[Illustration: "OH, LOOK AT THIS--AND THIS!"]

PATCHWORK

A STORY OF

"THE PLAIN PEOPLE"

By ANNA BALMER MYERS

[Illustration]

 WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY HELEN MASON GROSE

 A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York

 Published by arrangement with George W. Jacobs & Company

 Copyright, 1920, by GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY

 All rights reserved _Printed in U. S. A. _

 _To my Mother and Father this book is lovingly inscribed_

Contents

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I. CALICO PATCHWORK 13

 II. OLD AARON'S FLAG 29

 III. LITTLE DUTCHIE 40

 IV. THE NEW TEACHER 52

 V. THE HEART OF A CHILD 70

 VI. THE PRIMA DONNA OF THE ATTIC 92

 VII. "WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET" 110

 VIII. BEYOND THE ALPS LIES ITALY 119

 IX. A VISIT TO MOTHER BAB 129

 X. AN OLD-FASHIONED COUNTRY SALE 146

 XI. "THE BRIGHT LEXICON OF YOUTH" 166

 XII. THE PREACHER'S WOOING 176

 XIII. THE SCARLET TANAGER 189

 XIV. ALADDIN'S LAMP 203

 XV. THE FLEDGLING'S FLIGHT 207

 XVI. PHŒBE'S DIARY 212

 XVII. DIARY--THE NEW HOME 221

 XVIII. DIARY--THE MUSIC MASTER 226

 XIX. DIARY--THE FIRST LESSON 229

 XX. DIARY--SEEING THE CITY 235

 XXI. DIARY--CHRYSALIS 240

 XXII. DIARY--TRANSFORMATION 245

 XXIII. DIARY--PLAIN FOR A NIGHT 251

 XXIV. DIARY--DECLARATIONS 256

 XXV. DIARY--"THE LINK MUST BREAK AND THE LAMP MUST DIE" 261

 XXVI. "HAME'S BEST" 268

 XXVII. TRAILING ARBUTUS 271

 XXVIII. MOTHER BAB AND HER SON 284

 XXIX. PREPARATIONS 291

 XXX. THE FEAST OF ROSES 295

 XXXI. BLINDNESS 303

 XXXII. OFF TO THE NAVY 310

 XXXIII. THE ONE CHANCE 315

 XXXIV. BUSY DAYS 319

 XXXV. DAVID'S SHARE 327

 XXXVI. DAVID'S RETURN 331

 XXXVII. "A LOVE THAT LIFE COULD NEVER TIRE" 335

Patchwork

CHAPTER I

CALICO PATCHWORK

THE gorgeous sunshine of a perfect June morning invited to the greatoutdoors. Exquisite perfume from myriad blossoms tempted lovers ofnature to get away from cramped, man-made buildings, out under the blueroof of heaven, and revel in the lavish splendor of the day. 

This call of the Junetide came loudly and insistently to a little girlas she sat in the sitting-room of a prosperous farmhouse in LancasterCounty, Pennsylvania, and sewed gaily-colored pieces of red and greencalico into patchwork. 

"Ach, my!" she sighed, with all the dreariness which a ten-year-old iscapable of feeling, "why must I patch when it's so nice out? I justain't goin' to sew no more to-day!"

She rose, folded her work and laid it in her plaited rush sewing-basket. Then she stood for a moment, irresolute, and listened to the soundsissuing from the next room. She could hear her Aunt Maria bustle aboutthe big kitchen. 

"Ach, I ain't afraid!"

The child opened the door and entered the kitchen, where the odor ofboiling strawberry preserves proclaimed the cause of the aunt'sactivity. 

Maria Metz was, at fifty, robust and comely, with black hair veryslightly streaked with gray, cheeks that retained traces of the rosycoloring of her girlhood, and flashing black eyes meeting squarely thelooks of all with whom she came in contact. She was a member of theChurch of the Brethren and wore the quaint garb adopted by the women ofthat sect. Her dress of black calico was perfectly plain. The tightwaist was half concealed by a long, pointed cape which fell over hershoulders and touched the waistline back and front, where a full apronof blue and white checked gingham was tied securely. Her dark hair wasparted and smoothly drawn under a cap of white lawn. She was apicturesque figure but totally unconscious of it, for the section ofPennsylvania in which she lived has been for generations the home of amultitude of women similarly garbed--members of the plain sects, as theMennonites, Amish, Brethren in Christ, and Church of the Brethren, arecommonly called in the communities in which they flourish. 

As the child appeared in the doorway her aunt turned. 

"So, " the woman said pleasantly, "you worked vonderful quick to-dayonce, Phœbe. Why, you got your patches done soon--did you make littlestitches like I told you?"

"I ain't got 'em done!" The child stood erect, a defiant little figure, her blue eyes grown dark with the moment's tenseness. "I ain't goin' tosew no more when it's so nice out! I want to be out in the yard, that'swhat I want. I just hate this here patchin' to-day, that's what I do!"

Maria Metz carefully wiped the strawberry juice from her fingers, thenshe stood before the little girl like a veritable tower of amazement andstrength. 

"Phœbe, " she said after a moment's struggle to control her wrath, "youain't big enough nor old enough yet to tell me what you ain't goin' todo! How many patches did you make?"

