan, if I could onlysee her! Maria says it's terrible childish to be always harping on thatstring, and mebbe it is. But--oh, Jordan, there's such a hunger in myheart for her, such a hunger!"

Jordan felt a queer sensation in his throat, and twisted his raggedstraw hat about in his big hands. Just then a vague idea which hadhovered in his brain all day crystallized into decision. But all he saidwas:

"I hope you'll feel better soon, Aunty Nan. "

"Oh, yes, Jordan dear, I'll be better soon, " said Aunty Nan with her ownsweet smile. "'The inhabitant shall not say I am sick, ' you know. But ifI could only see little Joscelyn first!"

Jordan went out and hurried down-stairs. Billy Morrison was in thestable, when Jordan stuck his head over the half-door. 

"Say, can I have the rest of the day off, sir? I want to go toKensington. "

"Well, I don't mind, " said Billy Morrison amiably. "May's well get youjaunting done 'fore harvest comes on. And here, Jord; take this quarterand get some oranges for Aunty Nan. Needn't mention it to headquarters. "

Billy Morrison's face was solemn, but Jordan winked as he pocketed themoney. 

"If I've any luck, I'll bring her something that'll do her more goodthan the oranges, " he muttered, as he hurried off to the pasture. Jordanhad a horse of his own now, a rather bony nag, answering to the name ofDan. Billy Morrison had agreed to pasture the animal if Jordan usedhim in the farm work, an arrangement scoffed at by Mrs. William in nomeasured terms. 

Jordan hitched Dan into the second best buggy, dressed himself in hisSunday clothes, and drove off. On the road he re-read a paragraph he hadclipped from the Charlottetown Daily Enterprise of the previous day. 

"Joscelyn Burnett, the famous contralto, is spending a few days inKensington on her return from her Maritime concert tour. She is theguest of Mr. And Mrs. Bromley, of The Beeches. "

"Now if I can get there in time, " said Jordan emphatically. 

Jordan got to Kensington, put Dan up in a livery stable, and inquiredthe way to The Beeches. He felt rather nervous when he found it, it wassuch a stately, imposing place, set back from the street in an emeraldgreen seclusion of beautiful grounds. 

"Fancy me stalking up to that front door and asking for Miss JoscelynBurnett, " grinned Jordan sheepishly. "Mebbe they'll tell me to go aroundto the back and inquire for the cook. But you're going just the same, Jordan Sloane, and no skulking. March right up now. Think of Aunty Nanand don't let style down you. "

A pert-looking maid answered Jordan's ring, and stared at him when heasked for Miss Burnett. 

"I don't think you can see her, " she said shortly, scanning his countrycut of hair and clothes rather superciliously. "What is your businesswith her?"

The maid's scorn roused Jordan's "dander, " as he would have expressedit. 

"I'll tell her that when I see her, " he retorted coolly. "Just you tellher that I've a message for her from Aunty Nan Morrison of Gull PointFarm, Avonlea. If she hain't forgot, that'll fetch her. You might aswell hurry up, if you please, I've not overly too much time. "

The pert maid decided to be civil at least, and invited Jordan to enter. But she left him standing in the hall while she went in search of MissBurnett. Jordan gazed about him in amazement. He had never been in anyplace like this before. The hall was wonderful enough, and through theopen doors on either hand stretched vistas of lovely rooms that, toJordan's eyes, looked like those of a palace. 

"Gee whiz! How do they ever move around without knocking things over?"

Then Joscelyn Burnett came, and Jordan forgot everything else. Thistall, beautiful woman, in her silken draperies, with a face like nothingJordan had ever seen, or even dreamed about, --could this be Aunty Nan'slittle Joscelyn? Jordan's round, freckled countenance grew crimson. Hefelt horribly tonguetied and embarrassed. What could he say to her? Howcould he say it?

Joscelyn Burnett looked at him with her large, dark eyes, --the eyes of awoman who had suffered much, and learned much, and won through struggleto victory. 

"You have come from Aunty Nan?" she said. "Oh, I am so glad to hear fromher. Is she well? Come in here and tell me all about her. "

She turned toward one of those fairy-like rooms, but Jordan interruptedher desperately. 

"Oh, not in there, ma'am. I'd never get it out. Just let me blunderthrough it out here someways. Yes'm, Aunty Nan, she ain't very well. She's--she's dying, I guess. And she's longing for you night and day. Seems as if she couldn't die in peace without seeing you. She wantedto get to Kensington to hear you sing, but that old cat of a Mrs. William--begging you pardon, ma'am--wouldn't let her come. She's alwaystalking of you. If you can come out to Gull Point Farm and see her, I'llbe most awful obliged to you, ma'am. "

Joscelyn Burnett looked troubled. She had not forgotten Gull Point Farm, nor Aunty Nan; but for years the memory had been dim, crowded into thebackground of consciousness by the more exciting events of her busylife. Now it came back with a rush. She recalled it all tenderly--thepeace and beauty and love of that olden summer, and sweet Aunty Nan, sovery wise in the lore of all things simple and good and true. For themoment Joscelyn Burnett was a lonely, hungry-hearted little girl again, seeking for love and finding it not, until Aunty Nan had taken her intoher great mother-heart and taught her its meaning. 

"Oh, I don't know, " she said perplexedly. "If you had come sooner--Ileave on the 11:30 train tonight. I MUST leave by then or I shall notreach Montreal in time to fill a very important engagement. And yet Imust see Aunty Nan, too. I have been careless and neglectful. I mighthave gone to see her before. How can we manage it?"

"I'll bring you back to Kensington in time to catch that train, " saidJordan eagerly. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for Aunty Nan--me andDan. Yes, sir, you'll get back in time. Just think of Aunty Nan's facewhen she sees you!"

"I will come, " said the great singer, gently. 

It was sunset when they reached Gull Point Farm. An arc of warm goldwas over the spruces behind the house. Mrs. William was out in thebarn-yard, milking, and the house was deserted, save for the sleepingbaby in the kitchen and the little old woman with the watchful eyes inthe up-stairs room. 

"This way, ma'am, " said Jordan, inwardly congratulating himself that thecoast was clear. "I'll take you right up to her room. "

Up-stairs, Joscelyn tapped at the half-open door and went in. Beforeit closed behind her, Jordan heard Aunty Nan say, "Joscelyn! LittleJoscelyn!" in a tone that made him choke again. He stumbled thankfullydown-stairs, to be pounced upon by Mrs. William in the kitchen. 

"Jordan Sloane, who was that stylish woman you drove into the yard with?And what have you done with her?"

"That was Miss Joscelyn Burnett, " said Jordan, expanding himself. Thiswas his hour of triumph over Mrs. William. "I went to Kensington andbrung her out to see Aunty Nan. She's up with her now. "

"Dear me, " said Mrs. William helplessly. "And me in my milking rig!Jordan, for pity's sake, hold the baby while I go and put on my blacksilk. You might have given a body some warning. I declare I don't knowwhich is the greatest idiot, you or Aunty Nan!"

As Mrs. William flounced out of the kitchen, Jordan took hissatisfaction in a quiet laugh. 

Up-stairs in the little room was a great glory of sunset and gladnessof human hearts. Joscelyn was kneeling by the bed, with her arms aboutAunty Nan; and Aunty Nan, with her face all irradiated, was strokingJoscelyn's dark hair fondly. 

"O, little Joscelyn, " she murmured, "it seems too good to be true. Itseems like a beautiful dream. I knew you the minute you opened the door, my dearie. You haven't changed a bit. And you're a famous singer now, little Joscelyn! I always knew you would be. Oh, I want you to sing apiece for me--just one, won't you, dearie? Sing that piece people liketo hear you sing best. I forget the name, but I've read about it in thepapers. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn. "

And Joscelyn, standing by Aunty Nan's bed, in the sunset light, sangthe song she had sung to many a brilliant audience on many a notedconcert-platform--sang it as even she had never sung before, while AuntyNan lay and listened beatifically, and downstairs even Mrs. William heldher breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that floated through theold farmhouse. 

"O, little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the songended. 

Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days. One byone they recalled the memories of that vanished summer. The past gave upits tears and its laughter. Heart and fancy alike went roaming throughthe ways of the long ago. Aunty Nan was perfectly happy. And thenJoscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and triumphs since theyhad parted. 

When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nanput out her hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head. 

"Little Joscelyn, " she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much, I wantyou to sing just one other piece. Do you remember when you were here howwe sung hymns in the parlour every Sunday night, and my favourite alwayswas 'The Sands of Time are Sinking?' I ain't never forgot how you usedto sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie. Sing it forme, little Joscelyn. "

Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the curtain, shestood in the splendour of the moonlight, and sang the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time to it feebly on the counterpane; but whenJoscelyn came to the verse, "With mercy and with judgment, " she foldedher hands over her breast and smiled. 

When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed. 

"I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan, " she said. 

Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not waken her, but she took from her breast the cluster of crimson roses she wore andslipped them gently between the toil-worn fingers. 

"Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart, " she murmured. 

Down-stairs she met Mrs. William splendid in rustling black silk, herbroad, rubicund face smiling, overflowing with apologies and welcomes, which Joscelyn cut short coldly. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I cannot possibly stay longer. No, thankyou, I don't care for any refreshments. Jordan is going to take me backto Kensington at once. I came out to see Aunty Nan. " "I'm certain she'dbe delighted, " said Mrs. William effusively. "She's been talking aboutyou for weeks. "

"Yes, it has made her very happy, " said Joscelyn gravely. "And it hasmade me happy, too. I love Aunty Nan, Mrs. Morrison, and I owe her much. In all my life I have never met a woman so purely, unselfishly good andnoble and true. "

"Fancy now, " said Mrs. William, rather overcome at hearing this greatsinger pronounce such an encomium on quiet, timid old Aunty Nan. 

Jordan drove Joscelyn back to Kensington; and up-stairs in her roomAunty Nan slept, with that rapt smile on her face and Joscelyn's redroses in her hands. Thus it was that Mrs. William found her, going inthe next morning with her breakfast. The sunlight crept over the pillow, lighting up the sweet old face and silver hair, and stealing downwardto the faded red roses on her breast. Smiling and peaceful and happylay Aunty Nan, for she had fallen on the sleep that knows no earthywakening, while little Joscelyn sang. 

V. The Winning of Lucinda

The marriage of a Penhallow was always the signal for a gathering ofthe Penhallows. From the uttermost parts of the earth they wouldcome--Penhallows by birth, and Penhallows by marriage and Penhallowsby ancestry. East Grafton was the ancient habitat of the race, andPenhallow Grange, where "old" John Penhallow lived, was a Mecca to them. 

As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various branchesand ramifications was a hard thing to define. Old Uncle Julius Penhallowwas looked upon as a veritable wonder because he carried it all in hishead and could tell on sight just what relation any one Penhallow wasto any other Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the mostpart, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose cousinship. 

In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of "young" JohnPenhallow, who was to be married. Alice was a nice girl, but she andher wedding only pertain to this story in so far as they furnish abackground for Lucinda; hence nothing more need be said of her. 

On the afternoon of her wedding day--the Penhallows held to thegood, old-fashioned custom of evening weddings with a rousing danceafterwards--Penhallow Grange was filled to overflowing with guests whohad come there to have tea and rest themselves before going down to"young" John's. Many of them had driven fifty miles. In the bigautumnal orchard the younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in "old" Mrs. John's bedroom, she and her married daughtersheld high conclave. "Old" John had established himself with his sons andsons-in-law in the parlour, and the three daughters-in-law were makingthemselves at home in the blue sitting-room, ear-deep in harmless familygossip. Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there. 

Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted hertoes at the grate, for the brilliant autumn afternoon was slightlychilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking. Mrs. George Penhallow beingrather out of it by reason of her newness. She was George Penhallow'ssecond wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to theconversation were rather spasmodic, hurled in, as it were, by deadreckoning, being sometimes appropriate and sometimes savouring of apoint of view not strictly Penhallowesque. 

Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter ofthe women, with the inscrutable smile that always vexed Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within herself what he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he belonged on the family tree. He was notone of the uncles, yet he could not be much younger than George. 

"Forty, if he is a day, " was Mrs. George's mental dictum, "but a veryhandsome and fascinating man. I never saw such a splendid chin anddimple. "

Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins, defiant ofmerciless sunlight and revelling in the crisp air, sat on the sill ofthe open window behind the crimson vine leaves, looking out into thegarden, where dahlias flamed and asters broke into waves of purple andsnow. The ruddy light of the autumn afternoon gave a sheen to the wavesof her hair and brought out the exceeding purity of her Greek outlines. 

Mrs. George knew who Lucinda was--a cousin of the second generation, and, in spite of her thirty-five years, the acknowledged beauty of thewhole Penhallow connection. 

She was one of those rare women who keep their loveliness unmarred bythe passage of years. She had ripened and matured, but she had notgrown old. The older Penhallows were still inclined, from sheer force ofhabit, to look upon her as a girl, and the younger Penhallows hailed heras one of themselves. Yet Lucinda never aped girlishness; good taste anda strong sense of humour preserved her amid many temptations thereto. She was simply a beautiful, fully developed woman, with whom Time haddeclared a truce, young with a mellow youth which had nothing to do withyears. 

Mrs. George liked and admired Lucinda. Now, when Mrs. George liked andadmired any person, it was a matter of necessity with her to impart heropinions to the most convenient confidant. In this case it was RomneyPenhallow to whom Mrs. George remarked sweetly:

"Really, don't you think our Lucinda is looking remarkably well thisfall?"

It seemed a very harmless, inane, well-meant question. Poor Mrs. Georgemight well be excused for feeling bewildered over the effect. Romneygathered his long legs together, stood up, and swept the unfortunatespeaker a crushing Penhallow bow of state. 

"Far be it from me to disagree with the opinion of a lady--especiallywhen it concerns another lady, " he said, as he left the blue room. 

Overcome by the mordant satire in his tone, Mrs. George glancedspeechlessly at Lucinda. Behold, Lucinda had squarely turned her back onthe party and was gazing out into the garden, with a very decided flushon the snowy curves of her neck and cheek. Then Mrs. George looked ather sisters-in-law. They were regarding her with the tolerant amusementthey might bestow on a blundering child. Mrs. George experienced thatsubtle prescience whereby it is given us to know that we have put ourfoot in it. She felt herself turning an uncomfortable brick-red. WhatPenhallow skeleton had she unwittingly jangled? Why, oh, why, was itsuch an evident breach of the proprieties to praise Lucinda?

Mrs. George was devoutly thankful that a summons to the tea-tablerescued her from her mire of embarrassment. The meal was spoiled forher, however; the mortifying recollection of her mysterious blunderconspired with her curiosity to banish appetite. As soon as possibleafter tea she decoyed Mrs. Frederick out into the garden and in thedahlia walk solemnly demanded the reason of it all. 

Mrs. Frederick indulged in a laugh which put the mettle of her festalbrown silk seams to the test. 

"My dear Cecilia, it was SO amusing, " she said, a little patronizingly. 

"But WHY!" cried Mrs. George, resenting the patronage and the mystery. "What was so dreadful in what I said? Or so funny? And WHO is thisRomney Penhallow who mustn't be spoken to?"

"Oh, Romney is one of the Charlottetown Penhallows, " explained Mrs. Frederick. "He is a lawyer there. He is a first cousin of Lucinda's anda second of George's--or is he? Oh, bother! You must go to Uncle Johnif you want the genealogy. I'm in a chronic muddle concerning Penhallowrelationship. And, as for Romney, of course you can speak to him aboutanything you like except Lucinda. Oh, you innocent! To ask him if hedidn't think Lucinda was looking well! And right before her, too! Ofcourse he thought you did it on purpose to tease him. That was what madehim so savage and sarcastic. "

"But WHY?" persisted Mrs. George, sticking tenaciously to her point. 

"Hasn't George told you?"

"No, " said George's wife in mild exasperation. "George has spent mostof his time since we were married telling me odd things about thePenhallows, but he hasn't got to that yet, evidently. "

"Why, my dear, it is our family romance. Lucinda and Romney are in lovewith each other. They have been in love with each other for fifteenyears and in all that time they have never spoken to each other once!"

"Dear me!" murmured Mrs. George, feeling the inadequacy of merelanguage. Was this a Penhallow method of courtship? "But WHY?"

"They had a quarrel fifteen years ago, " said Mrs. Frederick patiently. "Nobody knows how it originated or anything about it except that Lucindaherself admitted it to us afterwards. But, in the first flush of herrage, she told Romney that she would never speak to him again as longas she lived. And HE said he would never speak to her until she spokefirst--because, you see, as she was in the wrong she ought to make thefirst advance. And they never have spoken. Everybody in the connection, I suppose, has taken turns trying to reconcile them, but nobody hassucceeded. I don't believe that Romney has ever so much as THOUGHTof any other woman in his whole life, and certainly Lucinda has neverthought of any other man. You will notice she still wears Romney's ring. They're practically engaged still, of course. And Romney said once thatif Lucinda would just say one word, no matter what it was, even if itwere something insulting, he would speak, too, and beg her pardonfor his share in the quarrel--because then, you see, he would not bebreaking his word. He hasn't referred to the matter for years, but Ipresume that he is of the same mind still. And they are just as much inlove with each other as they ever were. He's always hanging about whereshe is--when other people are there, too, that is. He avoids her like aplague when she is alone. That was why he was stuck out in the blueroom with us to-day. There doesn't seem to be a particle of resentmentbetween them. If Lucinda would only speak! But that Lucinda will notdo. "

"Don't you think she will yet?" said Mrs. George. 

Mrs. Frederick shook her crimped head sagely. 

"Not now. The whole thing has hardened too long. Her pride willnever let her speak. We used to hope she would be tricked into it byforgetfulness or accident--we used to lay traps for her--but all to noeffect. It is such a shame, too. They were made for each other. Do youknow, I get cross when I begin to thrash the whole silly affair overlike this. Doesn't it sound as if we were talking of the quarrel of twoschool-children? Of late years we have learned that it does not do tospeak of Lucinda to Romney, even in the most commonplace way. He seemsto resent it. "

"HE ought to speak, " cried Mrs. George warmly. "Even if she were in thewrong ten times over, he ought to overlook it and speak first. "

"But he won't. And she won't. You never saw two such determined mortals. They get it from their grandfather on the mother's side--old AbsalomGordon. There is no such stubbornness on the Penhallow side. Hisobstinacy was a proverb, my dear--actually a proverb. What ever he said, he would stick to if the skies fell. He was a terrible old man to swear, too, " added Mrs. Frederick, dropping into irrelevant reminiscence. "Hespent a long while in a mining camp in his younger days and he never gotover it--the habit of swearing, I mean. It would have made your bloodrun cold, my dear, to have heard him go on at times. And yet he was areal good old man every other way. He couldn't help it someway. Hetried to, but he used to say that profanity came as natural to him asbreathing. It used to mortify his family terribly. Fortunately, none ofthem took after him in that respect. But he's dead--and one shouldn'tspeak ill of the dead. I must go and get Mattie Penhallow to do my hair. I would burst these sleeves clean out if I tried to do it myself and Idon't want to dress over again. You won't be likely to talk to Romneyabout Lucinda again, my dear Cecilia?"

"Fifteen years!" murmured Mrs. George helplessly to the dahlias. "Engaged for fifteen years and never speaking to each other! Dear heartand soul, think of it! Oh, these Penhallows!"

Meanwhile, Lucinda, serenely unconscious that her love story was beingmouthed over by Mrs. Frederick in the dahlia garden, was dressing forthe wedding. Lucinda still enjoyed dressing for a festivity, since themirror still dealt gently with her. Moreover, she had a new dress. Now, a new dress--and especially one as nice as this--was a rarity withLucinda, who belonged to a branch of the Penhallows noted for beingchronically hard up. Indeed, Lucinda and her widowed mother werepositively poor, and hence a new dress was an event in Lucinda'sexistence. An uncle had given her this one--a beautiful, perishablething, such as Lucinda would never have dared to choose for herself, butin which she revelled with feminine delight. 

It was of pale green voile--a colour which brought out admirably theruddy gloss of her hair and the clear brilliance of her skin. When shehad finished dressing she looked at herself in the mirror with frankdelight. Lucinda was not vain, but she was quite well aware of the factof her beauty and took an impersonal pleasure in it, as if she werelooking at some finely painted picture by a master hand. 

The form and face reflected in the glass satisfied her. The puffs anddraperies of the green voile displayed to perfection the full, but notover-full, curves of her fine figure. Lucinda lifted her arm and toucheda red rose to her lips with the hand upon which shone the frosty glitterof Romney's diamond, looking at the graceful slope of her shoulder andthe splendid line of chin and throat with critical approval. 

She noted, too, how well the gown became her eyes, bringing out all thedeeper colour in them. Lucinda had magnificent eyes. Once Romney hadwritten a sonnet to them in which he compared their colour to ripeblueberries. This may not sound poetical to you unless you know orremember just what the tints of ripe blueberries are--dusky purple insome lights, clear slate in others, and yet again in others the mistyhue of early meadow violets. 

"You really look very well, " remarked the real Lucinda to the mirroredLucinda. "Nobody would think you were an old maid. But you are. AlicePenhallow, who is to be married to-night, was a child of five when youthought of being married fifteen years ago. That makes you an old maid, my dear. Well, it is your own fault, and it will continue to be your ownfault, you stubborn offshoot of a stubborn breed!"

She flung her train out straight and pulled on her gloves. 

"I do hope I won't get any spots on this dress to-night, " she reflected. "It will have to do me for a gala dress for a year at least--and I havea creepy conviction that it is fearfully spottable. Bless Uncle Mark'sgood, uncalculating heart! How I would have detested it if he had givenme something sensible and useful and ugly--as Aunt Emilia would havedone. "

They all went to "young" John Penhallow's at early moonrise. Lucindadrove over the two miles of hill and dale with a youthful second cousin, by name, Carey Penhallow. The wedding was quite a brilliant affair. Lucinda seemed to pervade the social atmosphere, and everywhere she wenta little ripple of admiration trailed after her like a wave. She wasundeniably a belle, yet she found herself feeling faintly bored and wasrather glad than otherwise when the guests began to fray off. 

"I'm afraid I'm losing my capacity for enjoyment, " she thought, a littledrearily. "Yes, I must be growing old. That is what it means when socialfunctions begin to bore you. "

It was that unlucky Mrs. George who blundered again. She was standing onthe veranda when Carey Penhallow dashed up. 