"Three. "

"And you know I said you shall make four every day still so you get thequilt done this summer yet and ready to quilt. You go and finish them. "

"I don't want to. " Phœbe shook her head stubbornly. "I want to play outin the yard. "

"When you're done with the patches, not before! You know you must learnto sew. Why, Phœbe, " the woman changed her tactics, "you used to like tosew still. When you was just five years old you cried for goods andneedle and I pinned the patches on the little sewing-bird that belongedto Granny Metz still and screwed the bird on the table and you sewedthat nice! And now you don't want to do no more patches--how will youever get your big chest full of nice quilts if you don't patch?"

But the child was too thoroughly possessed with the desire to beoutdoors to be won by any pleading or praise. She pulled savagely atthe two long braids which hung over her shoulders and cried, "I don'twant no quilts! I don't want no chests! I don't like red and greenquilts, anyhow--never, never! I wish my pop would come in; he wouldn'tmake me sew patches, he"--she began to sob--"I wish, I just wish I had amom! She wouldn't make me sew calico when--when I want to play. "

Something in the utter unhappiness of the little girl, together with thewords of yearning for the dead mother, filled the woman with a strangetenderness. Though she never allowed sentiment to sway her from doingwhat she considered her duty she did yield to its influence and spokegently to the agitated child. 

"I wish, too, your mom was here yet, Phœbe. But I guess if she was she'dwant you to learn to sew. Ach, it's just that you like to be out, outall the time that makes you so contrary, I guess. You're like your pop, if you can just be out! Mebbe when you're old as I once and had yourback near broke often as I had with hoein' and weedin' and plantin' inthe garden you'll be glad when you can set in the house and sew. Ach, now, stop your cryin' and go finish your patchin' and when you're doneI'll leave you go in to Greenwald for me to the store and to GrannyHogendobler. "

"Oh"--the child lifted her tear-stained face--"and dare I really go toGreenwald when I'm done?"

"Yes. I need some sugar yet and you dare order it. And you can get mesome thread and then stop at Granny Hogendobler's and ask her to comeout to-morrow and help with the strawberry jelly. I got so much to makeand it comes good to Granny if she gets away for a little change. "

"Then I'll patch quick!" Phœbe said. The world was a good place againfor the child as she went back to the sitting-room and resumed hersewing. 

She was so eager to finish the unpleasant task that she forgot one ofAunt Maria's rules, as inexorable as the law of the Medes andPersians--the door between the kitchen and the sitting-room _must_ beclosed. 

"Here, Phœbe, " the woman called sharply, "make that door shut! Abody'dthink you was born in a sawmill! The strawberry smell gets all over thehouse. "

Phœbe turned alertly and closed the door. Then she soliloquized, "Idon't see why there has to be doors on the inside of houses. I like tosmell the good things all over the house, but then it's Aunt Maria'sboss, not me. "

Maria Metz shook her head as she returned to her berries. "If it don'tbeat all and if I won't have my hands full yet with that girl 'foreshe's growed up! That stubborn she is, like her pop--ach, like all of usMetz's, I guess. Anyhow, it ain't easy raising somebody else's child. Ifonly her mom would have lived, and so young she was to die, too. "

Her thoughts went back to the time when her brother Jacob brought to theold Metz farmhouse his gentle, sweet-faced bride. Then the jointpersuasions of Jacob and his wife induced Maria Metz to continue herresidence in the old homestead. She relieved the bride of all the bruntof manual labor of the farm and in her capable way proved a worthysister to the new mistress of the old Metz place. When, several yearslater, the gentle wife died and left Jacob the legacy of a helplessbabe, it was Maria Metz who took up the task of mothering the motherlesschild. If she bungled at times in the performance of the mother'sunfinished task it was not from lack of love, for she loved the fairlittle Phœbe with a passion that was almost abnormal, a passion whichburned the more fiercely because there was seldom any outlet indemonstrative affection. 

As soon as the child was old enough Aunt Maria began to teach her thedoctrines of the plain church and to warn her against the evils ofvanity, frivolity and all forms of worldliness. 

Maria Metz was richly endowed with that admirable love of industry whichis characteristic of the Pennsylvania Dutch. In accordance with heracceptance of the command, "Six days shalt thou labor, " she swept, scrubbed, and toiled from early morning to evening with Herculeanpersistence. The farmhouse was spotless from cellar to attic, the woodenwalks and porches scrubbed clean and smooth. Flower beds, vegetablegardens and lawns were kept neat and without weeds. Aunt Maria was, asshe expressed it, "not afraid of work. " Naturally she considered it herduty to teach little Phœbe to be industrious, to sew neatly, to helpwith light tasks about the house and gardens. 

Like many other good foster-mothers Maria Metz tried conscientiously tocare for the child's spiritual and physical well-being, but in spite ofher best endeavors there were times when she despaired of thetremendous task she had undertaken. Phœbe's spirit tingled with thedivine, poetic appreciation of all things beautiful. A vivid imaginationcarried the child into realms where the stolid aunt could not follow, realms of whose existence the older woman never dreamed. 

But what troubled Maria Metz most was the child's frank avowal ofvanity. Every new dress was a source of intense joy to Phœbe. Every newribbon for her hair, no matter how narrow and dull of color, sent herface smiling. The golden hair, which sprang into long curls as AuntMaria combed it, was invariably braided into two thick, tight braids, but there were always little wisps that curled about the ears andforehead. These wisps were at once the woman's despair and the child'sfreely expressed delight. However, through all the rigid discipline thelittle girl retained her natural buoyancy of childhood, the spontaneousinterestedness, the cheerfulness and animation, which were a part of hergoodly heritage. 

That June morning the world was changed suddenly from a dismal vale ofpatchwork to a glorious garden of delight. She was still a child and thepromised walk to Greenwald changed the entire world for her. 

She paused once in her sewing to look about the sitting-room. "Ach, Ivonder now why this room is so ugly to me to-day. I guess it's becauseit's so pretty out. Why, mostly always I think this is a vonderful niceroom. "

The sitting-room of the Metz farm was attractive in its old-fashionedfurnishing. It was large and well lighted. The gray rag carpet--wovenfrom rags sewed by Aunt Maria and Phœbe--was decorated with wide stripesof green. Upon the carpet were spread numerous rugs, some made ofbraided rags coiled into large circles, others were hooked rugs gailyornamented with birds and flowers and graceful scroll designs. Thelow-backed chairs were painted dull green and each bore upon the fourinch panel of its back a hand-painted floral design. On the hairclothsofa were several crazy-work cushions. Two deep rocking-chairs matchedthe antique low-backed chairs. A spindle-legged cherry table bore an oldvase filled with pink and red straw flowers. The large square table, covered with a red and green cloth, held a glass lamp, the old MetzBible, several hymn-books and the papers read in that home, --a weeklyreligious paper, the weekly town paper, and a well-known farm journal. Alow walnut organ which Phœbe's mother brought to the farm and a tallwalnut grandfather clock, the most cherished heirloom of the Metzfamily, occupied places of honor in the room. Not a single article ofmodern design could be found in the entire room, yet it was aninteresting and habitable place. Most of the Metz furniture had stood inthe old homestead for several generations and so long as any pieceserved its purpose and continued to look respectable Aunt Maria wouldhave considered it gross extravagance, even a sacrilege, to discard itfor one of newer design. She was satisfied with her house, her brotherJacob was well pleased with the way she kept it--it never occurred toher that Phœbe might ever desire new things, and least of all did shedream that the girl sometimes spent an interesting hour refurnishing, inimagination, the same old sitting-room. 

"Yes, " Phœbe was saying to herself, "sometimes this room is vonderful tome. Only I wished the organ was a piano, like the one Mary Warner got toplay on. But, ach, I must hurry once and make this patch done. Funnything patchin' is, cuttin' up big pieces of good calico in little onesand then sewin' them up in big ones again! I don't like it"--she spokevery softly for she knew her aunt disapproved of the habit of talking toone's self--"I don't like patchin' and I for certain don't like red andgreen quilts! I got one on my bed now and it hurts my eyes still in themorning when I get awake. I'd like a pretty blue and white one for mybed. Mebbe Aunt Maria will leave me make one when I get this one sewed. But now my patch is done and I dare to go to Greenwald. That's avonderful nice walk. "

A moment later she stood again in the big kitchen. 

"See, " she said, "now I got them all done. And little stitches, too, sonobody won't catch their toes in 'em when they sleep, like you used totell me still when I first begun to sew. "

The woman smiled. "Now you're a good girl, Phœbe. Put your patches awaynice and you dare go to Greenwald. "

"Where all shall I go?"

"Go first to Granny Hogendobler; that's right on the way to the store. You ask her to come out to-morrow morning early if she wants to helpwith the berries. "

"Dare I stay a little?"

"If you want. But don't you go bringin' any more slips of flowers toplant or any seeds. The flower beds are that full now abody can hardlyget in to weed 'em still. "

"All right, I won't. But I think it's nice to have lots and lots offlowers. When I have a garden once I'll have it full----"

"Talk of that some other day, " said her aunt. "Get ready now for townonce. You go to the store and ask 'em to send out twenty pounds ofgranulated sugar. Jonas, one of the clerks, comes out this way stillwhen he goes home and he can just as good fetch it along on his homeroad. Your pop is too busy to hitch up and go in for it and I have notime neither to-day and I want it early in the morning, and what I haveis almost all. And then you can buy three spools of white thread numberfifty. And when you're done you dare look around a little in the storeif you don't touch nothing. On the home road you better stop in thepost-office and ask if there's anything. Nobody was in yesterday. "

"All right--and--Aunt Maria, dare I wear my hat?"

"Ach, no. Abody don't wear Sunday clothes on a Wednesday just to go toGreenwald to the store. Only when you go to Lancaster and on a Sundayyou wear your hat. You're dressed good enough; just get your sunbonnet, for it's sunny on the road. "

Phœbe took a small ruffled sunbonnet of blue checked gingham from a hookbehind the kitchen door and pressed it lightly on her head. 

"Ach, bonnets are vonderful hot things!" she exclaimed. "A nice parasollike Mary Warner's got would be lots nicer. Where's the money?" sheasked as she saw a shadow of displeasure on her aunt's face. 

"Here it is, enough for the sugar and the thread. Don't lose thepocketbook, and be sure to count the change so they don't make nomistake. "

"Yes. "

"And don't touch things in the store. "

"No. " The child walked to the door, impatient to be off. 