"Tell Lucinda that I can't take her back to the Grange. I have todrive Mark and Cissy Penhallow to Bright River to catch the two o'clockexpress. There will be plenty of chances for her with the others. "

At this moment George Penhallow, holding his rearing horse withdifficulty, shouted for his wife. Mrs. George, all in a flurry, dashedback into the still crowded hall. Exactly to whom she gave her messagewas never known to any of the Penhallows. But a tall, ruddy-haired girl, dressed in pale green organdy--Anne Shirley from Avonlea--told MarillaCuthbert and Rachel Lynde as a joke the next morning how a chubby littlewoman in a bright pink fascinator had clutched her by the arm, andgasped out: "Carey Penhallow can't take you--he says you're to look outfor someone else, " and was gone before she could answer or turn around. 

Thus it was that Lucinda, when she came out to the veranda step, foundherself unaccountably deserted. All the Grange Penhallows were gone;Lucinda realized this after a few moments of bewildered seeking, andshe understood that if she were to get to the Grange that night she mustwalk. Plainly there was nobody to take her. 

Lucinda was angry. It is not pleasant to find yourself forgotten andneglected. It is still less pleasant to walk home alone along a countryroad, at one o'clock in the morning, wearing a pale green voile. Lucindawas not prepared for such a walk. She had nothing on her feet savethin-soled shoes, and her only wraps were a flimsy fascinator and ashort coat. 

"What a guy I shall look, stalking home alone in this rig, " she thoughtcrossly. 

There was no help for it, unless she confessed her plight to some of thestranger guests and begged a drive home. Lucinda's pride scorned sucha request and the admission of neglect it involved. No, she would walk, since that was all there was to it; but she would not go by the mainroad to be stared at by all and sundry who might pass her. There was ashort cut by way of a lane across the fields; she knew every inch of it, although she had not traversed it for years. 

She gathered up the green voile as trimly as possible, slipped aroundthe house in the kindly shadows, picked her way across the side lawn, and found a gate which opened into a birch-bordered lane where thefrosted trees shone with silvery-golden radiance in the moonlight. Lucinda flitted down the lane, growing angrier at every step as therealization of how shamefully she seemed to have been treated came hometo her. She believed that nobody had thought about her at all, which wastenfold worse than premeditated neglect. 

As she came to the gate at the lower end of the lane a man who wasleaning over it started, with a quick intake of his breath, which, inany other man than Romney Penhallow, or for any other woman than LucindaPenhallow, would have been an exclamation of surprise. 

Lucinda recognized him with a great deal of annoyance and a littlerelief. She would not have to walk home alone. But with RomneyPenhallow! Would he think she had contrived it so purposely?

Romney silently opened the gate for her, silently latched it behind her, and silently fell into step beside her. Down across a velvety sweep offield they went; the air was frosty, calm and still; over the world laya haze of moonshine and mist that converted East Grafton's prosaic hillsand fields into a shimmering fairyland. At first Lucinda felt angrierthan ever. What a ridiculous situation! How the Penhallows would laughover it!

As for Romney, he, too, was angry with the trick impish chance hadplayed him. He liked being the butt of an awkward situation as little asmost men; and certainly to be obliged to walk home over moonlit fieldsat one o'clock in the morning with the woman he had loved and neverspoken to for fifteen years was the irony of fate with a vengeance. Would she think he had schemed for it? And how the deuce did she come tobe walking home from the wedding at all?

By the time they had crossed the field and reached the wild cherry lanebeyond it, Lucinda's anger was mastered by her saving sense of humour. She was even smiling a little maliciously under her fascinator. 

The lane was a place of enchantment--a long, moonlit colonnade adownwhich beguiling wood nymphs might have footed it featly. The moonshinefell through the arching boughs and made a mosaic of silver light andclear-cut shadow for the unfriendly lovers to walk in. On either sidewas the hovering gloom of the woods, and around them was a great silenceunstirred by wind or murmur. 

Midway in the lane Lucinda was attacked by a sentimental recollection. She thought of the last time Romney and she had walked home togetherthrough this very lane, from a party at "young" John's. It had beenmoonlight then too, and--Lucinda checked a sigh--they had walked handin hand. Just here, by the big gray beech, he had stopped her and kissedher. Lucinda wondered if he were thinking of it, too, and stole a lookat him from under the lace border of her fascinator. 

But he was striding moodily along with his hands in his pockets, and hishat pulled down over his eyes, passing the old beech without a glanceat it. Lucinda checked another sigh, gathered up an escaped flutter ofvoile, and marched on. 

Past the lane a range of three silvery harvest fields sloped down toPeter Penhallow's brook--a wide, shallow stream bridged over in theolden days by the mossy trunk of an ancient fallen tree. When Lucindaand Romney arrived at the brook they gazed at the brawling waterblankly. Lucinda remembered that she must not speak to Romney just intime to prevent an exclamation of dismay. There was no tree! There wasno bridge of any kind over the brook!

Here was a predicament! But before Lucinda could do more thandespairingly ask herself what was to be done now, Romney answered--notin words, but in deeds. He coolly picked Lucinda up in his arms, asif she had been a child instead of a full grown woman of no meanavoirdupois, and began to wade with her through the water. 

Lucinda gasped helplessly. She could not forbid him and she was sochoked with rage over his presumption that she could not have spokenin any case. Then came the catastrophe. Romney's foot slipped on atreacherous round stone--there was a tremendous splash--and Romney andLucinda Penhallow were sitting down in the middle of Peter Penhallow'sbrook. 

Lucinda was the first to regain her feet. About her clung inheart-breaking limpness the ruined voile. The remembrance of all herwrongs that night rushed over her soul, and her eyes blazed in themoonlight. Lucinda Penhallow had never been so angry in her life. 

"YOU D--D IDIOT!" she said, in a voice that literally shook with rage. 

Romney meekly scrambled up the bank after her. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Lucinda, " he said, striving with uncertain successto keep a suspicious quiver of laughter out of his tone. "It waswretchedly clumsy of me, but that pebble turned right under my foot. Please forgive me--for that--and for other things. "

Lucinda deigned no answer. She stood on a flat stone and wrung the waterfrom the poor green voile. Romney surveyed her apprehensively. 

"Hurry, Lucinda, " he entreated. "You will catch your death of cold. "

"I never take cold, " answered Lucinda, with chattering teeth. "And it ismy dress I am thinking of--was thinking of. You have more need to hurry. You are sopping wet yourself and you know you are subject to colds. There--come. "

Lucinda picked up the stringy train, which had been so brave and buoyantfive minutes before, and started up the field at a brisk rate. Romneycame up to her and slipped his arm through hers in the old way. Fora time they walked along in silence. Then Lucinda began to shake withinward laughter. She laughed silently for the whole length of the field;and at the line fence between Peter Penhallow's land and the Grangeacres she paused, threw back the fascinator from her face, and looked atRomney defiantly. 

"You are thinking of--THAT, " she cried, "and I am thinking of it. And wewill go on, thinking of it at intervals for the rest of our lives. Butif you ever mention it to me I'll never forgive you, Romney Penhallow!"

"I never will, " Romney promised. There was more than a suspicion oflaughter in his voice this time, but Lucinda did not choose to resentit. She did not speak again until they reached the Grange gate. Then shefaced him solemnly. 

"It was a case of atavism, " she said. "Old Grandfather Gordon was toblame for it. "

At the Grange almost everybody was in bed. What with the guestsstraggling home at intervals and hurrying sleepily off to their rooms, nobody had missed Lucinda, each set supposing she was with some otherset. Mrs. Frederick, Mrs. Nathaniel and Mrs. George alone were up. Theperennially chilly Mrs. Nathaniel had kindled a fire of chips in theblue room grate to warm her feet before retiring, and the three womenwere discussing the wedding in subdued tones when the door openedand the stately form of Lucinda, stately even in the dragged voile, appeared, with the damp Romney behind her. 

"Lucinda Penhallow!" gasped they, one and all. 

"I was left to walk home, " said Lucinda coolly. "So Romney and I cameacross the fields. There was no bridge over the brook, and when he wascarrying me over he slipped and we fell in. That is all. No, Cecilia, Inever take cold, so don't worry. Yes, my dress is ruined, but that is ofno consequence. No, thank you, Cecilia, I do not care for a hot drink. Romney, do go and take off those wet clothes of yours immediately. No, Cecilia, I will NOT take a hot footbath. I am going straight to bed. Good night. "

When the door closed on the pair the three sisters-in-law stared ateach other. Mrs. Frederick, feeling herself incapable of expressing hersensations originally, took refuge in a quotation:

"'Do I sleep, do I dream, do I wonder and doubt? Is things what theyseem, or is visions about?'"

"There will be another Penhallow wedding soon, " said Mrs. Nathaniel, with a long breath. "Lucinda has spoken to Romney AT LAST. "

"Oh, WHAT do you suppose she said to him?" cried Mrs. George. 

"My dear Cecilia, " said Mrs. Frederick, "we shall never know. "

They never did know. 

VI. Old Man Shaw's Girl

"Day after to-morrow--day after to-morrow, " said Old Man Shaw, rubbinghis long slender hands together gleefully. "I have to keep saying itover and over, so as to really believe it. It seems far too good to betrue that I'm to have Blossom again. And everything is ready. Yes, I think everything is ready, except a bit of cooking. And won't thisorchard be a surprise to her! I'm just going to bring her out here assoon as I can, never saying a word. I'll fetch her through thespruce lane, and when we come to the end of the path I'll step backcasual-like, and let her go out from under the trees alone, neversuspecting. It'll be worth ten times the trouble to see her big, browneyes open wide and hear her say, 'Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!'"

He rubbed his hands again and laughed softly to himself. He was a tall, bent old man, whose hair was snow white, but whose face was fresh androsy. His eyes were a boy's eyes, large, blue and merry, and his mouthhad never got over a youthful trick of smiling at any provocation--and, oft-times, at no provocation at all. 

To be sure, White Sands people would not have given you the mostfavourable opinion in the world of Old Man Shaw. First and foremost, they would have told you that he was "shiftless, " and had let his bitof a farm run out while he pottered with flowers and bugs, or rambledaimlessly about in the woods, or read books along the shore. Perhaps itwas true; but the old farm yielded him a living, and further than thatOld Man Shaw had no ambition. He was as blithe as a pilgrim on a pathwayclimbing to the west. He had learned the rare secret that you must takehappiness when you find it--that there is no use in marking the placeand coming back to it at a more convenient season, because it will notbe there then. And it is very easy to be happy if you know, as Old ManShaw most thoroughly knew, how to find pleasure in little things. Heenjoyed life, he had always enjoyed life and helped others to enjoy it;consequently his life was a success, whatever White Sands people mightthink of it. What if he had not "improved" his farm? There are somepeople to whom life will never be anything more than a kitchen garden;and there are others to whom it will always be a royal palace with domesand minarets of rainbow fancy. 

The orchard of which he was so proud was as yet little more than thesubstance of things hoped for--a flourishing plantation of young treeswhich would amount to something later on. Old Man Shaw's house was onthe crest of a bare, sunny hill, with a few staunch old firs and sprucesbehind it--the only trees that could resist the full sweep of the windsthat blew bitterly up from the sea at times. Fruit trees would nevergrow near it, and this had been a great grief to Sara. 

"Oh, daddy, if we could just have an orchard!" she had been wont to saywistfully, when other farmhouses in White Sands were smothered whitelyin apple bloom. And when she had gone away, and her father had nothingto look forward to save her return, he was determined she should find anorchard when she came back. 

Over the southward hill, warmly sheltered by spruce woods and slopingto the sunshine, was a little field, so fertile that all the slackmanagement of a life-time had not availed to exhaust it. Here Old ManShaw set out his orchard and saw it flourish, watching and tending ituntil he came to know each tree as a child and loved it. His neighbourslaughed at him, and said that the fruit of an orchard so far away fromthe house would all be stolen. But as yet there was no fruit, and whenthe time came for bearing there would be enough and to spare. 

"Blossom and me'll get all we want, and the boys can have the rest, ifthey want 'em worse'n they want a good conscience, " said that unworldly, unbusinesslike Old Man Shaw. 

On his way back home from his darling orchard he found a rare fern inthe woods and dug it up for Sara--she had loved ferns. He planted itat the shady, sheltered side of the house and then sat down on the oldbench by the garden gate to read her last letter--the letter that wasonly a note, because she was coming home soon. He knew every word ofit by heart, but that did not spoil the pleasure of re-reading it everyhalf-hour. 

Old Man Shaw had not married until late in life, and had, so WhiteSands people said, selected a wife with his usual judgment--which, beinginterpreted, meant no judgment at all; otherwise, he would never havemarried Sara Glover, a mere slip of a girl, with big brown eyes like afrightened wood creature's, and the delicate, fleeting bloom of a springMayflower. 

"The last woman in the world for a farmer's wife--no strength or get-upabout her. "

Neither could White Sands folk understand what on earth Sara Glover hadmarried him for. 

"Well, the fool crop was the only one that never failed. "

Old Man Shaw--he was Old Man Shaw even then, although he was onlyforty--and his girl bride had troubled themselves not at all about WhiteSands opinions. They had one year of perfect happiness, which is alwaysworth living for, even if the rest of life be a dreary pilgrimage, andthen Old Man Shaw found himself alone again, except for little Blossom. She was christened Sara, after her dead mother, but she was alwaysBlossom to her father--the precious little blossom whose plucking hadcost the mother her life. 

Sara Glover's people, especially a wealthy aunt in Montreal, hadwanted to take the child, but Old Man Shaw grew almost fierce over thesuggestion. He would give his baby to no one. A woman was hired to lookafter the house, but it was the father who cared for the baby in themain. He was as tender and faithful and deft as a woman. Sara nevermissed a mother's care, and she grew up into a creature of life andlight and beauty, a constant delight to all who knew her. She had a wayof embroidering life with stars. She was dowered with all the charmingcharacteristics of both parents, with a resilient vitality and activitywhich had pertained to neither of them. When she was ten years old shehad packed all hirelings off, and kept house for her father for sixdelightful years--years in which they were father and daughter, brotherand sister, and "chums. " Sara never went to school, but her father sawto her education after a fashion of his own. When their work was donethey lived in the woods and fields, in the little garden they had madeon the sheltered side of the house, or on the shore, where sunshine andstorm were to them equally lovely and beloved. Never was comradeshipmore perfect or more wholly satisfactory. 

"Just wrapped up in each other, " said White Sands folk, half-enviously, half-disapprovingly. 

When Sara was sixteen Mrs. Adair, the wealthy aunt aforesaid, pounceddown on White Sands in a glamour of fashion and culture and outerworldliness. She bombarded Old Man Shaw with such arguments that he hadto succumb. It was a shame that a girl like Sara should grow up in aplace like White Sands, "with no advantages and no education, " said Mrs. Adair scornfully, not understanding that wisdom and knowledge are twoentirely different things. 

"At least let me give my dear sister's child what I would have given myown daughter if I had had one, " she pleaded tearfully. "Let me takeher with me and send her to a good school for a few years. Then, if shewishes, she may come back to you, of course. "

Privately, Mrs. Adair did not for a moment believe that Sara would wantto come back to White Sands, and her queer old father, after three yearsof the life she would give her. 

Old Man Shaw yielded, influenced thereto not at all by Mrs. Adair'sreadily flowing tears, but greatly by his conviction that justice toSara demanded it. Sara herself did not want to go; she protested andpleaded; but her father, having become convinced that it was best forher to go, was inexorable. Everything, even her own feelings, must giveway to that. But she was to come back to him without let or hindrancewhen her "schooling" was done. It was only on having this most clearlyunderstood that Sara would consent to go at all. Her last words, calledback to her father through her tears as she and her aunt drove down thelane, were, "I'll be back, daddy. In three years I'll be back. Don't cry, but justlook forward to that. "

He had looked forward to it through the three long, lonely years thatfollowed, in all of which he never saw his darling. Half a continentwas between them and Mrs. Adair had vetoed vacation visits, under somespecious pretense. But every week brought its letter from Sara. OldMan Shaw had every one of them, tied up with one of her old blue hairribbons, and kept in her mother's little rose-wood work-box in theparlour. He spent every Sunday afternoon re-reading them, with herphotograph before him. He lived alone, refusing to be pestered with kindhelp, but he kept the house in beautiful order. 

"A better housekeeper than farmer, " said White Sands people. He wouldhave nothing altered. When Sara came back she was not to be hurt bychanges. It never occurred to him that she might be changed herself. 

And now those three interminable years were gone, and Sara was cominghome. She wrote him nothing of her aunt's pleadings and reproaches andready, futile tears; she wrote only that she would graduate in June andstart for home a week later. Thenceforth Old Man Shaw went about in astate of beatitude, making ready for her homecoming. As he sat on thebench in the sunshine, with the blue sea sparkling and crinkling down atthe foot of the green slope, he reflected with satisfaction that allwas in perfect order. There was nothing left to do save count the hoursuntil that beautiful, longed-for day after to-morrow. He gave himselfover to a reverie, as sweet as a day-dream in a haunted valley. 

The red roses were out in bloom. Sara had always loved those redroses--they were as vivid as herself, with all her own fullness of lifeand joy of living. And, besides these, a miracle had happened in Old ManShaw's garden. In one corner was a rose-bush which had never bloomed, despite all the coaxing they had given it--"the sulky rose-bush, "Sara had been wont to call it. Lo! this summer had flung the hoardedsweetness of years into plentiful white blossoms, like shallow ivorycups with a haunting, spicy fragrance. It was in honour of Sara'shome-coming--so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy. All things, even the sulkyrose-bush, knew she was coming back, and were making glad because of it. 

He was gloating over Sara's letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came. Shetold him she had run up to see how he was getting on, and if he wantedanything seen to before Sara came. 

"No'm, thank you, ma'am. Everything is attended to. I couldn't letanyone else prepare for Blossom. Only to think, ma'am, she'll be homethe day after to-morrow. I'm just filled clear through, body, soul, andspirit, with joy to think of having my little Blossom at home again. "

Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled it foretokenedtrouble, and wise people had learned to have sudden business elsewherebefore the smile could be translated into words. But Old Man Shaw hadnever learned to be wise where Mrs. Blewett was concerned, although shehad been his nearest neighbour for years, and had pestered his life outwith advice and "neighbourly turns. "

Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry. The effect on her wasto render happiness to other people a personal insult. She resented OldMan Shaw's beaming delight in his daughter's return, and she "consideredit her duty" to rub the bloom off straightway. 

"Do you think Sary'll be contented in White Sands now?" she asked. 

Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered. 

"Of course she'll be contented, " he said slowly. "Isn't it her home? Andain't I here?"

Mrs. Blewett smiled again, with double distilled contempt for suchsimplicity. 

"Well, it's a good thing you're so sure of it, I suppose. If 'twasmy daughter that was coming back to White Sands, after three years offashionable life among rich, stylish folks, and at a swell school, Iwouldn't have a minute's peace of mind. I'd know perfectly well thatshe'd look down on everything here, and be discontented and miserable. "

"YOUR daughter might, " said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm than he hadsupposed he had possessed, "but Blossom won't. "

Mrs. Blewett shrugged her sharp shoulders. 

"Maybe not. It's to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I'm sure. But I'dbe worried if 'twas me. Sary's been living among fine folks, and havinga gay, exciting time, and it stands to reason she'll think White Sandsfearful lonesome and dull. Look at Lauretta Bradley. She was up inBoston for just a month last winter and she's never been able to endureWhite Sands since. "

"Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people, " said Sara'sfather, trying to smile. 

"And your house, too, " pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. "It's such aqueer, little, old place. What'll she think of it after her aunt's?I've heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect palace. I'll just warn youkindly that Sary'll probably look down on you, and you might as well beprepared for it. Of course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to comeback, seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I'm certain shedoesn't want to, and I don't blame her either. "

Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found hisopportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she weredealing him physical blows, but now a swift change swept over him. Hisblue eyes flashed ominously, straight into Mrs. Blewett's straggling, ferrety gray orbs. 

"If you're said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go, " he saidpassionately. "I'm not going to listen to another such word. Takeyourself out of my sight, and your malicious tongue out of my hearing!"

Mrs. Blewett went, too dumfounded by such an unheard-of outburst in mildOld Man Shaw to say a word of defence or attack. When she had gone OldMan Shaw, the fire all faded from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was full of pain and bitterness. MarthaBlewett was a warped and ill-natured woman, but he feared there wasaltogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never thought ofit before? Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom;of course the little gray house where she was born would seem a poorabode after the splendours of her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw walkedthrough his garden and looked at everything with new eyes. How poor andsimple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten the old house! Hewent in, and up-stairs to Sara's room. It was neat and clean, just asshe had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceilingwas discoloured, the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she would thinkit a poor, mean place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him nocomfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamedof her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate WhiteSands, and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything thatwent to make up his uneventful life. 

Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied even Mrs. Blewett had she known. He saw himself as he thought White Sands folkmust see him--a poor, shiftless, foolish old man, who had only one thingin the world worthwhile, his little girl, and had not been of enoughaccount to keep her. 

"Oh, Blossom, Blossom!" he said, and when he spoke her name it soundedas if he spoke the name of one dead. 

After a little the worst sting passed away. He refused to believe longthat Blossom would be ashamed of him; he knew she would not. Three yearscould not so alter her loyal nature--no, nor ten times three years. Butshe would be changed--she would have grown away from him in those threebusy, brilliant years. His companionship could no longer satisfy her. How simple and childish he had been to expect it! She would be sweetand kind--Blossom could never be anything else. She would not show opendiscontent or dissatisfaction; she would not be like Lauretta Bradley;but it would be there, and he would divine it, and it would break hisheart. Mrs. Blewett was right. When he had given Blossom up he shouldnot have made a half-hearted thing of his sacrifice--he should not havebound her to come back to him. 

He walked about in his little garden until late at night, under thestars, with the sea crooning and calling to him down the slope. Whenhe finally went to bed he did not sleep, but lay until morning withtear-wet eyes and despair in his heart. All the forenoon he went abouthis usual daily work absently. Frequently he fell into long reveries, standing motionless wherever he happened to be, and looking dully beforehim. Only once did he show any animation. When he saw Mrs. Blewettcoming up the lane he darted into the house, locked the door, andlistened to her knocking in grim silence. After she had gone he wentout, and found a plate of fresh doughnuts, covered with a napkin, placedon the bench at the door. Mrs. Blewett meant to indicate thus that shebore him no malice for her curt dismissal the day before; possiblyher conscience gave her some twinges also. But her doughnuts couldnot minister to the mind she had diseased. Old Man Shaw took them up;carried them to the pig-pen, and fed them to the pigs. It was the firstspiteful thing he had done in his life, and he felt a most immoralsatisfaction in it. 