"And be careful crossin' over the streets. If a horse comes, or abicycle, wait till it's past, or an automobile----"

"Ach, yes, I'll be careful, " Phœbe answered. 

A moment later she went down the boardwalk that led through the yard tothe little green gate at the country road. There she paused and lookedback at the farm with its old-fashioned house, her birthplace and home. 

The Metz homestead, erected in the days of home-grown flax andspinning-wheels, was plain and unpretentious. Built of gray, rough-hewnquarry stone it hid like a demure Quakeress behind tall evergreen treeswhose branches touched and interlaced in so many places that thetraveler on the country road caught but mere glimpses of the big grayhouse. 

The old home stood facing the road that led northward to the little townof Greenwald. Southward the road curved and wound itself about a steephill, sent its branches right and left to numerous farms while it, stilltwisting and turning, went on to the nearest city, Lancaster, ten milesdistant. 

The Metz farm was just outside the southern limits of the town ofGreenwald. The spacious red barn stood on the very bank of ChicquesCreek, the boundary line. 

"It's awful pretty here to-day, " Phœbe said aloud as she looked from thehouse with its sheltering trees to the flower garden with its roses, larkspur and other old-fashioned flowers, then to the background ofundulating fields and hills. "It's just vonderful pretty here to-day. But, ach, I guess it's pretty most anywheres on a day like this--but notin the house. Ugh, that patchin'! I want to forget it. "

As she closed the gate and entered the country road she caught sight ofa familiar figure just ahead. 

"Hello, " she called. "Wait once, David! Is that you?"

"No, it ain't me, it's my shadow!" came the answer as a boy, severalyears older than Phœbe, turned and waited for her. 

"Ach, David Eby, " she giggled, "you're just like Aunt Maria says stillyou are--always cuttin' up and talkin' so abody don't know if you meanit or what. Goin' in to town, too, once?"

"Um-uh. Say, Phœbe, you want a rose to pin on?" he asked, turning toher with a pink damask rose. 

"Why, be sure I do! I just like them roses vonderful much. We got 'emtoo, big bushes of 'em, but Aunt Maria won't let me pull none off. Where'd you get yourn?"

"We got lots. Mom lets me pull off all I want. You pin it on and bedecorated for Greenwald. Where all you going, Phœbe?"

"And I say thanks, too, David, for the rose, " she said as she pinned therose to her dress. "Um, it smells good! Where am I goin'?" sheremembered his question. "Why, to the store and to Granny Hogendoblerand the post-office----"

"Jimminy Crickets!" The boy stood still. "That's where I'm to go! Me andmom both forgot about it. Mom wants a money order and said I'm to get itthe first time I go to town and here I am without the money. It's homeup the hill again for me. "

"Ach, David, don't you know that it's vonderful bad luck to go back forsomething when you got started once?"

The boy laughed. "It _is_ bad luck to have to climb that hill again. Butmom'll say what I ain't got in my head I got to have in my feet. They'rebig enough to hold a lot, too, Phœbe, ain't they?"

She giggled, then laughed merrily. "Ach, " she said, "you say funnythings. You just make me laugh all the time. But it's mean, now, thatyou are so dumb to forget and have to go back. I thought I'd have nicecompany all the ways in, but mebbe I'll see you in Greenwald. "

"Mebbe. Goo'bye, " said the boy and turned to the hill again. 

Phœbe stood a moment and looked after him. "My, " she said to herself, "but David Eby is a vonderful nice boy!" Then she started down the road, a quaint, interesting little figure in her brown chambray dress with itsfull, gathered skirt and its short, plain waist. But the face thatlooked out from the blue sunbonnet was even more interesting. The blueeyes, golden hair and fair coloring of the cheeks held promise of anabiding beauty, but more than mere beauty was bounded by the ruffledsunbonnet. There was an eagerness of expression, an alert understandingin the deep eyes, a tender fluttering of the long lashes, an evervarying animation in the child face, as though she were standing ontiptoe to catch all the sunshine and glory of the great, beautiful worldabout her. 

Phœbe went decorously down the road, across the wooden bridge over theChicques, then she began to skip. Her full skirt fluttered in the lightwind, her sunbonnet slipped back from her head and flapped as she hoppedalong the half mile stretch of country road bordered by green fields andmeadows. 

"There's no houses here so I dare skip, " she panted gleefully. "AuntMaria don't think it looks nice for girls to skip, but I like to do it. I could just skip and skip and skip----"

She stopped suddenly. In a meadow to her right a tangle of bulrushesedged a small pond and, perched on a swaying reed, a red-wingedblackbird was calling his clear, "Conqueree, conqueree. "

"Oh, you pretty thing!" Phœbe cried as she leaned on the fence andwatched the bird. "You're just the prettiest thing with them red andyellow spots on your wings. And you ain't afraid of me, not a bit. Iguess mebbe you know you got wings and I ain't. Such pretty wings yougot, too, and the rest of you is all black as coal. Mebbe God made youblack all over like a crow and then got sorry for you and put somepretty spots on your wings. I wonder now"--her face sobered--"I justwonder now why Aunt Maria says still that it's bad to fix up pretty withcurls and things like that and to wear fancy dresses. Why, many of thebirds are vonderful fine in gay feathers and the flowers are fancy andthe butterflies--ach, mebbe when I'm big I'll understand it better, ormebbe I'll dress up pretty then too. "

With that cheering thought she turned again to the road and resumed herwalk, but the skipping mood had fled. She pulled her sunbonnet to itsproper place and walked briskly along, still enjoying thoroughly, thoughless exuberantly, the beauty of the June morning. 

The scent of pink clover mingled with the odor of grasses and thedelicate perfume of sweetbrier. Wood sorrel nestled in the grassycorners near the crude rail fences, daisies and spiked toad-flax grewlavishly among the weeds of the roadside. In the meadows tall milkweedswayed its clusters of pink and lavender, marsh-marigolds dotted thegrass with discs of pure gold, and Queen Anne's lace lifted itsparasols of exquisite loveliness. Phœbe reveled in it all; her cheekswere glowing as she left the beauty of the country behind her and cameat last to the little town of Greenwald. 

CHAPTER II

OLD AARON'S FLAG

GREENWALD is an old town but it is a delightfully interesting one. Itdoes not wear its antiquity as an excuse for sinking into moulderinguselessness. It presents, rather, a strange mingling of the quaint, romantic and historic with the beautiful, progressive and modern. Thoughit clings reverently to honored traditions it is ever mindful of thefact that the welfare of its inhabitants is dependent upon reasonableprogress in its religious, educational and industrial life. 

The charming stamp of its antiquity is revealed in its great old trees;its wide Market Square from which narrower streets branch to the east, west, north and south; its numerous houses of the plain, substantialtype of several generations ago; its occasional little, low houses whichhave withstood the march of modern building and stand squarely besidehouses of more elaborate and later design; but chiefly in itsold-fashioned gardens. All the old-time flowers are favorites there andrefuse to be displaced by any newcomer. Sweet alyssum and candytuftspread carpets of bloom along the neat garden walks, hollyhocks anddahlias look boldly out to the streets, while the old-fashionedsweet-scented roses grow on great bushes which have been undisturbed forthree or more generations. 

To Phœbe Metz, Greenwald, with its two thousand inhabitants, its severalchurches, post-office and numerous stores, seemed a veritable city. Shedelighted in walking on its brick sidewalks, looking at its differenthouses and entering its stores. How many attractions these stores heldfor the little country girl! There was the big one on the Square whichhad in one of its windows a great lemon tree on which grew real lemons. Another store had a large Santa Claus in its window every Christmas--notthat Phœbe Metz had ever been taught to believe in that patron saint ofthe children--oh, no! Maria Metz would have considered it foolish, evensinful, to lie to a child about any mythical Santa Claus coming down thechimney Christmas Eve! Nevertheless, the smiling, rotund face of thered-habited Santa in the store window seemed so real and so emanative ofcheer that Phœbe delighted in him each year and felt sure there must bea Santa Claus somewhere in the world, even though Aunt Maria knewnothing about him. 

Most little towns can boast of one or more persons like GrannyHogendobler, well-nigh community owned, certainly communityappropriated. Did any one need a helper in garden or kitchen or sewingroom, Granny Hogendobler was glad to serve. Did a housewife rememberthat a rose geranium leaf imparts to apple jelly a delicious flavor, Granny Hogendobler was able and willing to furnish the leaf. Did a loverof flowers covet a new phlox or dahlia or other old-fashioned flower, Granny Hogendobler was ready to give of her stock. Should a young wifedesire a recipe for crullers, shoo-fly pie, or other delectable dish, Granny had a wealth of reliable recipes at her tongue's end. Thisadmirable desire to serve found ample opportunities for exercise in theconstant demands from her friends and neighbors. But Granny's greatestjoy lay in the fond ministrations for her husband, Old Aaron, as thetown people called him, half pityingly, half accusingly. For some saidOld Aaron was plain shiftless, had always been so, would remain soforever, so long as he had Granny to do for him. Others averred that theConfederate bullets that had shattered his leg into splinters andnecessitated its amputation must have gone astray and struck hisliver--leastways, that was the kindest explanation they could give forhis laziness. 

Granny stoutly refuted all these charges--gossip travels in circles insmall towns and sooner or later reaches those most concerned--"Aaronlazy! I-to-goodness no! Why, he's old and what for should he go out andwork every day, I wonder. He helps me with the garden and so, and when Igo out to help somebody for a day or two he gets his own meals and tendsthe chickens still. Some people thought a few years ago that he mightget work in the foundry, but I said I want him at home with me. He getsa pension and we can live good on what we have without him slaving hislast years away, and him with one leg lost at Gettysburg!" she endedproudly. 

So Old Aaron continued to live his life as pleased his mate and himself. He pottered about the house and garden and spent long hours musing underthe grape arbor. But there was one day in every year when Old Aaroncame into his own. Every Memorial Day he dressed in his venerated blueuniform and carried the flag down the dusty streets of Greenwald, out tothe dustier road to a spot a mile from the heart of the town, where, ona sunny hilltop, some of his comrades rested in the Silent City. 