In mid-afternoon he went out to the garden, finding the new lonelinessof the little house unbearable. The old bench was warm in the sunshine. Old Man Shaw sat down with a long sigh, and dropped his white headwearily on his breast. He had decided what he must do. He would tellBlossom that she might go back to her aunt and never mind about him--hewould do very well by himself and he did not blame her in the least. 

He was still sitting broodingly there when a girl came up the lane. Shewas tall and straight, and walked with a kind of uplift in her motion, as if it would be rather easier to fly than not. She was dark, with arich dusky sort of darkness, suggestive of the bloom on purple plums, or the glow of deep red apples among bronze leaves. Her big brown eyeslingered on everything in sight, and little gurgles of sound now andagain came through her parted lips, as if inarticulate joy were thusexpressing itself. 

At the garden gate she saw the bent figure on the old bench, and thenext minute she was flying along the rose walk. 

"Daddy!" she called, "daddy!"

Old Man Shaw stood up in hasty bewilderment; then a pair of girlish armswere about his neck, and a pair of warm red lips were on his; girlisheyes, full of love, were looking up into his, and a never-forgottenvoice, tingling with laughter and tears blended into one deliciouschord, was crying, "Oh, daddy, is it really you? Oh, I can't tell you how good it is to seeyou again!"

Old Man Shaw held her tightly in a silence of amazement and joy too deepfor wonder. Why, this was his Blossom--the very Blossom who had goneaway three years ago! A little taller, a little more womanly, but hisown dear Blossom, and no stranger. There was a new heaven and a newearth for him in the realization. 

"Oh, Baby Blossom!" he murmured, "Little Baby Blossom!"

Sara rubbed her cheek against the faded coat sleeve. 

"Daddy darling, this moment makes up for everything, doesn't it?"

"But--but--where did you come from?" he asked, his senses beginning tostruggle out of their bewilderment of surprise. "I didn't expect youtill to-morrow. You didn't have to walk from the station, did you? Andyour old daddy not there to welcome you!"

Sara laughed, swung herself back by the tips of her fingers and dancedaround him in the childish fashion of long ago. 

"I found I could make an earlier connection with the C. P. A. Yesterdayand get to the Island last night. I was in such a fever to get home thatI jumped at the chance. Of course I walked from the station--it's onlytwo miles and every step was a benediction. My trunks are over there. We'll go after them to-morrow, daddy, but just now I want to go straightto every one of the dear old nooks and spots at once. "

"You must get something to eat first, " he urged fondly. "And there ain'tmuch in the house, I'm afraid. I was going to bake to-morrow morning. But I guess I can forage you out something, darling. "

He was sorely repenting having given Mrs. Blewett's doughnuts to thepigs, but Sara brushed all such considerations aside with a wave of herhand. 

"I don't want anything to eat just now. By and by we'll have a snack;just as we used to get up for ourselves whenever we felt hungry. Don't you remember how scandalized White Sands folks used to be at ourirregular hours? I'm hungry; but it's soul hunger, for a glimpse of allthe dear old rooms and places. Come--there are four hours yet beforesunset, and I want to cram into them all I've missed out of these threeyears. Let us begin right here with the garden. Oh, daddy, by whatwitchcraft have you coaxed that sulky rose-bush into bloom?"

"No witchcraft at all--it just bloomed because you were coming home, baby, " said her father. 

They had a glorious afternoon of it, those two children. They exploredthe garden and then the house. Sara danced through every room, and thenup to her own, holding fast to her father's hand. 

"Oh, it's lovely to see my little room again, daddy. I'm sure all my oldhopes and dreams are waiting here for me. "

She ran to the window and threw it open, leaning out. 

"Daddy, there's no view in the world so beautiful as that curve of seabetween the headlands. I've looked at magnificent scenery--and then I'dshut my eyes and conjure up that picture. Oh, listen to the wind keeningin the trees! How I've longed for that music!"

He took her to the orchard and followed out his crafty plan of surpriseperfectly. She rewarded him by doing exactly what he had dreamed of herdoing, clapping her hands and crying out:

"Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!"

They finished up with the shore, and then at sunset they came backand sat down on the old garden bench. Before them a sea of splendour, burning like a great jewel, stretched to the gateways of the west. The long headlands on either side were darkly purple, and the sun leftbehind him a vast, cloudless arc of fiery daffodil and elusive rose. Back over the orchard in a cool, green sky glimmered a crystal planet, and the night poured over them a clear wine of dew from her airychalice. The spruces were rejoicing in the wind, and even the batteredfirs were singing of the sea. Old memories trooped into their heartslike shining spirits. 

"Baby Blossom, " said Old Man Shaw falteringly, "are you quite sureyou'll be contented here? Out there"--with a vague sweep of hishand towards horizons that shut out a world far removed from WhiteSands--"there's pleasure and excitement and all that. Won't you miss it?Won't you get tired of your old father and White Sands?"

Sara patted his hand gently. 

"The world out there is a good place, " she said thoughtfully, "I've hadthree splendid years and I hope they'll enrich my whole life. There arewonderful things out there to see and learn, fine, noble people to meet, beautiful deeds to admire; but, " she wound her arm about his neck andlaid her cheek against his--"there is no daddy!"

And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset--or, rather, through thesunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which thethings seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy of attention fromthose who had the gift of further sight. 

VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau

Aunt Olivia told Peggy and me about him on the afternoon we went overto help her gather her late roses for pot-pourri. We found her strangelyquiet and preoccupied. As a rule she was fond of mild fun, alert to hearEast Grafton gossip, and given to sudden little trills of almost girlishlaughter, which for the time being dispelled the atmosphere of gentleold-maidishness which seemed to hang about her as a garment. Atsuch moments we did not find it hard to believe--as we did at othertimes--that Aunt Olivia had once been a girl herself. 

This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy petals intoher little sweet-grass basket with the air of a woman whose thoughtswere far away. We said nothing, knowing that Aunt Olivia's secretsalways came our way in time. When the rose-leaves were picked, wecarried them in and upstairs in single file, Aunt Olivia bringing upthe rear to pick up any stray rose-leaf we might drop. In the south-westroom, where there was no carpet to fade, we spread them on newspapers onthe floor. Then we put our sweet-grass baskets back in the proper placein the proper closet in the proper room. What would have happened to us, or to the sweet-grass baskets, if this had not been done I do not know. Nothing was ever permitted to remain an instant out of place in AuntOlivia's house. 

When we went downstairs, Aunt Olivia asked us to go into the parlour. She had something to tell us, she said, and as she opened the door adelicate pink flush spread over her face. I noted it, with surprise, butno inkling of the truth came to me--for nobody ever connected the ideaof possible lovers or marriage with this prim little old maid, OliviaSterling. 

Aunt Olivia's parlour was much like herself--painfully neat. Everyarticle of furniture stood in exactly the same place it had alwaysstood. Nothing was ever suffered to be disturbed. The tassels of thecrazy cushion lay just so over the arm of the sofa, and the crochetantimacassar was always spread at precisely the same angel over thehorsehair rocking chair. No speck of dust was ever visible; no fly everinvaded that sacred apartment. 

Aunt Olivia pulled up a blind, to let in what light could sift finelythrough the vine leaves, and sat down in a high-backed old chair thathad appertained to her great-grandmother. She folded her hands in herlap, and looked at us with shy appeal in her blue-gray eyes. Plainly shefound it hard to tell us her secret, yet all the time there was an airof pride and exultation about her; somewhat, also, of a new dignity. Aunt Olivia could never be self-assertive, but if it had been possiblethat would have been her time for it. 

"Have you ever heard me speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson?" asked AuntOlivia. 

We had never heard her, or anybody else, speak of Mr. MalcolmMacPherson; but volumes of explanation could not have told us more abouthim than did Aunt Olivia's voice when she pronounced his name. We knew, as if it had been proclaimed to us in trumpet tones, that Mr. MalcolmMacPherson must be Aunt Olivia's beau, and the knowledge took away ourbreath. We even forgot to be curious, so astonished were we. 

And there sat Aunt Olivia, proud and shy and exulting and shamefaced, all at once!

"He is a brother of Mrs. John Seaman's across the bridge, " explainedAunt Olivia with a little simper. "Of course you don't remember him. He went out to British Columbia twenty years ago. But he is coming homenow--and--and--tell your father, won't you--I--I--don't like to tellhim--Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I are going to be married. "

"Married!" gasped Peggy. And "married!" I echoed stupidly. 

Aunt Olivia bridled a little. 

"There is nothing unsuitable in that, is there?" she asked, rathercrisply. 

"Oh, no, no, " I hastened to assure her, giving Peggy a surreptitiouskick to divert her thoughts from laughter. "Only you must realize, AuntOlivia, that this is a very great surprise to us. " "I thought it wouldbe so, " said Aunt Olivia complacently. "But your father will know--hewill remember. I do hope he won't think me foolish. He did not think Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was a fit person for me to marry once. But thatwas long ago, when Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was very poor. He is in verycomfortable circumstances now. "

"Tell us about it, Aunt Olivia, " said Peggy. She did not look at me, which was my salvation. Had I caught Peggy's eye when Aunt Olivia said"Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" in that tone I must have laughed, willy-nilly. 

"When I was a girl the MacPhersons used to live across the road fromhere. Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was my beau then. But my family--and yourfather especially--dear me, I do hope he won't be very cross--wereopposed to his attentions and were very cool to him. I think that waswhy he never said anything to me about getting married then. And aftera time he went away, as I have said, and I never heard anything from himdirectly for many a year. Of course, his sister sometimes gave me newsof him. But last June I had a letter from him. He said he was cominghome to settle down for good on the old Island, and he asked me if Iwould marry him. I wrote back and said I would. Perhaps I ought to haveconsulted your father, but I was afraid he would think I ought to refuseMr. Malcolm MacPherson. "

"Oh, I don't think father will mind, " said Peggy reassuringly. 

"I hope not, because, of course, I would consider it my duty in any caseto fulfil the promise I have given to Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. He will bein Grafton next week, the guest of his sister, Mrs. John Seaman, acrossthe bridge. "

Aunt Olivia said that exactly as if she were reading it from thepersonal column of the Daily Enterprise. 

"When is the wedding to be?" I asked. 

"Oh!" Aunt Olivia blushed distressfully. "I do not know the exact date. Nothing can be definitely settled until Mr. Malcolm MacPherson comes. But it will not be before September, at the earliest. There will be somuch to do. You will tell your father, won't you?"

We promised that we would, and Aunt Olivia arose with an air of relief. Peggy and I hurried over home, stopping, when we were safely out ofearshot, to laugh. The romances of the middle-aged may be to them astender and sweet as those of youth, but they are apt to possess a gooddeal of humour for onlookers. Only youth can be sentimental withoutbeing mirth-provoking. We loved Aunt Olivia and were glad for herlate, new-blossoming happiness; but we felt amused over it also. Therecollection of her "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" was too much for us everytime we thought of it. 

Father pooh-poohed incredulously at first, and, when we had convincedhim, guffawed with laughter. Aunt Olivia need not have dreaded any moreopposition from her cruel family. 

"MacPherson was a good fellow enough, but horribly poor, " said father. "I hear he has done very well out west, and if he and Olivia have anotion of each other they are welcome to marry as far as I am concerned. Tell Olivia she mustn't take a spasm if he tracks some mud into herhouse once in a while. "

Thus it was all arranged, and, before we realized it at all, Aunt Oliviawas mid-deep in marriage preparations, in all of which Peggy and I werequite indispensable. She consulted us in regard to everything, and wealmost lived at her place in those days preceding the arrival of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. 

Aunt Olivia plainly felt very happy and important. She had alwayswished to be married; she was not in the least strong-minded and herold-maidenhood had always been a sore point with her. I think she lookedupon it as somewhat of a disgrace. And yet she was a born old maid;looking at her, and taking all her primness and little set ways intoconsideration, it was quite impossible to picture her as the wife of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson, or anybody else. 

We soon discovered that, to Aunt Olivia, Mr. Malcolm MacPhersonrepresented a merely abstract proposition--the man who was to confer onher the long-withheld dignity of matronhood. Her romance began and endedthere, although she was quite unconscious of this herself, and believedthat she was deeply in love with him. 

"What will be the result, Mary, when he arrives in the flesh and sheis compelled to deal with 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' as a real, liveman, instead of a nebulous 'party of the second part' in the marriageceremony?" queried Peggy, as she hemmed table-napkins for Aunt Olivia, sitting on her well-scoured sandstone steps, and carefully putting allthread-clippings and ravellings into the little basket which Aunt Oliviahad placed there for that purpose. 

"It may transform her from a self-centered old maid into a woman forwhom marriage does not seem such an incongruous thing, " I said. 

The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected Peggy and I wentover. We had planned to remain away, thinking that the lovers wouldprefer their first meeting to be unwitnessed, but Aunt Olivia insistedon our being present. She was plainly nervous; the abstract was becomingconcrete. Her little house was in spotless, speckless order from top tobottom. Aunt Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept thecellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking care as if sheexpected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would hasten to inspect each atonce and she must stand or fall by his opinion of them. 

Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing her best blacksilk, in which she looked unnaturally fine. Her soft muslin became hermuch better, but we could not induce her to wear it. Anything more primand bandboxy than Aunt Olivia when her toilet was finished it has neverbeen my lot to see. Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, herskirt held stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor. 

"'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe that he willonly be able to sit back and gaze at her, " whispered Peggy. "I wish hewould come and have it over. This is getting on my nerves. "

Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old carvedchair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down on the stairs toawait his coming in a crisping suspense. Aunt Olivia's kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as if it were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred in maddening peace of mind. 

We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window, andtherefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder, therefore, that we positivelyjumped when a thunderous knock crashed against the front door andre-echoed through the house. Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from theskies?

We afterwards discovered that he had come across lots and around thehouse from the back, but just then his sudden advent was almost uncanny. I ran downstairs and opened the door. On the step stood a man aboutsix feet two in height, and proportionately broad and sinewy. He hadsplendid shoulders, a great crop of curly black hair, big, twinklingblue eyes, and a tremendous crinkly black beard that fell over hisbreast in shining waves. In brief, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was what onewould call instinctively, if somewhat tritely, "a magnificent specimenof manhood. "

In one hand he carried a bunch of early goldenrod and smoke-blue asters. 

"Good afternoon, " he said in a resonant voice which seemed to takepossession of the drowsy summer afternoon. "Is Miss Olivia Sterling in?And will you please tell her that Malcolm MacPherson is here?"

I showed him into the parlour. Then Peggy and I peeped through the crackof the door. Anyone would have done it. We would have scorned to excuseourselves. And, indeed, what we saw would have been worth severalconscience spasms if we had felt any. 

Aunt Olivia arose and advanced primly, with outstretched hand. 

"Mr. MacPherson, I am very glad to see you, " she said formally. 

"It's yourself, Nillie!" Mr. Malcolm MacPherson gave two strides. 

He dropped his flowers on the floor, knocked over a small table, andsent the ottoman spinning against the wall. Then he caught AuntOlivia in his arms and--smack, smack, smack! Peggy sank back upon thestair-step with her handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. Aunt Olivia wasbeing kissed!

Presently, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson held her back at arm's length in hisbig paws and looked her over. I saw Aunt Olivia's eyes roam over his armto the inverted table and the litter of asters and goldenrod. Her sleekcrimps were all ruffled up, and her lace fichu twisted half around herneck. She looked distressed. 

"It's not a bit changed you are, Nillie, " said Mr. Malcolm MacPhersonadmiringly. "And it's good I'm feeling to see you again. Are you glad tosee me, Nillie?"

"Oh, of course, " said Aunt Olivia. 

She twisted herself free and went to set up the table. Then she turnedto the flowers, but Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had already gathered them up, leaving a goodly sprinkling of leaves and stalks on the carpet. 

"I picked these for you in the river field, Nillie, " he said. "Wherewill I be getting something to stick them in? Here, this will do. "

He grasped a frail, painted vase on the mantel, stuffed the flowers init, and set it on the table. The look on Aunt Olivia's face was too muchfor me at last. I turned, caught Peggy by the shoulder and dragged herout of the house. 

"He will horrify the very soul out of Aunt Olivia's body if he goes onlike this, " I gasped. "But he's splendid--and he thinks the world ofher--and, oh, Peggy, did you EVER hear such kisses? Fancy Aunt Olivia!"

It did not take us long to get well acquainted with Mr. MalcolmMacPherson. He almost haunted Aunt Olivia's house, and Aunt Oliviainsisted on our staying with her most of the time. She seemed to be veryshy of finding herself alone with him. He horrified her a dozen times inan hour; nevertheless, she was very proud of him, and liked to be teasedabout him, too. She was delighted that we admired him. 

"Though, to be sure, he is very different in his looks from what he usedto be, " she said. "He is so dreadfully big! And I do not like a beard, but I have not the courage to ask him to shave it off. He might beoffended. He has bought the old Lynde place in Avonlea and wants tobe married in a month. But, dear me, that is too soon. It--it would behardly proper. "

Peggy and I liked Mr. Malcolm MacPherson very much. So did father. Wewere glad that he seemed to think Aunt Olivia perfection. He was ashappy as the day was long; but poor Aunt Olivia, under all her surfacepride and importance, was not. Amid all the humour of the circumstancesPeggy and I snuffed tragedy compounded with the humour. 

Mr. Malcolm MacPherson could never be trained to old-maidishness, andeven Aunt Olivia seemed to realize this. He never stopped to clear hisboots when he came in, although she had an ostentatiously new scraperput at each door for his benefit. He seldom moved in the house withoutknocking some of Aunt Olivia's treasures over. He smoked cigars in herparlour and scattered the ashes over the floor. He brought her flowersevery day and stuck them into whatever receptacle came handiest. He saton her cushions and rolled her antimacassars up into balls. He puthis feet on her chair rungs--and all with the most distractingunconsciousness of doing anything out of the way. He never noticed AuntOlivia's fluttering nervousness at all. Peggy and I laughed more thanwas good for us those days. It was so funny to see Aunt Olivia hoveringanxiously around, picking up flower stems, and smoothing out tidies, andgenerally following him about to straighten out things. Once she evengot a wing and dustpan and swept the cigar ashes under his very eyes. 

"Now don't be worrying yourself over that, Nillie, " he protested. "Why, I don't mind a litter, bless you!"

How good and jolly he was, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson! Such songs as hesang, such stories as he told, such a breezy, unconventional atmosphereas he brought into that prim little house, where stagnant dullness hadreigned for years! He worshipped Aunt Olivia, and his worship took theconcrete form of presents galore. He brought her a present almost everyvisit--generally some article of jewelry. Bracelets, rings, chains, ear-drops, lockets, bangles, were showered upon our precise little aunt;she accepted them deprecatingly, but never wore them. This hurt him alittle, but she assured him she would wear them all sometimes. 

"I am not used to jewelry, Mr. MacPherson, " she would tell him. 

Her engagement ring she did wear--it was a rather "loud" combinationof engraved gold and opals. Sometimes we caught her turning it on herfinger with a very troubled face. 

"I would be sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson if he were not so much inlove with her, " said Peggy. "But as he thinks that she is perfection hedoesn't need sympathy. "

"I am sorry for Aunt Olivia, " I said. "Yes, Peggy, I am. Mr. MacPhersonis a splendid man, but Aunt Olivia is a born old maid, and it isoutraging her very nature to be anything else. Don't you see how it'shurting her? His big, splendid man-ways are harrowing her very soulup--she can't get out of her little, narrow groove, and it is killingher to be pulled out. "

"Nonsense!" said Peggy. Then she added with a laugh, "Mary, did you ever see anything so funny as Aunt Olivia sitting on 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson's' knee?"

It WAS funny. Aunt Olivia thought it very unbecoming to sit there beforeus, but he made her do it. He would say, with his big, jolly laugh, "Don't be minding the little girls, " and pull her down on his knee andhold her there. To my dying day I shall never forget the expression onthe poor little woman's face. 

But, as the days went by and Mr. Malcolm MacPherson began to insist ona date being set for the wedding, Aunt Olivia grew to have a strangelydisturbed look. She became very quiet, and never laughed except underprotest. Also, she showed signs of petulance when any of us, butespecially father, teased her about her beau. I pitied her, for I thinkI understood better than the others what her feelings really were. Buteven I was not prepared for what did happen. I would not have believedthat Aunt Olivia could do it. I thought that her desire for marriage inthe abstract would outweigh the disadvantages of the concrete. But onecan never reckon with real, bred-in-the-bone old-maidism. 

One morning Mr. Malcolm MacPherson told us all that he was coming upthat evening to make Aunt Olivia set the day. Peggy and I laughinglyapproved, telling him that it was high time for him to assert hisauthority, and he went off in great good humour across the river field, whistling a Highland strathspey. But Aunt Olivia looked like a martyr. She had a fierce attack of housecleaning that day, and put everything inflawless order, even to the corners. 

"As if there was going to be a funeral in the house, " sniffed Peggy. 

Peggy and I were up in the south-west room at dusk that evening, piecinga quilt, when we heard Mr. Malcolm MacPherson shouting out in the hallbelow to know if anyone was home. I ran out to the landing, but as Idid so Aunt Olivia came out of her room, brushed past me, and flitteddownstairs. 

"Mr. MacPherson, " I heard her say with double-distilled primness, "willyou please come into the parlour? I have something to say to you. "

They went in, and I returned to the south-west room. 

"Peg, there's trouble brewing, " I said. "I'm sure of it by Aunt Olivia'sface, it was GRAY. And she has gone down ALONE--and shut the door. "

"I am going to hear what she says to him, " said Peggy resolutely. "It isher own fault--she has spoiled us by always insisting that we should bepresent at their interviews. That poor man has had to do his courtingunder our very eyes. Come on, Mary. "

The south-west room was directly over the parlour and there was an openstovepipe-hole leading up therefrom. Peggy removed the hat box thatwas on it, and we both deliberately and shamelessly crouched down andlistened with all our might. 

It was easy enough to hear what Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was saying. 

"I've come up to get the date settled, Nillie, as I told you. Come now, little woman, name the day. "

SMACK!

"Don't, Mr. MacPherson, " said Aunt Olivia. She spoke as a woman whohas keyed herself up to the doing of some very distasteful task and isanxious to have it over and done with as soon as possible. "There issomething I must say to you. I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson. "

There was a pause. I would have given much to have seen the pair ofthem. When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson spoke his voice was that of blank, uncomprehending amazement. 

"Nillie, what is it you are meaning?" he said. 

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson, " repeated Aunt Olivia. 

"Why not?" Surprise was giving way to dismay. 