Only the infirm and the ill of the town failed to run to look as thelittle procession passed down the street. There were boys in khaki, thetown band playing its best, volunteer firemen clad in vivid red shirts, a low, hand-drawn wagon filled with flowers, an old cannon, alsohand-drawn, whose shots over the graves of the dead veterans wouldthrill as they thrilled every May thirtieth--all received attention andadmiration from the watchers of the procession. But the real honors ofthe day were accorded the "thin blue line of heroes, " and Old Aaron wasone of these. To Granny Hogendobler, who walked with the crowd ofcheering children and adults and kept step on the sidewalk with the stepof the marchers on the street, it was evident that the standard bearerwas growing old. The steep climb near the cemetery entrance left himbreathless and flushed and each year Granny thought, "It's getting toomuch for him to carry that flag. " But each returning year she would havespurned as earnestly as he any suggestion that another one be chosen tocarry that flag. And so every three hundred and sixty-fifth day the leanstraight figure of Old Aaron marched directly under the fluttering foldsof Old Glory and the soldier became a subject worthy of veneration, then with customary nonchalance the little town forgot him again orspoke of him as Old Aaron, a little lazy, a little shiftless, a littlechildish, and Granny Hogendobler became the more important figure ofthat household. 

Granny was fifteen years younger than her husband and was undeniablyrotund of hips and face, the former rotundity increased by her fullskirts, the latter accentuated by her style of wearing her hair combedback into a tight knot near the top of her head and held in place by ahuge black back-comb. 

From this style of hair dressing it is evident that Granny was not amember of any plain sect. She was, as she said, "An Evangelical, one ofthe old kind yet. I can say Amen to the preacher's sermon and stand upin prayer-meeting and tell how the Lord has blessed me. "

There were some who doubted the rich blessing of which Granny spoke. "Iwouldn't think the Lord blessed me so much, " whispered one, "if I had aman like Old Aaron, though I guess he's good enough to her. And that boyof theirs never comes home; he must have a funny streak in him too. ""But think of this, " one would answer, "how the Lord keeps her cheerful, kind and faithful through all her troubles. "

Granny's was a wonderful garden. She and Old Aaron lived in a littlegray cube of a house that had its front face set straight to the edge ofCharlotte Street. However, the north side of the cube looked into agreat green yard where tall spruce trees, overrun with trumpet vines andwoodbine, shaded long beds of flowers that love semi-shady places. Therear of the house overlooked an old-fashioned garden enclosed with awhite-washed picket fence. Always were there flowers at Granny's house. In the cold days of winter blooming masses of geraniums, primroses andgloxinias crowded against the little square panes of the windows andlooked defiantly out at the snow; while all the old favorites grew inthe garden, from the first March snowdrop to the late Novemberchrysanthemum. In June, therefore, the garden was a "Lovesome spot"indeed. 

"It vonders me now if Granny's home, " thought Phœbe as she opened thewooden gate and entered the yard. 

"Here I am, " called Granny. "Back in the garden. I-to-goodness, Phœbe, did you come once! I just said yesterday to Aaron that I didn't see noneof you folks for long, and here you come! You haven't seen the flowersfor a while. "

"Oh!" Phœbe breathed an ecstatic little word of delight. "Oh, yourgarden is just vonderful pretty!"

"Ain't, " agreed Granny. "Aaron and me's been working pretty hard in itthese weeks. There he is, out in the potato patch; see him?"

Phœbe stood on tiptoe and looked where Granny's finger pointed to theextreme end of the long vegetable garden, where the white head of OldAaron was bending over his hoeing. 

"He's hoeing the potatoes, " Granny explained. "He don't see you. Buthe'll soon be done and come in. "

"What were you doin'?" asked the child. 

"Weeding the flag. "

"Weedin' the flag--what do you mean?" Phœbe's eyes lighted witheagerness. "I guess you mean mendin' the flag, Granny. " She lookedtoward the porch as if in search of Old Glory. 

"I said weeding the flag, " the woman insisted. "It's an idea of Aaron'sand I guess I'll tell you about it, seeing your eyes are open so wide. See the poppies, that long stretch of them in the middle of the garden?"

"Um-uh, " nodded Phœbe. 

"Well, that patch at the back is all red poppies, the buds just comingon them nice and big. Then right in front of them is another patch ofwhite poppies; the buds are thick on them, too. And right in front ofthem--you see what's there!"

"Larkspur, blue larkspur!" cried Phœbe. "Oh, I see--it's red, white andblue! You'll have it all summer in your garden!"

"Yes. When it blooms it'll be a grand sight. I said to Aaron that we'llhave all the children of Greenwald in looking at his flag and he said hehopes so, for they couldn't look at anything better than the colors ofOld Glory. Aaron's crazy about the flag. "

"'Cause he fought for it, mebbe. "

"Yes, I guess. His father died for it at Gettysburg, the same placewhere Aaron lost his leg. . . . The only thing is, the larkspur'sgetting ahead of the poppies--seems like the larkspur couldn'twait"--her voice continued low--"I always love to see the larkspurcome. "

"I too, " said the child. "I like to pull out the little slippers fromthe middle of the flowers and fit 'em into each other and make circleswith 'em. I made a lot last summer and pressed 'em in a book, but AuntMaria made me stop. "

"That's just what Nason used to do. I have some pressed in the big Bibleyet that he made when he was a little boy. " She spoke half-absently, asthough momentarily forgetful of the child's presence. 

"Who's Nason?" asked Phœbe. 

Granny started. "I-to-goodness, Phœbe, I forgot! You don't know him, never heard of him, I guess. He's our boy. We had a little girl, too, but she died. "

"Did the boy die too, Granny?"

"No, ach no! You wouldn't understand. He's living in the city. He writesto me often but he don't come home. He and his pop fell out about theflag once when Nason was young and foolish and they're both too stubbornto forget it. "

"But he'll come back some day and live with you, of course, won't he?"Phœbe comforted her. 

"Yes--some day they'll see things different. But now don't you botherthat head of yourn with such things. You forget all about Nason. Comenow, sit on the bench a little under the arbor. "

"Just a little. I must go to the store yet. "

"You have lots to do. "

"Yes. And I almost forgot what I come for. Aunt Maria wants you shouldcome out to our place to-morrow early and help with the strawberries ifyou can. "

"I'll come. I like to come to your place. Your Aunt Maria is so straightout, nothing false about her. I like her. But now I bet you're thinkingof how many berries you can eat, " she added as she noted the child'sabstracted look. 

"No--I was thinkin'--I was just thinkin' what a funny name Nason is, like you tried to say Nathan and got your tongue twisted. "

"It's a real name, but you must forget all about it. "

"If I can. Sometimes Aunt Maria tells me to forget things, like wantin'curls and fancy things and pretty dresses but I don't see how I canforget when I remember, do you?"

"It's hard, " Granny said, a deeper meaning in her words than the childcould comprehend. "It's the hardest thing in the world to forget whatyou want to forget. But here comes Aaron----"

"Well, well, if here ain't Phœbe Metz with her eyes shining and a pinkrose pinned to her waist and matching the roses in her cheeks!" the oldsoldier said as he joined the two under the arbor. "Whew! Mebbe it ain'thot hoeing potatoes!"

"You're all heated up, Aaron, " said Granny. His fifteen years senioritywarranted a solicitous watchfulness over him, she thought. "Now you getcooled off a little and I'll make some lemonade. It'll taste good to meand Phœbe, too. "

"All right, Ma, " Aaron sighed in relaxation. "You know how to touch thespot. Did you tell Phœbe about the flag?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, I think it's fine!" cried the child. "I can't wait till all theflowers bloom. I want to see it. "

"You'll see it, " promised the man. "And you bring all the boys and girlsin too. "

"And then will you tell us about the war and the Battle of Gettysburg?David Eby says he heard you once tell about it. I think it was at someschool celebration. And he says it was grand, just like being thereyourself. "

"A little safer, " laughed the old soldier. "But, yes, when the poppiesbloom you bring the children in and I'll tell you about the war and theflag. "

"I'll remember. I love to hear about the war. Old Johnny Schlegelmilchfrom way up the country comes to our place still to sell brooms, andonce last summer he came and it began to thunder and storm and pop saidhe shall stay till it's over and then he told me all about the war. Hesaid our flag's the prettiest in the whole world. "

"So it is, " solemnly affirmed Old Aaron. 

"I wonder if anybody it belongs to could help liking it, " said thechild, remembering Granny's words. 

"Well, " the veteran answered slowly, "I knew a young fellow once, a nicefellow he seemed, too, and his father a soldier who fought for the flag. Well, the father was always talking about the flag and what it means andhow every man should be ready to fight for it. And one day the boy saidthat he would never fight for it and be shot to pieces, that the oldflag made him sick, and one soldier in the family was enough. "

"Oh!" Phœbe opened her eyes wide in surprise and horror. 

"And the father told the boy, " the old man went on in a fixed voice asthough the veriest details of the story were vividly before him, "thatif he would not take back those words he never wanted to see him again. It was better to have no son, than such a son, a coward who hated theflag. "

Here Granny appeared with the lemonade and the story was abruptly ended. Phœbe refrained from questioning the man about the story but as she satunder the arbor and afterwards, as she started up the street of thelittle town, she wondered over and over how a boy could be the son of asoldier and hate the flag, and whether the story Old Aaron told her wasthe story of himself and Nason. 

CHAPTER III

LITTLE DUTCHIE

"AUNT MARIA said I dare look around a little, " thought Phœbe as sheneared the big store on the Square. Her heart beat more quickly as sheturned the knob of the heavy door--little things still thrilled her, going to the store in Greenwald was an event!

The clerk's courteous, "What can I do for you?" bewildered her for aninstant but she swallowed hard and said, "Why, we want twenty pounds ofgranulated sugar; ourn is almost all and Aunt Maria wants to make somestrawberry jelly to-morrow. She said for Jonas to fetch it along on hishome road. "

"All right. Out to Jacob Metz?"

"Yes, he's my pop. "

"I see. Anything else?"

"Three spools white thread, number fifty. "

"Anything else?"

She shook her head as she handed him the money. "No, that's all forto-day. But Aunt Maria said I dare look around a little if I don't touchthings. "

"Look all you want, " said the clerk and turned away, smiling. 