"I don't think you will understand, Mr. MacPherson, " said Aunt Olivia, faintly. "You don't realize what it means for a woman to give upeverything--her own home and friends and all her past life, so to speak, and go far away with a stranger. "

"Why, I suppose it will be rather hard. But, Nillie, Avonlea isn't veryfar away--not more than twelve miles, if it will be that. "

"Twelve miles! It might as well be at the other side of the world toall intents and purposes, " said Aunt Olivia obstinately. "I don't know aliving soul there, except Rachel Lynde. "

"Why didn't you say so before I bought the place, then? But it's not toolate. I can be selling it and buying right here in East Grafton if thatwill please you--though there isn't half as nice a place to be had. ButI'll fix it up somehow!"

"No, Mr. MacPherson, " said Aunt Olivia firmly, "that doesn't cover thedifficulty. I knew you would not understand. My ways are not your waysand I cannot make them over. For--you track mud in--and--and--you don'tcare whether things are tidy or not. "

Poor Aunt Olivia had to be Aunt Olivia; if she were being burned at thestake I verily believe she would have dragged some grotesqueness intothe tragedy of the moment. 

"The devil!" said Mr. Malcolm MacPherson--not profanely or angrily, butas in sheer bewilderment. Then he added, "Nillie, you must be joking. It's careless enough I am--the west isn't a good place to learn finickyways--but you can teach me. You're not going to throw me over because Itrack mud in!"

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson, " said Aunt Olivia again. 

"You can't be meaning it!" he exclaimed, because he was beginning tounderstand that she did mean it, although it was impossible for hisman mind to understand anything else about the puzzle. "Nillie, it'sbreaking my heart you are! I'll do anything--go anywhere--be anythingyou want--only don't be going back on me like this. "

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson, " said Aunt Olivia for the fourthtime. 

"Nillie!" exclaimed Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. There was such real agony inhis tone that Peggy and I were suddenly stricken with contrition. What were we doing? We had no right to be listening to this pitifulinterview. The pain and protest in his voice had suddenly banished allthe humour from it, and left naught but the bare, stark tragedy. We roseand tiptoed out of the room, wholesomely ashamed of ourselves. 

When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had gone, after an hour of useless pleading, Aunt Olivia came up to us, pale and prim and determined, and told usthat there was to be no wedding. We could not pretend surprise, butPeggy ventured a faint protest. 

"Oh, Aunt Olivia, do you think you have done right?"

"It was the only thing I could do, " said Aunt Olivia stonily. "I couldnot marry Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I told him so. Please tell yourfather--and kindly say nothing more to me about the matter. "

Then Aunt Olivia went downstairs, got a broom, and swept up the mud Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had tracked over the steps. 

Peggy and I went home and told father. We felt very flat, but there wasnothing to be done or said. Father laughed at the whole thing, but Icould not laugh. I was sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and, though Iwas angry with her, I was sorry for Aunt Olivia, too. Plainly she feltbadly enough over her vanished hopes and plans, but she had developed astrange and baffling reserve which nothing could pierce. 

"It's nothing but a chronic case of old-maidism, " said fatherimpatiently. 

Things were very dull for a week. We saw no more of Mr. MalcolmMacPherson and we missed him dreadfully. Aunt Olivia was inscrutable, and worked with fierceness at superfluous tasks. 

One evening father came home with some news. "Malcolm MacPherson isleaving on the 7:30 train for the west, " he said. "He has rented theAvonlea place and he's off. They say he is mad as a hatter at the trickOlivia played on him. "

After tea Peggy and I went over to see Aunt Olivia, who had asked ouradvice about a wrapper. She was sewing as for dear life, and her facewas primmer and colder than ever. I wondered if she knew of Mr. MalcolmMacPherson's departure. Delicacy forbade me to mention it but Peggy hadno such scruples. 

"Well, Aunt Olivia, your beau is off, " she announced cheerfully. "Youwon't be bothered with him again. He is leaving on the mail train forthe west. "

Aunt Olivia dropped her sewing and stood up. I have never seen anythinglike the transformation that came over her. It was so thorough andsudden as to be almost uncanny. The old maid vanished completely, and inher place was a woman, full to the lips with primitive emotion and pain. 

"What shall I do?" she cried in a terrible voice. "Mary--Peggy--whatshall I do?"

It was almost a shriek. Peggy turned pale. 

"Do you care?" she said stupidly. 

"Care! Girls, I shall DIE if Malcolm MacPherson goes away! I have beenmad--I must have been mad. I have almost died of loneliness since I senthim away. But I thought he would come back! I must see him--there istime to reach the station before the train goes if I go by the fields. "

She took a wild step towards the door, but I caught her back with asudden mind-vision of Aunt Olivia flying bareheaded and distraughtacross the fields. 

"Wait a moment, Aunt Olivia. Peggy, run home and get father to harnessDick in the buggy as quickly as he can. We'll drive Aunt Olivia to thestation. We'll get you there in time, Aunty. "

Peggy flew, and Aunt Olivia dashed upstairs. I lingered behind to pickup her sewing, and when I got to her room she had her hat and cape on. Spread out on the bed were all the boxes of gifts which Mr. MalcolmMacPherson had brought her, and Aunt Olivia was stringing their contentsfeverishly about her person. Rings, three brooches, a locket, threechains and a watch all went on--anyway and anyhow. A wonderful sight itwas to see Aunt Olivia bedizened like that!

"I would never wear them before--but I'll put them all on now to showhim I'm sorry, " she gasped, with trembling lips. 

When the three of us crowded into the buggy, Aunt Olivia grasped thewhip before we could prevent her and, leaning out, gave poor Dick sucha lash as he had never felt in his life before. He went tearing down thesteep, stony, fast-darkening road in a fashion which made Peggy and mecry out in alarm. Aunt Olivia was usually the most timid of women, butnow she didn't seem to know what fear was. She kept whipping andurging poor Dick the whole way to the station, quite oblivious to ourassurances that there was plenty of time. The people who met us thatnight must have thought we were quite mad. I held on the reins, Peggygripped the swaying side of the buggy, and Aunt Olivia bent forward, hat and hair blowing back from her set face with its strangely crimsoncheeks, and plied the whip. In such a guise did we whirl through thevillage and over the two-mile station road. 

When we drove up to the station, where the train was shunting amid theshadows, Aunt Olivia made a flying leap from the buggy and ran along theplatform, with her cape streaming behind her and all her brooches andchains glittering in the lights. I tossed the reins to a boy standingnear and we followed. Just under the glare of the station lamp we sawMr. Malcolm MacPherson, grip in hand. Fortunately no one else was verynear, but it would have been all the same had they been the centre of acrowd. Aunt Olivia fairly flung herself against him. 

"Malcolm, " she cried, "don't go--don't go--I'll marry you--I'll goanywhere--and I don't care how much mud you bring in!"

That truly Aunt Olivia touch relieved the tension of the situation alittle. Mr. MacPherson put his arm about her and drew her back into theshadows. 

"There, there, " he soothed. "Of course I won't be going. Don't cry, Nillie-girl. "

"And you'll come right back with me now?" implored Aunt Olivia, clingingto him as if she feared he would be whisked away from her yet if she letgo for a moment. 

"Of course, of course, " he said. 

Peggy got a chance home with a friend, and Aunt Olivia and Mr. MalcolmMacPherson and I drove back in the buggy. Mr. MacPherson held AuntOlivia on his knee because there was no room, but she would have satthere, I think, had there been a dozen vacant seats. She clung to him inthe most barefaced fashion, and all her former primness and reserve wereswept away completely. She kissed him a dozen times or more and told himshe loved him--and I did not even smile, nor did I want to. Somehow, itdid not seem in the least funny to me then, nor does it now, although itdoubtless will to others. There was too much real intensity of feelingin it all to leave any room for the ridiculous. So wrapped up in eachother were they that I did not even feel superfluous. 

I set them safely down in Aunt Olivia's yard and turned homeward, completely forgotten by the pair. But in the moonlight, which floodedthe front of the house, I saw something that testified eloquently to thetransformation in Aunt Olivia. It had rained that afternoon and theyard was muddy. Nevertheless, she went in at her front door and took Mr. Malcolm MacPherson in with her without even a glance at the scraper!

VIII. The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's

I refused to take that class in Sunday School the first time I wasasked. It was not that I objected to teaching in the Sunday School. Onthe contrary I rather liked the idea; but it was the Rev. Mr. Allan whoasked me, and it had always been a matter of principle with me neverto do anything a man asked me to do if I could help it. I was notedfor that. It saves a great deal of trouble and it simplifies everythingbeautifully. I had always disliked men. It must have been born in me, because, as far back as I can remember, an antipathy to men and dogswas one of my strongest characteristics. I was noted for that. Myexperiences through life only served to deepen it. The more I saw ofmen, the more I liked cats. 

So, of course, when the Rev. Allan asked me if I would consent to take aclass in Sunday School, I said no in a fashion calculated to chastenhim wholesomely. If he had sent his wife the first time, as he did thesecond, it would have been wiser. People generally do what Mrs. Allanasks them to do because they know it saves time. 

Mrs. Allan talked smoothly for half an hour before she mentioned theSunday School, and paid me several compliments. Mrs. Allan is famousfor her tact. Tact is a faculty for meandering around to a given pointinstead of making a bee-line. I have no tact. I am noted for that. Assoon as Mrs. Allan's conversation came in sight of the Sunday School, I, who knew all along whither it was tending, said, straight out, "What class do you want me to teach?"

Mrs. Allan was so surprised that she forgot to be tactful, and answeredplainly for once in her life, "There are two classes--one of boys and one of girls--needing a teacher. I have been teaching the girls' class, but I shall have to give it upfor a little time on account of the baby's health. You may have yourchoice, Miss MacPherson. "

"Then I shall take the boys, " I said decidedly. I am noted for mydecision. "Since they have to grow up to be men it's well to trainthem properly betimes. Nuisances they are bound to become under anycircumstances; but if they are taken in hand young enough they may notgrow up to be such nuisances as they otherwise would and that will besome unfortunate woman's gain. " Mrs. Allan looked dubious. I knew shehad expected me to choose the girls. 

"They are a very wild set of boys, " she said. 

"I never knew boys who weren't, " I retorted. 

"I--I--think perhaps you would like the girls best, " said Mrs. Allanhesitatingly. If it had not been for one thing--which I would never inthis world have admitted to Mrs. Allan--I might have liked the girls'class best myself. But the truth was, Anne Shirley was in that class;and Anne Shirley was the one living human being that I was afraid of. Not that I disliked her. But she had such a habit of asking weird, unexpected questions, which a Philadelphia lawyer couldn't answer. Miss Rogerson had that class once and Anne routed her, horse, footand artillery. _I_ wasn't going to undertake a class with a walkinginterrogation point in it like that. Besides, I thought Mrs. Allanrequired a slight snub. Ministers' wives are rather apt to think theycan run everything and everybody, if they are not wholesomely correctednow and again. 

"It is not what _I_ like best that must be considered, Mrs. Allan, " Isaid rebukingly. "It is what is best for those boys. I feel that _I_shall be best for THEM. "

"Oh, I've no doubt of that, Miss MacPherson, " said Mrs. Allan amiably. It was a fib for her, minister's wife though she was. She HAD doubt. Shethought I would be a dismal failure as teacher of a boys' class. 

But I was not. I am not often a dismal failure when I make up my mind todo a thing. I am noted for that. 

"It is wonderful what a reformation you have worked in that class, MissMacPherson--wonderful, " said the Rev. Mr. Allan some weeks later. Hedidn't mean to show how amazing a thing he thought it that an oldmaid noted for being a man hater should have managed it, but his facebetrayed him. 

"Where does Jimmy Spencer live?" I asked him crisply. "He came oneSunday three weeks ago and hasn't been back since. I mean to find outwhy. "

Mr. Allan coughed. 

"I believe he is hired as handy boy with Alexander Abraham Bennett, outon the White Sands road, " he said. 

"Then I am going out to Alexander Abraham Bennett's on the White Sandsroad to see why Jimmy Spencer doesn't come to Sunday school, " I saidfirmly. 

Mr. Allan's eyes twinkled ever so slightly. I have always insisted thatif that man were not a minister he would have a sense of humour. 

"Possibly Mr. Bennett will not appreciate your kind interest! Hehas--ah--a singular aversion to your sex, I understand. No woman hasever been known to get inside of Mr. Bennett's house since his sisterdied twenty years ago. "

"Oh, he is the one, is he?" I said, remembering. "He is the woman haterwho threatens that if a woman comes into his yard he'll chase her outwith a pitch-fork. Well, he will not chase ME out!"

Mr. Allan gave a chuckle--a ministerial chuckle, but still a chuckle. It irritated me slightly, because it seemed to imply that he thoughtAlexander Abraham Bennett would be one too many for me. But I did notshow Mr. Allan that he annoyed me. It is always a great mistake to let aman see that he can vex you. 

The next afternoon I harnessed my sorrel pony to the buggy and drovedown to Alexander Abraham Bennett's. As usual, I took William Adolphuswith me for company. William Adolphus is my favourite among my six cats. He is black, with a white dicky and beautiful white paws. He sat up onthe seat beside me and looked far more like a gentleman than many a manI've seen in a similar position. 

Alexander Abraham's place was about three miles along the WhiteSands road. I knew the house as soon as I came to it by its neglectedappearance. It needed paint badly; the blinds were crooked and torn;weeds grew up to the very door. Plainly, there was no woman about THATplace. Still, it was a nice house, and the barns were splendid. Myfather always said that when a man's barns were bigger than his house itwas a sign that his income exceeded his expenditure. So it was all rightthat they should be bigger; but it was all wrong that they should betrimmer and better painted. Still, thought I, what else could you expectof a woman hater?

"But Alexander Abraham evidently knows how to run a farm, even it he isa woman hater, " I remarked to William Adolphus as I got out and tied thepony to the railing. 

I had driven up to the house from the back way and now I was opposite aside door opening on the veranda. I thought I might as well go to it, soI tucked William Adolphus under my arm and marched up the path. Justas I was half-way up, a dog swooped around the front corner and madestraight for me. He was the ugliest dog I had ever seen; and he didn'teven bark--just came silently and speedily on, with a business-like eye. 

I never stop to argue matters with a dog that doesn't bark. I knowwhen discretion is the better part of valour. Firmly clasping WilliamAdolphus, I ran--not to the door, because the dog was between me and it, but to a big, low-branching cherry tree at the back corner of the house. I reached it in time and no more. First thrusting William Adolphus onto a limb above my head, I scrambled up into that blessed tree withoutstopping to think how it might look to Alexander Abraham if he happenedto be watching. 

My time for reflection came when I found myself perched half way up thetree with William Adolphus beside me. William Adolphus was quite calmand unruffled. I can hardly say with truthfulness what I was. On thecontrary, I admit that I felt considerably upset. 

The dog was sitting on his haunches on the ground below, watching us, and it was quite plain to be seen, from his leisurely manner, that itwas not his busy day. He bared his teeth and growled when he caught myeye. 

"You LOOK like a woman hater's dog, " I told him. I meant it for aninsult; but the beast took it for a compliment. 

Then I set myself to solving the question, "How am I to get out of thispredicament?"

It did not seem easy to solve it. 

"Shall I scream, William Adolphus?" I demanded of that intelligentanimal. William Adolphus shook his head. This is a fact. And I agreedwith him. 

"No, I shall not scream, William Adolphus, " I said. "There is probablyno one to hear me except Alexander Abraham, and I have my painful doubtsabout his tender mercies. Now, it is impossible to go down. Is it, then, William Adolphus, possible to go up?"

I looked up. Just above my head was an open window with a tolerablystout branch extending right across it. 

"Shall we try that way, William Adolphus?" I asked. 

William Adolphus, wasting no words, began to climb the tree. I followedhis example. The dog ran in circles about the tree and looked thingsnot lawful to be uttered. It probably would have been a relief to him tobark if it hadn't been so against his principles. 

I got in by the window easily enough, and found myself in a bedroom thelike of which for disorder and dust and general awfulness I had neverseen in all my life. But I did not pause to take in details. WithWilliam Adolphus under my arm I marched downstairs, fervently hoping Ishould meet no one on the way. 

I did not. The hall below was empty and dusty. I opened the first doorI came to and walked boldly in. A man was sitting by the window, lookingmoodily out. I should have known him for Alexander Abraham anywhere. Hehad just the same uncared-for, ragged appearance that the house had; andyet, like the house, it seemed that he would not be bad looking ifhe were trimmed up a little. His hair looked as if it had never beencombed, and his whiskers were wild in the extreme. 

He looked at me with blank amazement in his countenance. 

"Where is Jimmy Spencer?" I demanded. "I have come to see him. "

"How did he ever let you in?" asked the man, staring at me. 

"He didn't let me in, " I retorted. "He chased me all over the lawn, andI only saved myself from being torn piecemeal by scrambling up a tree. You ought to be prosecuted for keeping such a dog! Where is Jimmy?"

Instead of answering Alexander Abraham began to laugh in a mostunpleasant fashion. 

"Trust a woman for getting into a man's house if she has made up hermind to, " he said disagreeably. 

Seeing that it was his intention to vex me I remained cool andcollected. 

"Oh, I wasn't particular about getting into your house, Mr. Bennett, " Isaid calmly. "I had but little choice in the matter. It was get inlest a worse fate befall me. It was not you or your house I wanted tosee--although I admit that it is worth seeing if a person is anxious tofind out how dirty a place CAN be. It was Jimmy. For the third and lasttime--where is Jimmy?"

"Jimmy is not here, " said Mr. Bennett gruffly--but not quite soassuredly. "He left last week and hired with a man over at Newbridge. "

"In that case, " I said, picking up William Adolphus, who had beenexploring the room with a disdainful air, "I won't disturb you anylonger. I shall go. "

"Yes, I think it would be the wisest thing, " said Alexander Abraham--notdisagreeably this time, but reflectively, as if there was somedoubt about the matter. "I'll let you out by the back door. Thenthe--ahem!--the dog will not interfere with you. Please go away quietlyand quickly. "

I wondered if Alexander Abraham thought I would go away with a whoop. But I said nothing, thinking this the most dignified course of conduct, and I followed him out to the kitchen as quickly and quietly as he couldhave wished. Such a kitchen!

Alexander Abraham opened the door--which was locked--just as a buggycontaining two men drove into the yard. 

"Too late!" he exclaimed in a tragic tone. I understood that somethingdreadful must have happened, but I did not care, since, as Ifondly supposed, it did not concern me. I pushed out past AlexanderAbraham--who was looking as guilty as if he had been caughtburglarizing--and came face to face with the man who had sprung from thebuggy. It was old Dr. Blair, from Carmody, and he was looking at me asif he had found me shoplifting. 

"My dear Peter, " he said gravely, "I am VERY sorry to see you here--verysorry indeed. "

I admit that this exasperated me. Besides, no man on earth, not even myown family doctor, has any right to "My dear Peter" me!

"There is no loud call for sorrow, doctor, " I said loftily. "If a woman, forty-eight years of age, a member of the Presbyterian church in goodand regular standing, cannot call upon one of her Sunday School scholarswithout wrecking all the proprieties, how old must she be before shecan?"

The doctor did not answer my question. Instead, he looked reproachfullyat Alexander Abraham. 

"Is this how you keep your word, Mr. Bennett?" he said. "I thought thatyou promised me that you would not let anyone into the house. "

"I didn't let her in, " growled Mr. Bennett. "Good heavens, man, sheclimbed in at an upstairs window, despite the presence on my grounds ofa policeman and a dog! What is to be done with a woman like that?"

"I do not understand what all this means, " I said addressing myself tothe doctor and ignoring Alexander Abraham entirely, "but if my presencehere is so extremely inconvenient to all concerned, you can soon berelieved of it. I am going at once. "

"I am very sorry, my dear Peter, " said the doctor impressively, "but that is just what I cannot allow you to do. This house is underquarantine for smallpox. You will have to stay here. "

Smallpox! For the first and last time in my life, I openly lost mytemper with a man. I wheeled furiously upon Alexander Abraham. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" I cried. 

"Tell you!" he said, glaring at me. "When I first saw you it was toolate to tell you. I thought the kindest thing I could do was to hold mytongue and let you get away in happy ignorance. This will teach you totake a man's house by storm, madam!"

"Now, now, don't quarrel, my good people, " interposed the doctorseriously--but I saw a twinkle in his eye. "You'll have to spend sometime together under the same roof and you won't improve the situationby disagreeing. You see, Peter, it was this way. Mr. Bennett was intown yesterday--where, as you are aware, there is a bad outbreak ofsmallpox--and took dinner in a boarding-house where one of the maidswas ill. Last night she developed unmistakable symptoms of smallpox. TheBoard of Health at once got after all the people who were in thehouse yesterday, so far as they could locate them, and put them underquarantine. I came down here this morning and explained the matter toMr. Bennett. I brought Jeremiah Jeffries to guard the front of the houseand Mr. Bennett gave me his word of honour that he would not let anyonein by the back way while I went to get another policeman and makeall the necessary arrangements. I have brought Thomas Wright and havesecured the services of another man to attend to Mr. Bennett's barn workand bring provisions to the house. Jacob Green and Cleophas Lee willwatch at night. I don't think there is much danger of Mr. Bennett'staking the smallpox, but until we are sure you must remain here, Peter. "

While listening to the doctor I had been thinking. It was the mostdistressing predicament I had ever got into in my life, but there was nosense in making it worse. 

"Very well, doctor, " I said calmly. "Yes, I was vaccinated a monthago, when the news of the smallpox first came. When you go back throughAvonlea kindly go to Sarah Pye and ask her to live in my house duringmy absence and look after things, especially the cats. Tell her to givethem new milk twice a day and a square inch of butter apiece once aweek. Get her to put my two dark print wrappers, some aprons, and somechanges of underclothing in my third best valise and have it sent downto me. My pony is tied out there to the fence. Please take him home. That is all, I think. "

"No, it isn't all, " said Alexander Abraham grumpily. "Send thatcat home, too. I won't have a cat around the place--I'd rather havesmallpox. "

I looked Alexander Abraham over gradually, in a way I have, beginning athis feet and traveling up to his head. I took my time over it; and thenI said, very quietly. 

"You may have both. Anyway, you'll have to have William Adolphus. He isunder quarantine as well as you and I. Do you suppose I am going to havemy cat ranging at large through Avonlea, scattering smallpox germs amonginnocent people? I'll have to put up with that dog of yours. You willhave to endure William Adolphus. "

Alexander Abraham groaned, but I could see that the way I had looked himover had chastened him considerably. 

The doctor drove away, and I went into the house, not choosing to lingeroutside and be grinned at by Thomas Wright. I hung my coat up in thehall and laid my bonnet carefully on the sitting-room table, havingfirst dusted a clean place for it with my handkerchief. I longed to fallupon that house at once and clean it up, but I had to wait until thedoctor came back with my wrapper. I could not clean house in my new suitand a silk shirtwaist. 

Alexander Abraham was sitting on a chair looking at me. Presently hesaid, "I am NOT curious--but will you kindly tell me why the doctor called youPeter?"

"Because that is my name, I suppose, " I answered, shaking up a cushionfor William Adolphus and thereby disturbing the dust of years. 

Alexander Abraham coughed gently. 

"Isn't that--ahem!--rather a peculiar name for a woman?"

"It is, " I said, wondering how much soap, if any, there was in thehouse. 

"I am NOT curious, " said Alexander Abraham, "but would you mind tellingme how you came to be called Peter?"

"If I had been a boy my parents intended to call me Peter in honour ofa rich uncle. When I--fortunately--turned out to be a girl my motherinsisted that I should be called Angelina. They gave me both names andcalled me Angelina, but as soon as I grew old enough I decided to becalled Peter. It was bad enough, but not so bad as Angelina. "

"I should say it was more appropriate, " said Alexander Abraham, intending, as I perceived, to be disagreeable. 

"Precisely, " I agreed calmly. "My last name is MacPherson, and I livein Avonlea. As you are NOT curious, that will be all the information youwill need about me. "

"Oh!" Alexander Abraham looked as if a light had broken in on him. "I'veheard of you. You--ah--pretend to dislike men. "

Pretend! Goodness only knows what would have happened to AlexanderAbraham just then if a diversion had not taken place. But the dooropened and a dog came in--THE dog. I suppose he had got tired waitingunder the cherry tree for William Adolphus and me to come down. He waseven uglier indoors than out. 

"Oh, Mr. Riley, Mr. Riley, see what you have let me in for, " saidAlexander Abraham reproachfully. 

But Mr. Riley--since that was the brute's name--paid no attention toAlexander Abraham. He had caught sight of William Adolphus curled up onthe cushion, and he started across the room to investigate him. WilliamAdolphus sat up and began to take notice. 

"Call off that dog, " I said warningly to Alexander Abraham. 

"Call him off yourself, " he retorted. "Since you've brought that cathere you can protect him. "

"Oh, it wasn't for William Adolphus' sake I spoke, " I said pleasantly. "William Adolphus can protect himself. "

William Adolphus could and did. He humped his back, flattened his ears, swore once, and then made a flying leap for Mr. Riley. William Adolphuslanded squarely on Mr. Riley's brindled back and promptly took fasthold, spitting and clawing and caterwauling. 

You never saw a more astonished dog than Mr. Riley. With a yell ofterror he bolted out to the kitchen, out of the kitchen into the hall, through the hall into the room, and so into the kitchen and round again. With each circuit he went faster and faster, until he looked like abrindled streak with a dash of black and white on top. Such a racketand commotion I never heard, and I laughed until the tears came intomy eyes. Mr. Riley flew around and around, and William Adolphus held ongrimly and clawed. Alexander Abraham turned purple with rage. 

"Woman, call off that infernal cat before he kills my dog, " he shoutedabove the din of yelps and yowls. 

"Oh, he won't kill min, " I said reassuringly, "and he's going too fastto hear me if I did call him. If you can stop the dog, Mr. Bennett, I'llguarantee to make William Adolphus listen to reason, but there's no usetrying to argue with a lightning flash. "

Alexander Abraham made a frantic lunge at the brindled streak as itwhirled past him, with the result that he overbalanced himself and wentsprawling on the floor with a crash. I ran to help him up, which onlyseemed to enrage him further. 

"Woman, " he spluttered viciously, "I wish you and your fiend of a catwere in--in--"

"In Avonlea, " I finished quickly, to save Alexander Abraham fromcommitting profanity. "So do I, Mr. Bennett, with all my heart. Butsince we are not, let us make the best of it like sensible people. Andin future you will kindly remember that my name is Miss MacPherson, NOTWoman!"

With this the end came and I was thankful, for the noise those twoanimals made was so terrific that I expected the policeman would berushing in, smallpox or no smallpox, to see if Alexander Abraham and Iwere trying to murder each other. Mr. Riley suddenly veered in his madcareer and bolted into a dark corner between the stove and the wood-box, William Adolphus let go just in time. 

There never was any more trouble with Mr. Riley after that. A meeker, more thoroughly chastened dog you could not find. William Adolphus hadthe best of it and he kept it. 

Seeing that things had calmed down and that it was five o'clock Idecided to get tea. I told Alexander Abraham that I would prepare it, ifhe would show me where the eatables were. 

"You needn't mind, " said Alexander Abraham. "I've been in the habit ofgetting my own tea for twenty years. "

"I daresay. But you haven't been in the habit of getting mine, " I saidfirmly. "I wouldn't eat anything you cooked if I starved to death. Ifyou want some occupation, you'd better get some salve and anoint thescratches on that poor dog's back. "

Alexander Abraham said something that I prudently did not hear. Seeingthat he had no information to hand out I went on an exploring expeditioninto the pantry. The place was awful beyond description, and for thefirst time a vague sentiment of pity for Alexander Abraham glimmered inmy breast. When a man had to live in such surroundings the wonder was, not that he hated women, but that he didn't hate the whole human race. 

But I got up a supper somehow. I am noted for getting up suppers. Thebread was from the Carmody bakery and I made good tea and excellenttoast; besides, I found a can of peaches in the pantry which, as theywere bought, I wasn't afraid to eat. 

That tea and toast mellowed Alexander Abraham in spite of himself. Heate the last crust, and didn't growl when I gave William Adolphus allthe cream that was left. Mr. Riley did not seem to want anything. He hadno appetite. 

By this time the doctor's boy had arrived with my valise. AlexanderAbraham gave me quite civilly to understand that there was a spare roomacross the hall and that I might take possession of it. I went to it andput on a wrapper. There was a set of fine furniture in the room, and acomfortable bed. But the dust! William Adolphus had followed me in andhis paws left marks everywhere he walked. 

"Now, " I said briskly, returning to the kitchen, "I'm going to clean upand I shall begin with this kitchen. You'd better betake yourself to thesitting-room, Mr. Bennett, so as to be out of the way. "

Alexander Abraham glared at me. 

"I'm not going to have my house meddled with, " he snapped. "It suits me. If you don't like it you can leave it. "

"No, I can't. That is just the trouble, " I said pleasantly. "If I couldleave it I shouldn't be here for a minute. Since I can't, it simply hasto be cleaned. I can tolerate men and dogs when I am compelled to, butI cannot and will not tolerate dirt and disorder. Go into thesitting-room. "

Alexander Abraham went. As he closed the door, I heard him say, incapitals, "WHAT AN AWFUL WOMAN!"

I cleared that kitchen and the pantry adjoining. It was ten o'clock whenI got through, and Alexander Abraham had gone to bed without deigningfurther speech. I locked Mr. Riley in one room and William Adolphus inanother and went to bed, too. I had never felt so dead tired in my lifebefore. It had been a hard day. 

But I got up bright and early the next morning and got a tiptopbreakfast, which Alexander Abraham condescended to eat. When theprovision man came into the yard I called to him from the windowto bring me a box of soap in the afternoon, and then I tackled thesitting-room. 

It took me the best part of a week to get that house in order, but I didit thoroughly. I am noted for doing things thoroughly. At the end ofthe time it was clean from garret to cellar. Alexander Abraham made nocomments on my operations, though he groaned loud and often, and saidcaustic things to poor Mr. Riley, who hadn't the spirit to answer backafter his drubbing by William Adolphus. I made allowances for AlexanderAbraham because his vaccination had taken and his arm was real sore;and I cooked elegant meals, not having much else to do, once I had gotthings scoured up. The house was full of provisions--Alexander Abrahamwasn't mean about such things, I will say that for him. Altogether, Iwas more comfortable than I had expected to be. When Alexander Abrahamwouldn't talk I let him alone; and when he would I just said assarcastic things as he did, only I said them smiling and pleasant. Icould see he had a wholesome awe for me. But now and then he seemed toforget his disposition and talked like a human being. We had one or tworeal interesting conversations. Alexander Abraham was an intelligentman, though he had got terribly warped. I told him once I thought hemust have been nice when he was a boy. 

One day he astonished me by appearing at the dinner table with his hairbrushed and a white collar on. We had a tiptop dinner that day, andI had made a pudding that was far too good for a woman hater. WhenAlexander Abraham had disposed of two large platefuls of it, he sighedand said, "You can certainly cook. It's a pity you are such a detestable crank inother respects. "

"It's kind of convenient being a crank, " I said. "People are carefulhow they meddle with you. Haven't you found that out in your ownexperience?"

"I am NOT a crank, " growled Alexander Abraham resentfully. "All I ask isto be let alone. "

"That's the very crankiest kind of crank, " I said. "A person who wantsto be let alone flies in the face of Providence, who decreed that folksfor their own good were not to be let alone. But cheer up, Mr. Bennett. The quarantine will be up on Tuesday and then you'll certainly be letalone for the rest of your natural life, as far as William Adolphus andI are concerned. You may then return to your wallowing in the mire andbe as dirty and comfortable as of yore. "

Alexander Abraham growled again. The prospect didn't seem to cheer himup as much as I should have expected. Then he did an amazing thing. Hepoured some cream into a saucer and set it down before William Adolphus. William Adolphus lapped it up, keeping one eye on Alexander Abraham lestthe latter should change his mind. Not to be outdone, I handed Mr. Rileya bone. 

Neither Alexander Abraham nor I had worried much about the smallpox. Wedidn't believe he would take it, for he hadn't even seen the girl whowas sick. But the very next morning I heard him calling me from theupstairs landing. 

"Miss MacPherson, " he said in a voice so uncommonly mild that it gave mean uncanny feeling, "what are the symptoms of smallpox?"

"Chills and flushes, pain in the limbs and back, nausea and vomiting, "I answered promptly, for I had been reading them up in a patent medicinealmanac. 

"I've got them all, " said Alexander Abraham hollowly. 

I didn't feel as much scared as I should have expected. After enduring awoman hater and a brindled dog and the early disorder of that house--andcoming off best with all three--smallpox seemed rather insignificant. Iwent to the window and called to Thomas Wright to send for the doctor. 

The doctor came down from Alexander Abraham's room looking grave. 

"It's impossible to pronounce on the disease yet, " he said. "There isno certainty until the eruption appears. But, of course, there is everylikelihood that it is the smallpox. It is very unfortunate. I am afraidthat it will be difficult to get a nurse. All the nurses in town whowill take smallpox cases are overbusy now, for the epidemic is stillraging there. However, I'll go into town to-night and do my best. Meanwhile, at present, you must not go near him, Peter. "

I wasn't going to take orders from any man, and as soon as the doctorhad gone I marched straight up to Alexander Abraham's room with somedinner for him on a tray. There was a lemon cream I thought he could eateven if he had the smallpox. 

"You shouldn't come near me, " he growled. "You are risking your life. "

"I am not going to see a fellow creature starve to death, even if he isa man, " I retorted. 

"The worst of it all, " groaned Alexander Abraham, between mouthfuls oflemon cream, "is that the doctor says I've got to have a nurse. I've gotso kind of used to you being in the house that I don't mind you, but thethought of another woman coming here is too much. Did you give my poordog anything to eat?"

"He has had a better dinner than many a Christian, " I said severely. 

Alexander Abraham need not have worried about another woman coming in. The doctor came back that night with care on his brow. 

"I don't know what is to be done, " he said. "I can't get a soul to comehere. "

"_I_ shall nurse Mr. Bennett, " I said with dignity. "It is my duty andI never shirk my duty. I am noted for that. He is a man, and he hassmallpox, and he keeps a vile dog; but I am not going to see him die forlack of care for all that. "

"You're a good soul, Peter, " said the doctor, looking relieved, manlike, as soon as he found a woman to shoulder the responsibility. 

I nursed Alexander Abraham through the smallpox, and I didn't mind itmuch. He was much more amiable sick than well, and he had the diseasein a very mild form. Below stairs I reigned supreme and Mr. Riley andWilliam Adolphus lay down together like the lion and the lamb. I fedMr. Riley regularly, and once, seeing him looking lonesome, I patted himgingerly. It was nicer than I thought it would be. Mr. Riley lifted hishead and looked at me with an expression in his eyes which cured me ofwondering why on earth Alexander Abraham was so fond of the beast. 

When Alexander Abraham was able to sit up, he began to make up for thetime he'd lost being pleasant. Anything more sarcastic than that man inhis convalescence you couldn't imagine. I just laughed at him, havingfound out that that could be depended on to irritate him. To irritatehim still further I cleaned the house all over again. But what vexed himmost of all was that Mr. Riley took to following me about and waggingwhat he had of a tail at me. 

"It wasn't enough that you should come into my peaceful home and turnit upside down, but you have to alienate the affections of my dog, "complained Alexander Abraham. 

"He'll get fond of you again when I go home, " I said comfortingly. "Dogsaren't very particular that way. What they want is bones. Cats now, they love disinterestedly. William Adolphus has never swerved in hisallegiance to me, although you do give him cream in the pantry on thesly. "

Alexander Abraham looked foolish. He hadn't thought I knew that. 

I didn't take the smallpox and in another week the doctor came out andsent the policeman home. I was disinfected and William Adolphus wasfumigated, and then we were free to go. 

"Good-bye, Mr. Bennett, " I said, offering to shake hands in a forgivingspirit. "I've no doubt that you are glad to be rid of me, but you are nogladder than I am to go. I suppose this house will be dirtier than everin a month's time, and Mr. Riley will have discarded the little polishhis manners have taken on. Reformation with men and dogs never goes verydeep. "

With this Parthian shaft I walked out of the house, supposing that I hadseen the last of it and Alexander Abraham. 

I was glad to get back home, of course; but it did seem queer andlonesome. The cats hardly knew me, and William Adolphus roamed aboutforlornly and appeared to feel like an exile. I didn't take as muchpleasure in cooking as usual, for it seemed kind of foolish to befussing over oneself. The sight of a bone made me think of poor Mr. Riley. The neighbours avoided me pointedly, for they couldn't get ridof the fear that I might erupt into smallpox at any moment. My SundaySchool class had been given to another woman, and altogether I felt asif I didn't belong anywhere. 

I had existed like this for a fortnight when Alexander Abraham suddenlyappeared. He walked in one evening at dusk, but at first sight I didn'tknow him he was so spruced and barbered up. But William Adolphus knewhim. Will you believe it, William Adolphus, my own William Adolphus, rubbed up against that man's trouser leg with an undisguised purr ofsatisfaction. 

"I had to come, Angelina, " said Alexander Abraham. "I couldn't stand itany longer. "

"My name is Peter, " I said coldly, although I was feeling ridiculouslyglad about something. 

"It isn't, " said Alexander Abraham stubbornly. "It is Angelina for me, and always will be. I shall never call you Peter. Angelina just suitsyou exactly; and Angelina Bennett would suit you still better. You mustcome back, Angelina. Mr. Riley is moping for you, and I can't get alongwithout somebody to appreciate my sarcasms, now that you have accustomedme to the luxury. "

"What about the other five cats?" I demanded. 

Alexander Abraham sighed. 

"I suppose they'll have to come too, " he sighed, "though no doubtthey'll chase poor Mr. Riley clean off the premises. But I can livewithout him, and I can't without you. How soon can you be ready to marryme?"

"I haven't said that I was going to marry you at all, have I?" I saidtartly, just to be consistent. For I wasn't feeling tart. 

"No, but you will, won't you?" said Alexander Abraham anxiously. "Because if you won't, I wish you'd let me die of the smallpox. Do, dearAngelina. "

To think that a man should dare to call me his "dear Angelina!" And tothink that I shouldn't mind!

"Where I go, William Adolphus goes, " I said, "but I shall give away theother five cats for--for the sake of Mr. Riley. "

IX. Pa Sloane's Purchase

"I guess the molasses is getting low, ain't it?" said Pa Sloaneinsinuatingly. "S'pose I'd better drive up to Carmody this afternoon andget some more. "

"There's a good half-gallon of molasses in the jug yet, " said ma Sloaneruthlessly. 

"That so? Well, I noticed the kerosene demijohn wasn't very hefty thelast time I filled the can. Reckon it needs replenishing. "

"We have kerosene enough to do for a fortnight yet. " Ma continued to eather dinner with an impassive face, but a twinkle made itself apparent inher eye. Lest Pa should see it, and feel encouraged thereby, she lookedimmovably at her plate. 

Pa Sloane sighed. His invention was giving out. 

"Didn't I hear you say day before yesterday that you were out ofnutmegs?" he queried, after a few moments' severe reflection. 

"I got a supply of them from the egg-pedlar yesterday, " responded Ma, by a great effort preventing the twinkle from spreading over her entireface. She wondered if this third failure would squelch Pa. But Pa wasnot to be squelched. 

"Well, anyway, " he said, brightening up under the influence of a suddensaving inspiration. "I'll have to go up to get the sorrel mare shod. So, if you've any little errands you want done at the store, Ma, just make amemo of them while I hitch up. "

The matter of shoeing the sorrel mare was beyond Ma's province, althoughshe had her own suspicions about the sorrel mare's need of shoes. 

"Why can't you give up beating about the bush, Pa?" she demanded, with contemptuous pity. "You might as well own up what's taking you toCarmody. _I_ can see through your design. You want to get away to theGarland auction. That is what is troubling you, Pa Sloane. "

"I dunno but what I might step over, seeing it's so handy. But thesorrel mare really does need shoeing, Ma, " protested Pa. 

"There's always something needing to be done if it's convenient, "retorted Ma. "Your mania for auctions will be the ruin of you yet, Pa. A man of fifty-five ought to have grown out of such a hankering. Butthe older you get the worse you get. Anyway, if _I_ wanted to go toauctions, I'd select them as was something like, and not waste my timeon little one-horse affairs like this of Garland's. "

"One might pick up something real cheap at Garland's, " said Padefensively. 

"Well, you are not going to pick up anything, cheap or otherwise, PaSloane, because I'm going with you to see that you don't. I know I can'tstop you from going. I might as well try to stop the wind from blowing. But I shall go, too, out of self-defence. This house is so full now ofold clutter and truck that you've brought home from auctions that I feelas if I was made up out of pieces and left overs. "

Pa Sloane sighed again. It was not exhilarating to attend an auctionwith Ma. She would never let him bid on anything. But he realized thatMa's mind was made up beyond the power of mortal man's persuasion toalter it, so he went out to hitch up. 

Pa Sloane's dissipation was going to auctions and buying things thatnobody else would buy. Ma Sloane's patient endeavours of over thirtyyears had been able to effect only a partial reform. Sometimes Paheroically refrained from going to an auction for six months at a time;then he would break out worse than ever, go to all that took place formiles around, and come home with a wagonful of misfits. His last exploithad been to bid on an old dasher churn for five dollars--the boys "ranthings up" on Pa Sloane for the fun of it--and bring it home to outragedMa, who had made her butter for fifteen years in the very latest, mostup-to-date barrel churn. To add insult to injury this was the seconddasher churn Pa had bought at auction. That settled it. Ma decreed thathenceforth she would chaperon Pa when he went to auctions. 

But this was the day of Pa's good angel. When he drove up to the doorwhere Ma was waiting, a breathless, hatless imp of ten flew into theyard, and hurled himself between Ma and the wagon-step. 

"Oh, Mrs. Sloane, won't you come over to our house at once?" he gasped. "The baby, he's got colic, and ma's just wild, and he's all black in theface. "

Ma went, feeling that the stars in their courses fought against a womanwho was trying to do her duty by her husband. But first she admonishedPa. 

"I shall have to let you go alone. But I charge you, Pa, not to bid onanything--on ANYTHING, do you hear?"

Pa heard and promised to heed, with every intention of keeping hispromise. Then he drove away joyfully. On any other occasion Ma wouldhave been a welcome companion. But she certainly spoiled the flavour ofan auction. 

When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little yard of theGarland place below the hill was already full of people. The auction hadevidently begun; so, not to miss any more of it, Pa hurried down. Thesorrel mare could wait for her shoes until afterwards. 

Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland auction a"one-horse affair. " It certainly was very paltry, especially whencompared to the big Donaldson auction of a month ago, which Pa stilllived over in happy dreams. 

Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died within sixweeks of each other, one of consumption and one of pneumonia, they leftnothing but debts and a little furniture. The house had been a rentedone. 

The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put upfor sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination. Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts, and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was a verytame affair. 

A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen monthsin her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window. 

"There's Marthy Blair with the Garland Baby, " said Robert Lawson to Pa. "I'd like to know what's to become of that poor young one!"

"Ain't there any of the father's or mother's folks to take him?" askedPa. 

"No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of. Mrs. Horace hada brother; but he went to Mantioba years ago, and nobody knows where heis now. Somebody'll have to take the baby and nobody seems anxious to. I've got eight myself, or I'd think about it. He's a fine little chap. "

Pa, with Ma's parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not bid onanything, although it will never be known how great was the heroicself-restraint he put on himself, until just at the last, when he didbid on a collection of flower-pots, thinking he might indulge himself tothat small extent. But Josiah Sloane had been commissioned by his wifeto bring those flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them. 

"There, that's all, " said the auctioneer, wiping his face, for the daywas very warm for October. 

"There's nothing more unless we sell the baby. "

A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull affair, andthey were ready for some fun. Someone called out, "Put him up, Jacob. "The joke found favour and the call was repeated hilariously. 

Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha's arms and stood himup on the table by the door, steadying the small chap with one big brownhand. The baby had a mop of yellow curls, and a pink and white face, andbig blue eyes. He laughed out at the men before him and waved his handsin delight. Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby. 

"Here's a baby for sale, " shouted the auctioneer. "A genuine article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real live baby, warranted to walkand talk a little. Who bids? A dollar? Did I hear anyone mean enough tobid a dollar? No, sir, babies don't come as cheap as that, especiallythe curly-headed brand. "

The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on the joke, cried, "Four dollars!"

Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the crowd thatPa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention of givingthe baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son was grown up andmarried. 

"Six, " cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard. JohnClarke lived at White Sands and he and his wife were childless. 

That bid of John Clarke's was Pa's undoing. Pa Sloane could not have anenemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was John Clarke. Everywhere atauctions John Clarke was wont to bid against Pa. At the last auction hehad outbid Pa in everything, not having the fear of his wife before hiseyes. Pa's fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane;he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everything except adetermination that John Clarke should not be victor again. 

"Ten, " he called shrilly. 

"Fifteen, " shouted Clarke. 

"Twenty, " vociferated Pa. 

"Twenty-five, " bellowed Clarke. 

"Thirty, " shrieked Pa. He nearly bust a blood-vessel in his shrieking, but he had won. Clarke turned off with a laugh and a shrug, and the babywas knocked down to Pa Sloane by the auctioneer, who had meanwhile beenkeeping the crowd in roars of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms. There had not been such fun at an auction in Carmody for many a longday. 

Pa Sloane came, or was pushed, forward. The baby was put into his arms;he realized that he was expected to keep it, and he was too dazed torefuse; besides, his heart went out to the child. 

The auctioneer looked doubtfully at the money which Pa laid mutely down. 

"I s'pose that part was only a joke, " he said. 

"Not a bit of it, " said Robert Lawson. "All the money won't bee too muchto pay the debts. There's a doctor's bill, and this will just about payit. "

Pa Sloane drove back home, with the sorrel mare still unshod, the baby, and the baby's meager bundle of clothes. The baby did not trouble himmuch; it had become well used to strangers in the past two months, andpromptly fell asleep on his arm; but Pa Sloane did not enjoy that drive;at the end of it; he mentally saw Ma Sloane. 

Ma was there, too, waiting for him on the back door-step as he droveinto the yard at sunset. Her face, when she saw the baby, expressed thelast degree of amazement. 

"Pa Sloane, " she demanded, "whose is that young one, and there did youget it?"

"I--I--bought it at the auction, Ma, " said Pa feebly. Then he waited forthe explosion. None came. This last exploit of Pa's was too much for Ma. 

With a gasp she snatched the baby from Pa's arms, and ordered him to goout and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the kitchen Ma had set thebaby on the sofa, fenced him around with chairs so that he couldn't falloff and given him a molassed cooky. 

"Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain, " she said. 

Pa explained. Ma listened in grim silence until he had finished. Thenshe said sternly:

"Do you reckon we're going to keep this baby?"

"I--I--dunno, " said Pa. And he didn't. 

"Well, we're NOT. I brought up one boy and that's enough. I don'tcalculate to be pestered with any more. I never was much struck onchildren _as_ children, anyhow. You say that Mary Garland had a brotherout in Mantioba? Well, we shall just write to him and tell him he's gotto look out for his nephew. "

"But how can you do that, Ma, when nobody knows his address?" objectedPa, with a wistful look at that delicious, laughing baby. 

"I'll find out his address if I have to advertise in the papers forhim, " retorted Ma. "As for you, Pa Sloane, you're not fit to be out of alunatic asylum. The next auction you'll be buying a wife, I s'pose?"

Pa, quite crushed by Ma's sarcasm, pulled his chair in to supper. Mapicked up the baby and sat down at the head of the table. Little Teddylaughed and pinched her face--Ma's face! Ma looked very grim, but shefed him his supper as skilfully as if it had not been thirty yearssince she had done such a thing. But then, the woman who once learns themother knack never forgets it. 

After tea Ma despatched Pa over to William Alexander's to borrow a highchair. When Pa returned in the twilight, the baby was fenced in onthe sofa again, and Ma was stepping briskly about the garret. She wasbringing down the little cot bed her own boy had once occupied, andsetting it up in their room for Teddy. Then she undressed the baby androcked him to sleep, crooning an old lullaby over him. Pa Sloane satquietly and listened, with very sweet memories of the long ago, when heand Ma had been young and proud, and the bewhiskered William Alexanderhad been a curly-headed little fellow like this one. 

Ma was not driven to advertising for Mrs. Garland's brother. Thatpersonage saw the notice of his sister's death in a home paper and wroteto the Carmody postmaster for full information. The letter was referredto Ma and Ma answered it. 

She wrote that they had taken in the baby, pending further arrangements, but had no intention of keeping it; and she calmly demanded of its unclewhat was to be done with it. Then she sealed and addressed the letterwith an unfaltering hand; but, when it was done, she looked across thetable at Pa Sloane, who was sitting in the armchair with the baby on hisknee. They were having a royal good time together. Pa had always beendreadfully foolish about babies. He looked ten years younger. Ma's keeneyes softened a little as she watched them. 

A prompt answer came to her letter. Teddy's uncle wrote that he had sixchildren of his own, but was nevertheless willing and glad to give hislittle nephew a home. But he could not come after him. Josiah Spencer, of White Sands, was going out to Manitoba in the spring. If Mr. And Mrs. Sloane could only keep the baby till then he could be sent out with theSpencers. Perhaps they would see a chance sooner. 

"There'll be no chance sooner, " said Pa Sloane in a tone ofsatisfaction. 

"No, worse luck!" retorted Ma crisply. 

The winter passed by. Little Teddy grew and throve, and Pa Sloaneworshipped him. Ma was very good to him, too, and Teddy was just as fondof her as of Pa. 

Nevertheless, as the spring drew near, Pa became depressed. Sometimes hesighed heavily, especially when he heard casual references to the JosiahSpencer emigration. 

One warm afternoon in early May Josiah Spencer arrived. He found Maknitting placidly in the kitchen, while Pa nodded over his newspaper andthe baby played with the cat on the floor. 

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Sloane, " said Josiah with a flourish. "I justdropped in to see about this young man here. We are going to leave nextWednesday; so you'd better send him down to our place Monday or Tuesday, so that he can get used to us, and--"

"Oh, Ma, " began Pa, rising imploringly to his feet. 

Ma transfixed him with her eye. 

"Sit down, Pa, " she commanded. 

Unhappy Pa sat. 

Then Ma glared at the smiling Josiah, who instantly felt as guilty as ifhe had been caught stealing sheep red-handed. 

"We are much obliged to you, Mr. Spencer, " said Ma icily, "but this babyis OURS. We bought him, and we paid for him. A bargain is a bargain. When I pay cash down for babies, I propose to get my money's worth. We are going to keep this baby in spite of any number of uncles inManitoba. Have I made this sufficiently clear to your understanding, Mr. Spencer?"

"Certainly, certainly, " stammered the unfortunate man, feeling guiltierthan ever, "but I thought you didn't want him--I thought you'd writtento his uncle--I thought--"

"I really wouldn't think quite so much if I were you, " said Ma kindly. "It must be hard on you. Won't you stay and have tea with us?"

But, no, Josiah would not stay. He was thankful to make his escape withsuch rags of self-respect as remained to him. 

Pa Sloane arose and came around to Ma's chair. He laid a trembling handon her shoulder. 

"Ma, you're a good woman, " he said softly. 

"Go 'long, Pa, " said Ma. 

X. The Courting of Prissy Strong

I WASN'T able to go to prayer meeting that evening because I hadneuralgia in my face; but Thomas went, and the minute he came home Iknew by the twinkle in his eye that he had some news. 

"Who do you s'pose Stephen Clark went home with from meeting to-night?"he said, chuckling. 

"Jane Miranda Blair, " I said promptly. Stephen Clark's wife had beendead for two years and he hadn't taken much notice of anybody, so far aswas known. But Carmody had Jane Miranda all ready for him, and reallyI don't know why she didn't suit him, except for the reason that a mannever does what he is expected to do when it comes to marrying. 

Thomas chuckled again. 

"Wrong. He stepped up to Prissy Strong and walked off with her. Coldsoup warmed over. "

"Prissy Strong!" I just held up my hands. Then I laughed. "He needn'ttry for Prissy, " I said. "Emmeline nipped that in the bud twenty yearsago, and she'll do it again. "

"Em'line is an old crank, " growled Thomas. He detested Emmeline Strong, and always did. 

"She's that, all right, " I agreed, "and that is just the reason she canturn poor Prissy any way she likes. You mark my words, she'll put herfoot right down on this as soon as she finds it out. "

Thomas said that I was probably right. I lay awake for a long time afterI went to bed that night, thinking of Prissy and Stephen. As a generalrule, I don't concern my head about other people's affairs, but Prissywas such a helpless creature I couldn't get her off my mind. 

Twenty years ago Stephen Clark had tried to go with Prissy Strong. Thatwas pretty soon after Prissy's father had died. She and Emmeline wereliving alone together. Emmeline was thirty, ten years older than Prissy, and if ever there were two sisters totally different from each other inevery way, those two were Emmeline and Prissy Strong. 

Emmeline took after her father; she was big and dark and homely, and shewas the most domineering creature that ever stepped on shoe leather. Shesimply ruled poor Prissy with a rod of iron. 

Prissy herself was a pretty girl--at least most people thought so. I can't honestly say I ever admired her style much myself. I likesomething with more vim and snap to it. Prissy was slim and pink, withsoft, appealing blue eyes, and pale gold hair all clinging in baby ringsaround her face. She was just as meek and timid as she looked and therewasn't a bit of harm in her. I always liked Prissy, even if I didn'tadmire her looks as much as some people did. 

Anyway, it was plain her style suited Stephen Clark. He began to driveher, and there wasn't a speck of doubt that Prissy liked him. ThenEmmeline just put a stopper on the affair. It was pure cantankerousnessin her. Stephen was a good match and nothing could be said againsthim. But Emmeline was just determined that Prissy shouldn't marry. Shecouldn't get married herself, and she was sore enough about it. 

Of course, if Prissy had had a spark of spirit she wouldn't have givenin. But she hadn't a mite; I believe she would have cut off her nose ifEmmeline had ordered her to do it. She was just her mother over again. If ever a girl belied her name, Prissy Strong did. There wasn't anythingstrong about her. 

One night, when prayer meeting came out, Stephen stepped up to Prissyas usual and asked if he might see her home. Thomas and I were justbehind--we weren't married ourselves then--and we heard it all. Prissygave one scared, appealing look at Emmeline and then said, "No, thankyou, not to-night. "

Stephen just turned on his heel and went. He was a high-spirited fellowand I knew he would never overlook a public slight like that. If hehad had as much sense as he ought to have had he would have known thatEmmeline was at the bottom of it; but he didn't, and he began going tosee Althea Gillis, and they were married the next year. Althea was arather nice girl, though giddy, and I think she and Stephen were happyenough together. In real life things are often like that. 

Nobody ever tried to go with Prissy again. I suppose they were afraidof Emmeline. Prissy's beauty soon faded. She was always kind of sweetlooking, but her bloom went, and she got shyer and limper every year ofher life. She wouldn't have dared put on her second best dress withoutasking Emmeline's permission. She was real fond of cats and Emmelinewouldn't let her keep one. Emmeline even cut the serial out of thereligious weekly she took before she would give it to Prissy, becauseshe didn't believe in reading novels. It used to make me furious to seeit all. They were my next door neighbours after I married Thomas, and Iwas often in and out. Sometimes I'd feel real vexed at Prissy for givingin the way she did; but, after all, she couldn't help it--she was bornthat way. 

And now Stephen was going to try his luck again. It certainly did seemfunny. 

Stephen walked home with Prissy from prayer meeting four nights beforeEmmeline found it out. Emmeline hadn't been going to prayer meeting allthat summer because she was mad at Mr. Leonard. She had expressed herdisapproval to him because he had buried old Naomi Clark at the harbour"just as if she was a Christian, " and Mr. Leonard had said something toher she couldn't get over for a while. I don't know what it was, butI know that when Mr. Leonard WAS roused to rebuke anyone the person sorebuked remembered it for a spell. 

All at once I knew she must have discovered about Stephen and Prissy, for Prissy stopped going to prayer meeting. 

I felt real worried about it, someway, and although Thomas said forgoodness' sake not to go poking my fingers into other people's pies, I felt as if I ought to do something. Stephen Clark was a good manand Prissy would have a beautiful home; and those two little boys ofAlthea's needed a mother if ever boys did. Besides, I knew quite wellthat Prissy, in her secret soul, was hankering to be married. So wasEmmeline, too--but nobody wanted to help HER to a husband. 

The upshot of my meditations was that I asked Stephen down to dinnerwith us from church one day. I had heard a rumour that he was going tosee Lizzie Pye over at Avonlea, and I knew it was time to be stirring, if anything were to be done. If it had been Jane Miranda I don'tknow that I'd have bothered; but Lizzie Pye wouldn't have done for astepmother for Althea's boys at all. She was too bad-tempered, and asmean as second skimmings besides. 

Stephen came. He seemed dull and moody, and not much inclined to talk. After dinner I gave Thomas a hint. I said, "You go to bed and have your nap. I want to talk to Stephen. "

Thomas shrugged his shoulders and went. He probably thought I wasbrewing up lots of trouble for myself, but he didn't say anything. Assoon as he was out of the way I casually remarked to Stephen that Iunderstood that he was going to take one of my neighbours away and thatI couldn't be sorry, though she was an excellent neighbour and I wouldmiss her a great deal. 

"You won't have to miss her much, I reckon, " said Stephen grimly. "I'vebeen told I'm not wanted there. "

I was surprised to hear Stephen come out so plump and plain aboutit, for I hadn't expected to get at the root of the matter so easily. Stephen wasn't the confidential kind. But it really seemed to be arelief to him to talk about it; I never saw a man feeling so sore aboutanything. He told me the whole story. 

Prissy had written him a letter--he fished it out of his pocket and gaveit to me to read. It was in Prissy's prim, pretty little writing, sureenough, and it just said that his attentions were "unwelcome, " and wouldhe be "kind enough to refrain from offering them. " Not much wonder thepoor man went to see Lizzie Pye!

"Stephen, I'm surprised at you for thinking that Prissy Strong wrotethat letter, " I said. 

"It's in her handwriting, " he said stubbornly. 

"Of course it is. 'The hand is the hand of Esau, but the voice is thevoice of Jacob, '" I said, though I wasn't sure whether the quotation wasexactly appropriate. "Emmeline composed that letter and made Prissy copyit out. I know that as well as if I'd seen her do it, and you ought tohave known it, too. "

"If I thought that I'd show Emmeline I could get Prissy in spite ofher, " said Stephen savagely. "But if Prissy doesn't want me I'm notgoing to force my attentions on her. "

Well, we talked it over a bit, and in the end I agreed to sound Prissy, and find out what she really thought about it. I didn't think it wouldbe hard to do; and it wasn't. I went over the very next day becauseI saw Emmeline driving off to the store. I found Prissy alone, sewingcarpet rags. Emmeline kept her constantly at that--because Prissy hatedit I suppose. Prissy was crying when I went in, and in a few minutes Ihad the whole story. 

Prissy wanted to get married--and she wanted to get married toStephen--and Emmeline wouldn't let her. 

"Prissy Strong, " I said in exasperation, "you haven't the spirit of amouse! Why on earth did you write him such a letter?"

"Why, Emmeline made me, " said Prissy, as if there couldn't be any appealfrom that; and I knew there couldn't--for Prissy. I also knew that ifStephen wanted to see Prissy again Emmeline must know nothing of it, andI told him so when he came down the next evening--to borrow a hoe, hesaid. It was a long way to come for a hoe. 

"Then what am I to do?" he said. "It wouldn't be any use to write, forit would likely fall into Emmeline's hands. She won't let Prissy goanywhere alone after this, and how am I to know when the old cat isaway?"

"Please don't insult cats, " I said. "I'll tell you what we'll do. Youcan see the ventilator on our barn from your place, can't you? You'd beable to make out a flag or something tied to it, wouldn't you, throughthat spy-glass of yours?"

Stephen thought he could. 

"Well, you take a squint at it every now and then, " I said. "Just assoon as Emmeline leaves Prissy alone I'll hoist the signal. "

The chance didn't come for a whole fortnight. Then, one evening, I sawEmmeline striding over the field below our house. As soon as she was outof sight I ran through the birch grove to Prissy. 

"Yes, Em'line's gone to sit up with Jane Lawson to-night, " said Prissy, all fluttered and trembling. 

"Then you put on your muslin dress and fix your hair, " I said. "I'mgoing home to get Thomas to tie something to that ventilator. "

But do you think Thomas would do it? Not he. He said he owed somethingto his position as elder in the church. In the end I had to do itmyself, though I don't like climbing ladders. I tied Thomas' long redwoollen scarf to the ventilator, and prayed that Stephen would see it. He did, for in less than an hour he drove down our lane and put hishorse in our barn. He was all spruced up, and as nervous and excited asa schoolboy. He went right over to Prissy, and I began to tuft my newcomfort with a clear conscience. I shall never know why it suddenly cameinto my head to go up to the garret and make sure that the moths hadn'tgot into my box of blankets; but I always believed that it was a specialinterposition of Providence. I went up and happened to look out of theeast window; and there I saw Emmeline Strong coming home across our pondfield. 

I just flew down those garret stairs and out through the birches. Iburst into the Strong kitchen, where Stephen and Prissy were sitting ascozy as you please. 

"Stephen, come quick! Emmeline's nearly here, " I cried. 

Prissy looked out of the window and wrung her hands. 

"Oh, she's in the lane now, " she gasped. "He can't get out of the housewithout her seeing him. Oh, Rosanna, what shall we do?"

I really don't know what would have become of those two people if Ihadn't been in existence to find ideas for them. 

"Take Stephen up to the garret and hide him there, Prissy, " I saidfirmly, "and take him quick. "

Prissy took him quick, but she had barely time to get back to thekitchen before Emmeline marched in--mad as a wet hen because somebodyhad been ahead of her offering to sit up with Jane Lawson, and so shelost the chance of poking and prying into things while Jane was asleep. The minute she clapped eyes on Prissy she suspected something. It wasn'tany wonder, for there was Prissy, all dressed up, with flushed cheeksand shining eyes. She was all in a quiver of excitement, and looked tenyears younger. 

"Priscilla Strong, you've been expecting Stephen Clark here thisevening!" burst out Emmeline. "You wicked, deceitful, underhanded, ungrateful creature!"

And she went on storming at Prissy, who began to cry, and looked so weakand babyish that I was frightened she would betray the whole thing. 

"This is between you and Prissy, Emmeline, " I struck in, "and I'm notgoing to interfere. But I want to get you to come over and show me howto tuft my comfort that new pattern you learned in Avonlea, and as ithad better be done before dark I wish you'd come right away. "

"I s'pose I'll go, " said Emmeline ungraciously, "but Priscilla shallcome, too, for I see that she isn't to be trusted out of my sight afterthis. "

I hoped Stephen would see us from the garret window and make good hisescape. But I didn't dare trust to chance, so when I got Emmeline safelyto work on my comfort I excused myself and slipped out. Luckily mykitchen was on the off side of the house, but I was a nervous woman as Irushed across to the Strong place and dashed up Emmeline's garret stairsto Stephen. It was fortunate I had come, for he didn't know we had gone. Prissy had hidden him behind the loom and he didn't dare move forfear Emmeline would hear him on that creaky floor. He was a sight withcobwebs. 

I got him down and smuggled him into our barn, and he stayed there untilit was dark and the Strong girls had gone home. Emmeline began to rageat Prissy the moment they were outside my door. 

Then Stephen came in and we talked things over. He and Prissy had madegood use of their time, short as it had been. Prissy had promised tomarry him, and all that remained was to get the ceremony performed. 

"And that will be no easy matter, " I warned him. "Now that Emmeline'ssuspicions are aroused she'll never let Prissy out of her sight untilyou're married to another woman, if it's years. I know Emmeline Strong. And I know Prissy. If it was any other girl in the world she'd run away, or manage it somehow, but Prissy never will. She's too much in the habitof obeying Emmeline. You'll have an obedient wife, Stephen--if you everget her. "

Stephen looked as if he thought that wouldn't be any drawback. Gossipsaid that Althea had been pretty bossy. I don't know. Maybe it was so. 

"Can't you suggest something, Rosanna?" he implored. "You've helped usso far, and I'll never forget it. "

"The only thing I can think of is for you to have the license ready, andspeak to Mr. Leonard, and keep an eye on our ventilator, " I said. "I'llwatch here and signal whenever there's an opening. "

Well, I watched and Stephen watched, and Mr. Leonard was in the plot, too. Prissy was always a favourite of his, and he would have been morethan human, saint as he is, if he'd had any love for Emmeline, after theway she was always trying to brew up strife in the church. 

But Emmeline was a match for us all. She never let Prissy out of hersight. Everywhere she went she toted Prissy, too. When a month had goneby, I was almost in despair. Mr. Leonard had to leave for the Assemblyin another week and Stephen's neighbours were beginning to talk abouthim. They said that a man who spent all his time hanging around the yardwith a spyglass, and trusting everything to a hired boy, couldn't bealtogether right in his mind. 

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Emmeline driving away one dayalone. As soon as she was out of sight I whisked over, and Anne Shirleyand Diana Barry went with me. 

They were visiting me that afternoon. Diana's mother was my secondcousin, and, as we visited back and forth frequently, I'd often seenDiana. But I'd never seen her chum, Anne Shirley, although I'd heardenough about her to drive anyone frantic with curiosity. So when shecame home from Redmond College that summer I asked Diana to take pity onme and bring her over some afternoon. 

I wasn't disappointed in her. I considered her a beauty, though somepeople couldn't see it. She had the most magnificent red hair and thebiggest, shiningest eyes I ever saw in a girl's head. As for her laugh, it made me feel young again to hear it. She and Diana both laughedenough that afternoon, for I told them, under solemn promise of secrecy, all about poor Prissy's love affair. So nothing would do them but theymust go over with me. 

The appearance of the house amazed me. All the shutters were closed andthe door locked. I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Then Iwalked around the house to the only window that hadn't shutters--a tinyone upstairs. I knew it was the window in the closet off the room wherethe girls slept. I stopped under it and called Prissy. Before longPrissy came and opened it. She was so pale and woe-begone looking that Ipitied her with all my heart. 

"Prissy, where has Emmeline gone?" I asked. 

"Down to Avonlea to see the Roger Pyes. They're sick with measles, andEmmeline couldn't take me because I've never had measles. "

Poor Prissy! She had never had anything a body ought to have. 

"Then you just come and unfasten a shutter, and come right over to myhouse, " I said exultantly. "We'll have Stephen and the minister here inno time. "

"I can't--Em'line has locked me in here, " said Prissy woefully. 

I was posed. No living mortal bigger than a baby could have got in orout of that closet window. 

"Well, " I said finally, "I'll put the signal up for Stephen anyhow, andwe'll see what can be done when he gets here. "

I didn't know how I was ever to get the signal up on that ventilator, for it was one of the days I take dizzy spells; and if I took one up onthe ladder there'd probably be a funeral instead of a wedding. But AnneShirley said she'd put it up for me, and she did. I had never seen thatgirl before, and I've never seen her since, but it's my opinion thatthere wasn't much she couldn't do if she made up her mind to do it. 

Stephen wasn't long in getting there and he brought the minister withhim. Then we all, including Thomas--who was beginning to get interestedin the affair in spite of himself--went over and held council of warbeneath the closet window. 

Thomas suggested breaking in doors and carrying Prissy off boldly, butI could see that Mr. Leonard looked very dubious over that, and evenStephen said he thought it could only be done as a last resort. I agreedwith him. I knew Emmeline Strong would bring an action against himfor housebreaking as likely as not. She'd be so furious she'd stick atnothing if we gave her any excuse. Then Anne Shirley, who couldn't havebeen more excited if she was getting married herself, came to the rescueagain. 

"Couldn't you put a ladder up to the closet window, " she said, "AndMr. Clark can go up it and they can be married there. Can't they, Mr. Leonard?"

Mr. Leonard agreed that they could. He was always the most saintlylooking man, but I know I saw a twinkle in his eye. 

"Thomas, go over and bring our little ladder over here, " I said. 

Thomas forgot he was an elder, and he brought the ladder as quick as itwas possible for a fat man to do it. After all it was too short to reachthe window, but there was no time to go for another. Stephen went up tothe top of it, and he reached up and Prissy reached down, and they couldjust barely clasp hands so. I shall never forget the look of Prissy. Thewindow was so small she could only get her head and one arm out of it. Besides, she was almost frightened to death. 

Mr. Leonard stood at the foot of the ladder and married them. As a rule, he makes a very long and solemn thing of the marriage ceremony, but thistime he cut out everything that wasn't absolutely necessary; and it waswell that he did, for just as he pronounced them man and wife, Emmelinedrove into the lane. 

She knew perfectly well what had happened when she saw the minister withhis blue book in his hand. Never a word said she. She marched to thefront door, unlocked it, and strode upstairs. I've always been convincedit was a mercy that closet window was so small, or I believe that shewould have thrown Prissy out of it. As it was, she walked her downstairsby the arm and actually flung her at Stephen. 

"There, take your wife, " she said, "and I'll pack up every stitch sheowns and send it after her; and I never want to see her or you again aslong as I live. "

Then she turned to me and Thomas. 

"As for you that have aided and abetted that weakminded fool in this, take yourselves out of my yard and never darken my door again. "

"Goodness, who wants to, you old spitfire?" said Thomas. 

It wasn't just the thing for him to say, perhaps, but we are all human, even elders. 

The girls didn't escape. Emmeline looked daggers at them. 

"This will be something for you to carry back to Avonlea, " she said. "You gossips down there will have enough to talk about for a spell. That's all you ever go out of Avonlea for--just to fetch and carrytales. "

Finally she finished up with the minister. 

"I'm going to the Baptist church in Spencervale after this, " she said. Her tone and look said a hundred other things. She whirled into thehouse and slammed the door. 

Mr. Leonard looked around on us with a pitying smile as Stephen putpoor, half-fainting Prissy into the buggy. 

"I am very sorry, " he said in that gently, saintly way of his, "for theBaptists. "

XI. The Miracle at Carmody

Salome looked out of the kitchen window, and a pucker of distressappeared on her smooth forehead. 

"Dear, dear, what has Lionel Hezekiah been doing now?" she murmuredanxiously. 

Involuntarily she reached out for her crutch; but it was a little beyondher reach, having fallen on the floor, and without it Salome could notmove a step. 

"Well, anyway, Judith is bringing him in as fast as she can, " shereflected. "He must have been up to something terrible this time; forshe looks very cross, and she never walks like that unless she is angryclear through. Dear me, I am sometimes tempted to think that Judith andI made a mistake in adopting the child. I suppose two old maids don'tknow much about bringing up a boy properly. But he is NOT a bad child, and it really seems to me that there must be some way of making himbehave better if we only knew what it was. "

Salome's monologue was cut short by the entrance of her sister Judith, holding Lionel Hezekiah by his chubby wrist with a determined grip. 

Judith Marsh was ten years older than Salome, and the two women wereas different in appearance as night and day. Salome, in spite of herthirty-five years, looked almost girlish. She was small and pink andflower-like, with little rings of pale golden hair clustering all overher head in a most unspinster-like fashion, and her eyes were big andblue, and mild as a dove's. Her face was perhaps a weak one, but it wasvery sweet and appealing. 

Judith Marsh was tall and dark, with a plain, tragic face and iron-grayhair. Her eyes were black and sombre, and every feature bespokeunyielding will and determination. Just now she looked, as Salome hadsaid, "angry clear through, " and the baleful glances she cast on thesmall mortal she held would have withered a more hardened criminal thansix happy-go-lucky years had made of Lionel Hezekiah. 

Lionel Hezekiah, whatever his shortcomings, did not look bad. Indeed, he was as engaging an urchin as ever beamed out on a jolly good worldthrough a pair of big, velvet-brown eyes. He was chubby and firm-limbed, with a mop of beautiful golden curls, which were the despair of hisheart and the pride and joy of Salome's; and his round face was usuallya lurking-place for dimples and smiles and sunshine. 

But just now Lionel Hezekiah was under a blight; he had been caughtred-handed in guilt, and was feeling much ashamed of himself. He hunghis head and squirmed his toes under the mournful reproach in Salome'seyes. When Salome looked at him like that, Lionel Hezekiah always feltthat he was paying more for his fun than it was worth. 

"What do you suppose I caught him doing this time?" demanded Judith. 

"I--I don't know, " faltered Salome. 

"Firing--at--a--mark--on--the--henhouse--door--with--new-laid--eggs, "said Judith with measured distinctness. "He has broken every egg thatwas laid to-day except three. And as for the state of that henhousedoor--"

Judith paused, with an indignant gesture meant to convey that the stateof the henhouse door must be left to Salome's imagination, since theEnglish language was not capable of depicting it. 

"O Lionel Hezekiah, why will you do such things?" said Salome miserably. 

"I--didn't know it was wrong, " said Lionel Hezekiah, bursting intoprompt tears. "I--I thought it would be bully fun. Seems's if everythingwhat's fun 's wrong. "

Salome's heart was not proof against tears, as Lionel Hezekiah very wellknew. She put her arm about the sobbing culprit, and drew him to herside. 

"He didn't know it was wrong, " she said defiantly to Judith. 

"He's got to be taught, then, " was Judith's retort. "No, you needn'ttry to beg him off, Salome. He shall go right to bed without supper, andstay there till to-morrow morning. "

"Oh! not without his supper, " entreated Salome. "You--you won't improvethe child's morals by injuring his stomach, Judith. "

"Without his supper, I say, " repeated Judith inexorably. "LionelHezekiah, go up-stairs to the south room, and go to bed at once. "

Lionel Hezekiah went up-stairs, and went to bed at once. He was neversulky or disobedient. Salome listened to him as he stumped patientlyup-stairs with a sob at every step, and her own eyes filled with tears. 

"Now don't for pity's sake go crying, Salome, " said Judith irritably. "Ithink I've let him off very easily. He is enough to try the patience ofa saint, and I never was that, " she added with entire truth. 

"But he isn't bad, " pleaded Salome. "You know he never does anything thesecond time after he has been told it was wrong, never. "

"What good does that do when he is certain to do something new and twiceas bad? I never saw anything like him for originating ideas of mischief. Just look at what he has done in the past fortnight--in one fortnight, Salome. He brought in a live snake, and nearly frightened you into fits;he drank up a bottle of liniment, and almost poisoned himself; he tookthree toads to bed with him; he climbed into the henhouse loft, and fellthrough on a hen and killed her; he painted his face all over with yourwater-colours; and now comes THIS exploit. And eggs at twenty-eightcents a dozen! I tell you, Salome, Lionel Hezekiah is an expensiveluxury. "

"But we couldn't do without him, " protested Salome. 

"_I_ could. But as you can't, or think you can't, we'll have to keephim, I suppose. But the only way to secure any peace of mind forourselves, as far as I can see, is to tether him in the yard, and hiresomebody to watch him. "

"There must be some way of managing him, " said Salome desperately. Shethought Judith was in earnest about the tethering. Judith was generallyso terribly in earnest in all she said. "Perhaps it is because he hasno other employment that he invents so many unheard-of things. If he hadanything to occupy himself with--perhaps if we sent him to school--"

"He's too young to go to school. Father always said that no child shouldgo to school until it was seven, and I don't mean Lionel Hezekiah shall. Well, I'm going to take a pail of hot water and a brush, and see what Ican do to that henhouse door. I've got my afternoon's work cut out forme. "

Judith stood Salome's crutch up beside her, and departed to purify thehenhouse door. As soon as she was safely out of the way, Salome took hercrutch, and limped slowly and painfully to the foot of the stairs. Shecould not go up and comfort Lionel Hezekiah as she yearned to do, which was the reason Judith had sent him up-stairs. Salome had not beenup-stairs for fifteen years. Neither did she dare to call him out on thelanding, lest Judith return. Besides, of course he must be punished; hehad been very naughty. 

"But I wish I could smuggle a bit of supper up to him, " she mused, sitting down on the lowest step and listening. "I don't hear a sound. Isuppose he has cried himself to sleep, poor, dear baby. He certainlyis dreadfully mischievous; but it seems to me that it shows aninvestigating turn of mind, and if it could only be directed into theproper channels--I wish Judith would let me have a talk with Mr. Leonardabout Lionel Hezekiah. I wish Judith didn't hate ministers so. I don'tmind so much her not letting me go to church, because I'm so lame thatit would be painful anyhow; but I'd like to talk with Mr. Leonard nowand then about some things. I can never believe that Judith and fatherwere right; I am sure they were not. There is a God, and I'm afraidit's terribly wicked not to go to church. But there, nothing short of amiracle would convince Judith; so there is no use in thinking about it. Yes, Lionel Hezekiah must have gone to sleep. "

Salome pictured him so, with his long, curling lashes brushing his rosy, tear-stained cheek and his chubby fists clasped tightly over his breastas was his habit; her heart grew warm and thrilling with the maternitythe picture provoked. 

A year previously Lionel Hezekiah's parents, Abner and Martha Smith, haddied, leaving a houseful of children and very little else. The childrenwere adopted into various Carmody families, and Salome Marsh had amazedJudith by asking to be allowed to take the five-year-old "baby. " Atfirst Judith had laughed at the idea; but, when she found that Salomewas in earnest, she yielded. Judith always gave Salome her own wayexcept on one point. 

"If you want the child, I suppose you must have him, " she said finally. "I wish he had a civilized name, though. Hezekiah is bad, and Lionel isworse; but the two in combination, and tacked on to Smith at that, issomething that only Martha Smith could have invented. Her judgment wasthe same clear through, from selecting husbands to names. "

So Lionel Hezekiah came into Judith's home and Salome's heart. Thelatter was permitted to love him all she pleased, but Judith overlookedhis training with a critical eye. Possibly it was just as well, forSalome might otherwise have ruined him with indulgence. Salome, whoalways adopted Judith's opinions, no matter how ill they fitted her, deferred to the former's decrees meekly, and suffered far more thanLionel Hezekiah when he was punished. 

She sat on the stairs until she fell asleep herself, her head pillowedon her arm. Judith found her there when she came in, severe andtriumphant, from her bout with the henhouse door. Her face softened intomarvelous tenderness as she looked at Salome. 

"She's nothing but a child herself in spite of her age, " she thoughtpityingly. "A child that's had her whole life thwarted and spoiledthrough no fault of her own. And yet folks say there is a God who iskind and good! If there is a God, he is a cruel, jealous tyrant, and Ihate Him!"

Judith's eyes were bitter and vindictive. She thought she had manygrievances against the great Power that rules the universe, but the mostintense was Salome's helplessness--Salome, who fifteen years beforehad been the brightest, happiest of maidens, light of heart and foot, bubbling over with harmless, sparkling mirth and life. If Salome couldonly walk like other women, Judith told herself that she would not hatethe great tyrannical Power. 

Lionel Hezekiah was subdued and angelic for four days after that affairof the henhouse door. Then he broke out in a new place. One afternoon hecame in sobbing, with his golden curls full of burrs. Judith was not in, but Salome dropped her crochet-work and gazed at him in dismay. 

"Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what have you gone and done now?"

"I--I just stuck the burrs in 'cause I was playing I was a heathenchief, " sobbed Lionel Hezekiah. "It was great fun while it lasted; but, when I tried to take them out, it hurt awful. "

Neither Salome nor Lionel Hezekiah ever forgot the harrowing hour thatfollowed. With the aid of comb and scissors, Salome eventually got theburrs out of Lionel Hezekiah's crop of curls. It would be impossible todecide which of them suffered more in the process. Salome cried as hardas Lionel Hezekiah did, and every snip of the scissors or tug at thesilken floss cut into her heart. She was almost exhausted when theperformance was over; but she took the tired Lionel Hezekiah on herknee, and laid her wet cheek against his shining head. 

"Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what does make you get into mischief soconstantly?" she sighed. 

Lionel Hezekiah frowned reflectively. 

"I don't know, " he finally announced, "unless it's because you don'tsend me to Sunday school. "

Salome started as if an electric shock had passed through her frailbody. 

"Why, Lionel Hezekiah, " she stammered, "what put such and idea into yourhead?"

"Well, all the other boys go, " said Lionel Hezekiah defiantly; "andthey're all better'n me; so I guess that must be the reason. TeddyMarkham says that all little boys should go to Sunday school, and thatif they don't they're sure to go to the bad place. I don't see how youcan 'spect me to behave well when you won't send me to Sunday school. 

"Would you like to go?" asked Salome, almost in a whisper. 

"I'd like it bully, " said Lionel Hezekiah frankly and succinctly. 

"Oh, don't use such dreadful words, " sighed Salome helplessly. "I'll seewhat can be done. Perhaps you can go. I'll ask your Aunt Judith. "

"Oh, Aunt Judith won't let me go, " said Lionel Hezekiah despondingly. "Aunt Judith doesn't believe there is any God or any bad place. TeddyMarkham says she doesn't. He says she's an awful wicked woman 'cause shenever goes to church. So you must be wicked too, Aunt Salome, 'cause younever go. Why don't you?"

"Your--your Aunt Judith won't let me go, " faltered Salome, moreperplexed than she had ever been before in her life. 

"Well, it doesn't seem to me that you have much fun on Sundays, "remarked Lionel Hezekiah ponderingly. "I'd have more if I was you. But Is'pose you can't 'cause you're ladies. I'm glad I'm a man. Look at AbelBlair, what splendid times he has on Sundays. He never goes to church, but he goes fishing, and has cock-fights, and gets drunk. When I growup, I'm going to do that on Sundays too, since I won't be going tochurch. I don't want to go to church, but I'd like to go to Sundayschool. "

Salome listened in agony. Every word of Lionel Hezekiah's stung herconscience unbearably. So this was the result of her weak yielding toJudith; this innocent child looked upon her as a wicked woman, and, worse still, regarded old, depraved Abel Blair as a model to beimitated. Oh! was it too late to undo the evil? When Judith returned, Salome blurted out the whole story. "Lionel Hezekiah must go to Sundayschool, " she concluded appealingly. 

Judith's face hardened until it was as if cut in stone. 

"No, he shall not, " she said stubbornly. "No one living in my householdshall ever go to church or Sunday school. I gave in to you when youwanted to teach him to say his prayers, though I knew it was onlyfoolish superstition, but I sha'n't yield another inch. You know exactlyhow I feel on this subject, Salome; I believe just as father did. Youknow he hated churches and churchgoing. And was there ever a better, kinder, more lovable man?"

"Mother believed in God; mother always went to church, " pleaded Salome. 

"Mother was weak and superstitious, just as you are, " retorted Judithinflexibly. "I tell you, Salome, I don't believe there is a God. But, ifthere is, He is cruel and unjust, and I hate Him. "

"Judith!" gasped Salome, aghast at the impiety. She half expected to seeher sister struck dead at her feet. 

"Don't 'Judith' me!" said Judith passionately, in the strange anger thatany discussion of the subject always roused in her. "I mean every word Isay. Before you got lame I didn't feel much about it one way or another;I'd just as soon have gone with mother as with father. But, when youwere struck down like that, I knew father was right. "

For a moment Salome quailed. She felt that she could not, dare not, stand out against Judith. For her own sake she could not have done so, but the thought of Lionel Hezekiah nerved her to desperation. She struckher thin, bleached little hands wildly together. 

"Judith, I'm going to church to-morrow, " she cried. "I tell you I am, I won't set Lionel Hezekiah a bad example one day longer. I'll not takehim; I won't go against you in that, for it is your bounty feeds andclothes him; but I'm going myself. "

"If you do, Salome Marsh, I'll never forgive you, " said Judith, herharsh face dark with anger; and then, not trusting herself to discussthe subject any longer, she went out. 

Salome dissolved into her ready tears, and cried most of the night. But her resolution did not fail. Go to church she would, for that dearbaby's sake. 

Judith would not speak to her at breakfast, and this almost brokeSalome's heart; but she dared not yield. After breakfast, she limpedpainfully into her room, and still more painfully dressed herself. Whenshe was ready, she took a little old worn Bible out of her box. It hadbeen her mother's, and Salome read a chapter in it every night, althoughshe never dared to let Judith see her doing it. 

When she limped out into the kitchen, Judith looked up with a hard face. A flame of sullen anger glowed in her dark eyes, and she went into thesitting-room and shut the door, as if by that act she were shutting hersister for evermore out of her heart and life. Salome, strung up to thelast pitch of nervous tension, felt intuitively the significance ofthat closed door. For a moment she wavered--oh, she could not go againstJudith! She was all but turning back to her room when Lionel Hezekiahcame running in, and paused to look at her admiringly. 

"You look just bully, Aunt Salome, " he said. "Where are you going?"

"Don't use that word, Lionel Hezekiah, " pleaded Salome. "I'm going tochurch. "

"Take me with you, " said Lionel Hezekiah promptly. Salome shook herhead. 

"I can't, dear. Your Aunt Judith wouldn't like it. Perhaps she will letyou go after a while. Now do be a good boy while I am away, won'tyou? Don't do any naughty things. " "I won't do them if I know they'renaughty, " conceded Lionel Hezekiah. "But that's just the trouble; Idon't know what's naughty and what ain't. Prob'ly if I went to Sundayschool I'd find out. "

Salome limped out of the yard and down the lane bordered by its astersand goldenrod. Fortunately the church was just outside the lane, across the main road; but Salome found it hard to cover even that shortdistance. She felt almost exhausted when she reached the church andtoiled painfully up the aisle to her mother's old pew. She laid hercrutch on the seat, and sank into the corner by the window with a sighof relief. 

She had elected to come early so that she might get there before therest of the people. The church was as yet empty, save for a class ofSunday school children and their teacher in a remote corner, who pausedmidway in their lesson to stare with amazement at the astonishing sighof Salome Marsh limping into church. 

The big building, shadowy from the great elms around it, was very still. A faint murmur came from the closed room behind the pulpit where therest of the Sunday school was assembled. In front of the pulpit was astand bearing tall white geraniums in luxuriant blossom. The lightfell through the stained-glass window in a soft tangle of hues upon thefloor. Salome felt a sense of peace and happiness fill her heart. EvenJudith's anger lost its importance. She leaned her head againstthe window-sill, and gave herself up to the flood of tender oldrecollections that swept over her. 

Memory went back to the years of her childhood when she had sat in thispew every Sunday with her mother. Judith had come then, too, alwaysseeming grown up to Salome by reason of her ten years' seniority. Hertall, dark, reserved father never came. Salome knew that the Carmodypeople called him an infidel, and looked upon him as a very wicked man. But he had not been wicked; he had been good and kind in his own oddway. 

The gently little mother had died when Salome was ten years old, but soloving and tender was Judith's care that the child did not miss anythingout of her life. Judith Marsh loved her little sister with an intensitythat was maternal. She herself was a plain, repellent girl, liked byfew, sought after by no man; but she was determined that Salome shouldhave everything that she had missed--admiration, friendship, love. Shewould have a vicarious youth in Salome's. 

All went according to Judith's planning until Salome was eighteen, and then trouble after trouble came. Their father, whom Judith hadunderstood and passionately loved, died; Salome's young lover was killedin a railroad accident; and finally Salome herself developed symptoms ofthe hip-disease which, springing from a trifling injury, eventually lefther a cripple. Everything possible was done for her. Judith, fallingheir to a snug little fortune by the death of the old aunt for whom shewas named, spared nothing to obtain the best medical skill, and in vain. One and all, the great doctors failed. 

Judith had borne her father's death bravely enough in spite of her agonyof grief; she had watched her sister pining and fading with the pain ofher broken heart without growing bitter; but when she knew at last thatSalome would never walk again save as she hobbled painfully about onher crutch, the smouldering revolt in her soul broke its bounds, andoverflowed her nature in a passionate rebellion against the Being whohad sent, or had failed to prevent, these calamities. She did not raveor denounce wildly; that was not Judith's way; but she never went tochurch again, and it soon became an accepted fact in Carmody that JudithMarsh was as rank an infidel as her father had been before her; nay, worse, since she would not even allow Salome to go to church, and shutthe door in the minister's face when he went to see her. 

"I should have stood out against her for conscience' sake, " reflectedSalome in her pew self-reproachfully. "But, O dear, I'm afraid she'llnever forgive me, and how can I live if she doesn't? But I must endureit for Lionel Hezekiah's sake; my weakness has perhaps done him greatharm already. They say that what a child learns in the first seven yearsnever leaves him; so Lionel Hezekiah has only another year to get setright about these things. Oh, if I've left it till too late!"

When the people began to come in, Salome felt painfully the curiousglances directed at her. Look where she would, she met them, unlessshe looked out of the window; so out of the window she did lookunswervingly, her delicate little face burning crimson withself-consciousness. She could see her home and its back yard plainly, with Lionel Hezekiah making mud-pies joyfully in the corner. Presentlyshe saw Judith come out of the house and stride away to the pine woodbehind it. Judith always betook herself to the pines in time of mentalstress and strain. 

Salome could see the sunlight shining on Lionel Hezekiah's bare head ashe mixed his pies. In the pleasure of watching him she forgot where shewas and the curious eyes turned on her. 

Suddenly Lionel Hezekiah ceased concocting pies, and betook himself tothe corner of the summer kitchen, where he proceeded to climb up to thetop of the storm-fence and from there to mount the sloping kitchen roof. Salome clasped her hands in agony. What if the child should fall? Oh!why had Judith gone away and left him alone? What if--what if--and then, while her brain with lightning-like rapidity pictured forth a dozenpossible catastrophes, something really did happen. Lionel Hezekiahslipped, sprawled wildly, slid down, and fell off the roof, in abewildering whirl of arms and legs, plump into the big rain-waterhogshead under the spout, which was generally full to the brim withrain-water, a hogshead big and deep enough to swallow up half a dozensmall boys who went climbing kitchen roofs on a Sunday. 

Then something took place that is talked of in Carmody to this day, andeven fiercely wrangled over, so many and conflicting are the opinions onthe subject. Salome Marsh, who had not walked a step without assistancefor fifteen years, suddenly sprang to her feet with a shriek, ran downthe aisle, and out of the door!

Every man, woman, and child in the Carmody church followed her, even tothe minister, who had just announced his text. When they got out, Salomewas already half-way up her lane, running wildly. In her heart was roomfor but one agonized thought. Would Lionel Hezekiah be drowned beforeshe reached him?

She opened the gate of the yard, and panted across it just as a tall, grim-faced woman came around the corner of the house and stood rooted tothe ground in astonishment at the sight that met her eyes. 

But Salome saw nobody. She flung herself against the hogshead and lookedin, sick with terror at what she might see. What she did see was LionelHezekiah sitting on the bottom of the hogshead in water that cameonly to his waist. He was looking rather dazed and bewildered, but wasapparently quite uninjured. 

The yard was full of people, but nobody had as yet said a word; awe andwonder held everybody in spellbound silence. Judith was the first tospeak. She pushed through the crowd to Salome. Her face was blanchedto a deadly whiteness; and her eyes, as Mrs. William Blair afterwardsdeclared, were enough to give a body the creeps. 

"Salome, " she said in a high, shrill, unnatural voice, "where is yourcrutch?"

Salome came to herself at the question. For the first time, she realizedthat she had walked, nay, run, all that distance from the church aloneand unaided. She turned pale, swayed, and would have fallen if Judithhad not caught her. 

Old Dr. Blair came forward briskly. 

"Carry her in, " he said, "and don't all of you come crowding in, either. She wants quiet and rest for a spell. "

Most of the people obediently returned to the church, their suddenloosened tongues clattering in voluble excitement. A few women assistedJudith to carry Salome in and lay her on the kitchen lounge, followedby the doctor and the dripping Lionel Hezekiah, whom the minister hadlifted out of the hogshead and to whom nobody now paid the slightestattention. 

Salome faltered out her story, and her hearers listened with varyingemotions. 

"It's a miracle, " said Sam Lawson in an awed voice. 

Dr. Blair shrugged his shoulders. "There is no miracle about it, " hesaid bluntly. "It's all perfectly natural. The disease in the hip hasevidently been quite well for a long time; Nature does sometimes workcures like that when she is let alone. The trouble was that the muscleswere paralyzed by long disuse. That paralysis was overcome by the forceof a strong and instinctive effort. Salome, get up and walk across thekitchen. "

Salome obeyed. She walked across the kitchen and back, slowly, stiffly, falteringly, now that the stimulus of frantic fear was spent; but stillshe walked. The doctor nodded his satisfaction. 

"Keep that up every day. Walk as much as you can without tiringyourself, and you'll soon be as spry as ever. No more need of crutchesfor you, but there's no miracle in the case. "

Judith Marsh turned to him. She had not spoken a word since her questionconcerning Salome's crutch. Now she said passionately:

"It WAS a miracle. God has worked it to prove His existence for me, andI accept the proof. "

The old doctor shrugged his shoulders again. Being a wise man, he knewwhen to hold his tongue. 

"Well, put Salome to bed, and let her sleep the rest of the day. She'sworn out. And for pity's sake let some one take that poor child and putsome dry clothes on him before he catches his death of cold. "

That evening, as Salome Marsh lay in her bed in a glory of sunset light, her heart filled with unutterable gratitude and happiness, Judith cameinto the room. She wore her best hat and dress, and she held LionelHezekiah by the hand. Lionel Hezekiah's beaming face was scrubbed clean, and his curls fell in beautiful sleekness over the lace collar of hisvelvet suit. 

"How do you feel now, Salome?" asked Judith gently. 

"Better. I've had a lovely sleep. But where are you going, Judith?"

"I am going to church, " said Judith firmly, "and I am going to takeLionel Hezekiah with me. "

XII. The End of a Quarrel

Nancy Rogerson sat down on Louisa Shaw's front doorstep and looked abouther, drawing a long breath of delight that seemed tinged with pain. Everything was very much the same; the square garden was as charmingbodge-podge of fruit and flowers, and goose-berry bushes and tigerlilies, a gnarled old apple tree sticking up here and there, and a thickcherry copse at the foot. Behind was a row of pointed firs, coming outdarkly against the swimming pink sunset sky, not looking a day olderthan they had looked twenty years ago, when Nancy had been a young girlwalking and dreaming in their shadows. The old willow to the left was asbig and sweeping and, Nancy thought with a little shudder, probably ascaterpillary, as ever. Nancy had learned many things in her twenty yearsof exile from Avonlea, but she had never learned to conquer her dread ofcaterpillars. 

"Nothing is much changed, Louisa, " she said, propping her chin on herplump white hands, and sniffing at the delectable odour of the bruisedmint upon which Louisa was trampling. "I'm glad; I was afraid to comeback for fear you would have improved the old garden out of existence, or else into some prim, orderly lawn, which would have been worse. It'sas magnificently untidy as ever, and the fence still wobbles. It CAN'Tbe the same fence, but it looks exactly like it. No, nothing is muchchanged. Thank you, Louisa. "

Louisa had not the faintest idea what Nancy was thanking her for, butthen she had never been able to fathom Nancy, much as she had alwaysliked her in the old girlhood days that now seemed much further awayto Louisa than they did to Nancy. Louisa was separated from them by thefulness of wifehood and motherhood, while Nancy looked back only overthe narrow gap that empty years make. 

"You haven't changed much yourself, Nancy, " she said, looking admiringlyat Nancy's trim figure, in the nurse's uniform she had donned to showLouisa what it was like, her firm, pink-and-white face and the theglossy waves of her golden brown hair. "You've held your own wonderfullywell. "

"Haven't I?" said Nancy complacently. "Modern methods of massage andcold cream have kept away the crowsfeet, and fortunately I had theRogerson complexion to start with. You wouldn't think I was reallythirty-eight, would you? Thirty-eight! Twenty years ago I thoughtanybody who was thirty-eight was a perfect female Methuselah. And now Ifeel so horribly, ridiculously young, Louisa. Every morning when I getup I have to say solemnly to myself three times, 'You're an old maid, Nancy Rogerson, ' to tone myself down to anything like a becomingattitude for the day. "

"I guess you don't mind being an old maid much, " said Louisa, shruggingher shoulders. She would not have been an old maid herself for anything;yet she inconsistently envied Nancy her freedom, her wide life in theworld, her unlined brow, and care-free lightness of spirit. 

"Oh, but I do mind, " said Nancy frankly. "I hate being an old maid. "

"Why don't you get married, then?" asked Louisa, paying an unconscioustribute to Nancy's perennial chance by her use of the present tense. 

Nancy shook her head. 

"No, that wouldn't suit me either. I don't want to be married. Do youremember that story Anne Shirley used to tell long ago of the pupil whowanted to be a widow because 'if you were married your husband bossedyou and if you weren't married people called you an old maid?' Well, that is precisely my opinion. I'd like to be a widow. Then I'd have thefreedom of the unmarried, with the kudos of the married. I could eat mycake and have it, too. Oh, to be a widow!"

"Nancy!" said Louisa in a shocked tone. 

Nancy laughed, a mellow gurgle that rippled through the garden like abrook. 

"Oh, Louisa, I can shock you yet. That was just how you used to say'Nancy' long ago, as if I'd broken all the commandments at once. "

"You do say such queer things, " protested Louisa, "and half the time Idon't know what you mean. "

"Bless you, dear coz, half the time I don't myself. Perhaps the joy ofcoming back to the old spot has slightly turned my brain, I've found mylost girlhood here. I'm NOT thirty-eight in this garden--it is a flatimpossibility. I'm sweet eighteen, with a waist line two inches smaller. Look, the sun is just setting. I see he has still his old trick ofthrowing his last beams over the Wright farmhouse. By the way, Louisa, is Peter Wright still living there?"

"Yes. " Louisa threw a sudden interested glance at the apparently placidNancy. 

"Married, I suppose, with half a dozen children?" said Nancyindifferently, pulling up some more sprigs of mint and pinning them onher breast. Perhaps the exertion of leaning over to do it flushed herface. There was more than the Rogerson colour in it, anyhow, and Louisa, slow though her mental processes might be in some respects, thoughtshe understood the meaning of a blush as well as the next one. All theinstinct of the matchmaker flamed up in her. 

"Indeed he isn't, " she said promptly. "Peter Wright has never married. He has been faithful to your memory, Nancy. "

"Ugh! You make me feel as if I were buried up there in the Avonleacemetery and had a monument over me with a weeping willow carved onit, " shivered Nancy. "When it is said that a man has been faithful toa woman's memory it generally means that he couldn't get anyone else totake him. "

"That isn't the case with Peter, " protested Louisa. "He is a good match, and many a woman would have been glad to take him, and would yet. He'sonly forty-three. But he's never taken the slightest interest in anyonesince you threw him over, Nancy. "

"But I didn't. He threw me over, " said Nancy, plaintively, looking afarover the low-lying fields and a feathery young spruce valley to thewhite buildings of the Wright farm, glowing rosily in the sunset lightwhen all the rest of Avonlea was scarfing itself in shadows. There waslaughter in her eyes. Louisa could not pierce beneath that laughter tofind if there were anything under it. 

"Fudge!" said Louisa. "What on earth did you and Peter quarrel about?"she added, curiously. 

"I've often wondered, " parried Nancy. 

"And you've never seen him since?" reflected Louisa. 

"No. Has he changed much?"

"Well, some. He is gray and kind of tired-looking. But it isn't to bewondered at--living the life he does. He hasn't had a housekeeper fortwo years--not since his old aunt died. He just lives there alone andcooks his own meals. I've never been in the house, but folks say thedisorder is something awful. "

"Yes, I shouldn't think Peter was cut out for a tidy housekeeper, " saidNancy lightly, dragging up more mint. "Just think, Louisa, if it hadn'tbeen for that old quarrel I might be Mrs. Peter Wright at this verymoment, mother to the aforesaid supposed half dozen, and vexing my soulover Peter's meals and socks and cows. "

"I guess you are better off as you are, " said Louisa. 

"Oh, I don't know. " Nancy looked up at the white house on the hillagain. "I have an awfully good time out of life, but it doesn't seem tosatisfy, somehow. To be candid--and oh, Louisa, candour is a rare thingamong women when it comes to talking of the men--I believe I'd ratherbe cooking Peter's meals and dusting his house. I wouldn't mind his badgrammar now. I've learned one or two valuable little things out yonder, and one is that it doesn't matter if a man's grammar is askew, so longas he doesn't swear at you. By the way, is Peter as ungrammatical asever?"

"I--I don't know, " said Louisa helplessly. "I never knew he WASungrammatical. "

"Does he still say, 'I seen, ' and 'them things'?" demanded Nancy. 

"I never noticed, " confessed Louisa. 

"Enviable Louisa! Would that I had been born with that blessed facultyof never noticing! It stands a woman in better stead than beauty orbrains. _I_ used to notice Peter's mistakes. When he said 'I seen, ' itjarred on me in my salad days. I tried, oh, so tactfully, to reform himin that respect. Peter didn't like being reformed--the Wrights alwayshad a fairly good opinion of themselves, you know. It was really over aquestion of syntax we quarrelled. Peter told me I'd have to take him ashe was, grammar and all, or go without him. I went without him--and eversince I've been wondering if I were really sorry, or if it were merely apleasantly sentimental regret I was hugging to my heart. I daresay it'sthe latter. Now, Louisa, I see the beginning of the plot far down inthose placid eyes of yours. Strangle it at birth, dear Louisa. There isno use in your trying to make up a match between Peter and me now--no, nor in slyly inviting him up here to tea some evening, as you are eventhis moment thinking of doing. "

"Well, I must go and milk the cows, " gasped Louisa, rather glad to makeher escape. Nancy's power of thought-reading struck her as uncanny. Shefelt afraid to remain with her cousin any longer, lest Nancy should dragto light all the secrets of her being. 

Nancy sat long on the steps after Louisa had gone--sat until the nightcame down, darkly and sweetly, over the garden, and the stars twinkledout above the firs. This had been her home in girlhood. Here she hadlived and kept house for her father. When he died, Curtis Shaw, newlymarried to her cousin Louisa, bought the farm from her and moved in. Nancy stayed on with them, expecting soon to go to a home of her own. She and Peter Wright were engaged. 

Then came their mysterious quarrel, concerning the cause of which kithand kin on both sides were left in annoying ignorance. Of the resultsthey were not ignorant. Nancy promptly packed up and left Avonlea sevenhundred miles behind her. She went to a hospital in Montreal and studiednursing. In the twenty years that followed she had never even revisitedAvonlea. Her sudden descent on it this summer was a whim born of amoment's homesick longing for this same old garden. She had not thoughtabout Peter. In very truth, she had thought little about Peter for thelast fifteen years. She supposed that she had forgotten him. But now, sitting on the old doorstep, where she had often sat in her courtingdays, with Peter lounging on a broad stone at her feet, something tuggedat her heartstrings. She looked over the valley to the light in thekitchen of the Wright farmhouse, and pictured Peter sitting there, lonely and uncared for, with naught but the cold comfort of his ownproviding. 

"Well, he should have got married, " she said snappishly. "I am not goingto worry because he is a lonely old bachelor when all these years I havesupposed him a comfy Benedict. Why doesn't he hire him a housekeeper, at least? He can afford it; the place looks prosperous. Ugh! I've a fatbank account, and I've seen almost everything in the world worthseeing; but I've got several carefully hidden gray hairs and a horribleconviction that grammar isn't one of the essential things in life afterall. Well, I'm not going to moon out here in the dew any longer. I'mgoing in to read the smartest, frilliest, frothiest society novel in mytrunk. "

In the week that followed Nancy enjoyed herself after her own fashion. She read and swung in the garden, having a hammock hung under the firs. She went far afield, in rambles to woods and lonely uplands. 

"I like it much better than meeting people, " she said, when Louisasuggested going to see this one and that one, "especially the Avonleapeople. All my old chums are gone, or hopelessly married and changed, and the young set who have come up know not Joseph, and make me feeluncomfortably middle-aged. It's far worse to feel middle-aged than old, you know. Away there in the woods I feel as eternally young as Natureherself. And oh, it's so nice not having to fuss with thermometers andtemperatures and other people's whims. Let me indulge my own whims, Louisa dear, and punish me with a cold bite when I come in late formeals. I'm not even going to church again. It was horrible thereyesterday. The church is so offensively spick-and-span brand new andmodern. "

"It's thought to be the prettiest church in these parts, " protestedLouisa, a little sorely. 

"Churches shouldn't be pretty--they should at least be fifty years oldand mellowed into beauty. New churches are an abomination. "

"Did you see Peter Wright in church?" asked Louisa. She had beenbursting to ask it. 

Nancy nodded. 

"Verily, yes. He sat right across from me in the corner pew. I didn'tthink him painfully changed. Iron-gray hair becomes him. But I washorribly disappointed in myself. I had expected to feel at least aromantic thrill, but all I felt was a comfortable interest, such as Imight have taken in any old friend. Do my utmost, Louisa, I couldn'tcompass a thrill. "

"Did he come to speak to you?" asked Louisa, who hadn't any idea whatNancy meant by her thrills. 

"Alas, no. It wasn't my fault. I stood at the door outside with themost amiable expression I could assume, but Peter merely sauntered awaywithout a glance in my direction. It would be some comfort to my vanityif I could believe it was on account of rankling spite or pride. But thehonest truth, dear Weezy, is that it looked to me exactly as if he neverthought of it. He was more interested in talking about the hay crop withOliver Sloane--who, by the way, is more Oliver Sloaneish than ever. "

"If you feel as you said you did the other night, why didn't you go andspeak to him?" Louisa wanted to know. 

"But I don't feel that way now. That was just a mood. You don't knowanything about moods, dearie. You don't know what it is to yearndesperately one hour for something you wouldn't take if it were offeredyou the next. "

"But that is foolishness, " protested Louisa. 

"To be sure it is--rank foolishness. But oh, it is so delightful tobe foolish after being compelled to be unbrokenly sensible for twentyyears. Well, I'm going picking strawberries this afternoon, Lou. Don'twait tea for me. I probably won't be back till dark. I've only four moredays to stay and I want to make the most of them. "

Nancy wandered far and wide in her rambles that afternoon. When she hadfilled her jug she still roamed about with delicious aimlessness. Onceshe found herself in a wood lane skirting a field wherein a man wasmowing hay. The man was Peter Wright. Nancy walked faster when shediscovered this, with never a roving glance, and presently the green, ferny depths of the maple woods swallowed her up. 

From old recollections, she knew that she was on Peter Morrison's land, and calculated that if she kept straight on she would come out where theold Morrison house used to be. Her calculations proved correct, with atrifling variation. She came out fifty yards south of the old desertedMorrison house, and found herself in the yard of the Wright farm!

Passing the house--the house where she had once dreamed of reigning asmistress--Nancy's curiosity overcame her. The place was not in view ofany other near house. She deliberately went up to it intending--low beit spoken--to peep in at the kitchen window. But, seeing the door wideopen, she went to it instead and halted on the step, looking about herkeenly. 

The kitchen was certainly pitiful in its disorder. The floor hadapparently not been swept for a fortnight. On the bare deal table werethe remnants of Peter's dinner, a meal that could not have been verytempting at its best. 

"What a miserable place for a human being to live in!" groaned Nancy. "Look at the ashes on that stove! And that table! Is it any wonder thatPeter has got gray? He'll work hard haymaking all the afternoon--andthen come home to THIS!"

An idea suddenly darted into Nancy's brain. At first she looked aghast. Then she laughed and glanced at her watch. 

"I'll do it--just for fun and a little pity. It's half-past two, andPeter won't be home till four at the earliest. I'll have a good hour todo it in, and still make my escape in good time. Nobody will ever know;nobody can see me here. "

Nancy went in, threw off her hat, and seized a broom. The first thingshe did was to give the kitchen a thorough sweeping. Then she kindleda fire, put a kettle full of water on to heat, and attacked the dishes. From the number of them she rightly concluded that Peter hadn't washedany for at least a week. 

"I suppose he just uses the clean ones as long as they hold out, andthen has a grand wash-up, " she laughed. "I wonder where he keeps hisdish-towels, if he has any. "

Evidently Peter hadn't any. At least, Nancy couldn't find any. Shemarched boldly into the dusty sitting-room and explored the drawers ofan old-fashioned sideboard, confiscating a towel she found there. As sheworked, she hummed a song; her steps were light and her eyes bright withexcitement. Nancy was enjoying herself thoroughly, there was no doubt ofthat. The spice of mischief in the adventure pleased her mightily. 

The dishes washed, she hunted up a clean, but yellow and evidently longunused tablecloth out of the sideboard, and proceeded to set the tableand get Peter's tea. She found bread and butter in the pantry, a trip tothe cellar furnished a pitcher of cream, and Nancy recklessly heaped thecontents of her strawberry jug on Peter's plate. The tea was made andset back to keep warm. And, as a finishing touch, Nancy ravaged the oldneglected garden and set a huge bowl of crimson roses in the centre ofthe table. 

"Now I must go, " she said aloud. "Wouldn't it be fun to see Peter'sface when he comes in, though? Ha-hum! I've enjoyed doing this--but why?Nancy Rogerson, don't be asking yourself conundrums. Put on your hat andproceed homeward, constructing on your way some reliable fib to accountto Louisa for the absence of your strawberries. "

Nancy paused a moment and looked around wistfully. She had made theplace look cheery and neat and homelike. She felt that queer tugging ather heart-strings again. Suppose she belonged here, and was waiting forPeter to come home to tea. Suppose--Nancy whirled around with a suddenhorrible prescience of what she was going to see! Peter Wright wasstanding in the doorway. 

Nancy's face went crimson. For the first time in her life she had not aword to say for herself. Peter looked at her and then at the table, withits fruit and flowers. 

"Thank you, " he said politely. 

Nancy recovered herself. With a shame-faced laugh, she held out herhand. 

"Don't have me arrested for trespass, Peter. I came and looked in atyour kitchen out of impertinent curiosity, and just for fun I thoughtI'd come in and get your tea. I thought you'd be so surprised--and Imeant to go before you came home, of course. "

"I wouldn't have been surprised, " said Peter, shaking hands. "I saw yougo past the field and I tied the horses and followed you down throughthe woods. I've been sitting on the fence back yonder, watching yourcomings and goings. " "Why didn't you come and speak to me at churchyesterday, Peter?" demanded Nancy boldly. 

"I was afraid I would say something ungrammatical, " answered Peterdrily. 

The crimson flamed over Nancy's face again. She pulled her hand away. 

"That's cruel of you, Peter. "

Peter suddenly laughed. There was a note of boyishness in the laughter. 

"So it is, " he said, "but I had to get rid of the accumulated malice andspite of twenty years somehow. It's all gone now, and I'll be as amiableas I know how. But since you have gone to the trouble of gettingmy supper for me, Nancy, you must stay and help me eat it. Themstrawberries look good. I haven't had any this summer--been too busy topick them. "

Nancy stayed. She sat at the head of Peter's table and poured his teafor him. She talked to him wittily of the Avonlea people and the changesin their old set. Peter followed her lead with an apparent absence ofself-consciousness, eating his supper like a man whose heart and mindwere alike on good terms with him. Nancy felt wretched--and, at thesame time, ridiculously happy. It seemed the most grotesque thing in theworld that she should be presiding there at Peter's table, and yetthe most natural. There were moments when she felt like crying--othermoments when her laughter was as ready and spontaneous as a girl's. Sentiment and humour had always waged an equal contest in Nancy'snature. 

When Peter had finished his strawberries he folded his arms on the tableand looked admiringly at Nancy. 

"You look well at the head of a table, Nancy, " he said critically. "Howis it that you haven't been presiding at one of your own long beforethis? I thought you'd meet a lots of men out in the world that you'dlike--men who talked good grammar. "

"Peter, don't!" said Nancy, wincing. "I was a goose. "

"No, you were quite right. I was a tetchy fool. If I'd had any sense, I'd have felt thankful you thought enough of me to want to improve me, and I'd have tried to kerrect my mistakes instead of getting mad. It'stoo late now, I suppose. "

"Too late for what?" said Nancy, plucking up heart of grace at somethingin Peter's tone and look. 

"For--kerrecting mistakes. "

"Grammatical ones?"

"Not exactly. I guess them mistakes are past kerrecting in an old fellowlike me. Worse mistakes, Nancy. I wonder what you would say if I askedyou to forgive me, and have me after all. "

"I'd snap you up before you'd have time to change your mind, " said Nancybrazenly. She tried to look Peter in the face, but her blue eyes, wheretears and mirth were blending, faltered down before his gray ones. 

Peter stood up, knocking over his chair, and strode around the table toher. 

"Nancy, my girl!" he said.