Phœbe began a slow tramp about the big store. There was the same glasscase filled with jewelry. The rings and pins rested on satin that hadfaded long since, the jewelry itself was tarnished but it held Phœbe'sinterest with its meagre glistening. One little ring with a tinyturquoise aroused her desire but she realized that she was longing forthe impossible, so she moved away from the coveted treasures and pausedbefore the ribbons. Some of those same ribbons had been in the tallrevolving case ever since she could remember going to that store. Thepale sea-green and the crushed-strawberry were faded horribly, yet shelooked at them with longing. "Suppose, " she thought, "I dared pick outany ribbon I want for a sash--guess I'd take that funny pink one, ormebbe that nice blue one. But I kinda think I'd rather have a set ofdishes or a doll. But then I got that rag doll at home and that prettyone that pop got for me in Lancaster and that Aunt Maria won't leave meplay with. That's funny now, that she says still I daren't play with itfor I might break it, that I shall keep it till I'm big. But when I'mbig I won't want a doll, and then I vonder what! What will I do with itthen?"

She stood a long time before a table crowded with a motley gathering oftoys, dolls and books. With so much coveted treasure before her it washard to remember Aunt Maria's injunction to refrain from touching. 

"Well, anyhow, " she decided finally, "I won't need any of these thingsto play with now, for I'm going to be out in the garden and the yardwith the flowers and birds. So I guess my old rag doll will be plentyfor playin' with. But I mustn't look too long else Aunt Maria won'tleave me come in soon again. I'll walk down the other side of the storenow yet and then I must go. "

She passed slowly along, her keen eyes noticing the varied assortment ofarticles displayed for sale. A long line of red handkerchiefs wasfastened to a cord high above one counter. Long shelves were stackedhigh with ginghams, calicoes and finer dress materials. There were gaudyrugs and blankets tacked to the walls near the ceiling. Counters werefilled with glassware, china and crockery; other counters were ladenwith umbrellas, hats, shoes----

"Ach, " she sighed as she went out to the street, "I think this goin' toGreenwald to the store is vonderful nice! It's most as much fun as goin'in to Lancaster, only there I go in a trolley and I see blackniggers"--she spoke the word with a little shiver, for Greenwald had nonegro residents--"and once in there me and Aunt Maria saw a Chinamanwith a long plait like a girl's hangin' down his back!"

After asking for the mail at the post-office she turned homeward, feeling like singing from sheer happiness. Then she looked down at herpink damask rose--it was withered. 

"I'm goin' home now so I guess I won't be decorated no more. " Sheunpinned the flower, clasped its short stem in her hand and raised theblossom to her face. 

"Um-m-m!" She drew deep breaths of the rose's perfume. "Um-m!"

"Does it smell good?"

Phœbe turned her head at the voice and looked into the face of a youngwoman who sat on the porch of a near-by house. 

"Does it smell good?" The question came again, accompanied by a broadsmile. 

Quickly the hand holding the flower dropped to the child's side, hereyes were cast down to the brick pavement and she went hurriedly downthe street. But not so hurriedly that she failed to hear the words, "LITTLE DUTCHIE" and a merry laugh from the young woman. 

"She--she laughed at me!" Phœbe murmured to herself under the bluesunbonnet. "I don't know who she is, but that was at Mollie Stern'shouse that she sat--that lady that laughed at me. She called me aDutchie!"

The child stabbed a fist into one eye and then into the other to fightback the tears. She felt sure that the appellation of Dutchie was notcomplimentary. Hadn't she heard the boys at school tease each other bycalling, "Dutchie, Dutchie, sauer kraut!" But no one had ever called herthat before! Her heart ached as she went down the street of the littletown. She had planned to look at all the gardens of the main street asshe walked home but the glory of the June day was spoiled for her. Shedid not care to look at any gardens. The laughing words, "Does it smellgood?" rang in her ears. The name, "Little Dutchie, " sent her heartthrobbing. 

After the first hurt a feeling of wrath rose in her. "Anyhow, " shethought, "it's no disgrace to be a Dutchie! Nobody needn't laugh at mefor that. But I just hate that lady that laughed at me! I hate everybodythat pokes fun at me. And I ain't goin' to always be a Dutchie. You seeonce if I don't be something else when I grow up!"

"Hello, Phœbe, " a cheery voice rang out, followed by a deeperexclamation, "Phœbe!" as she came to the last intersection of streets inthe town and turned to enter the country road. 

She turned a sober little face to the speakers, David Eby and hiscousin, Phares Eby. 

"Hello, " she answered listlessly. 

"What's wrong?" asked the older boy as they joined her. 

Both were plainly country boys accustomed to hard farm work, but theirtanned faces were frank and honest under broad straw hats. Each boremarked family resemblances in their big frames, dark eyes andwell-shaped heads, but there was a distinct line drawn between theirpersonalities. Phares Eby at sixteen was grave, studious and dignified;his cousin, David, two years younger, was a cheery, laughing, sociableboy, fond of boyish sports, delighting in teasing his schoolmates andenjoying their retaliation, preferring a tramp through the woods to thebest book ever written. 

The boys lived on adjacent farms and had long been the nearest neighborsof the Metz family; thus they had become Phœbe's playmates. Then, too, the Eby families were members of the Church of the Brethren, the mothersof the boys were old friends of Maria Metz, and a deep friendshipexisted among them all. Phœbe and the two boys attended the same littlecountry school and had become frankly fond of each other. 

"What's wrong?" asked Phares again as Phœbe hung her head and remainedsilent. 

"Ach, " laughed David, "somebody's broke her dolly. "

"Nobody ain't not broke my dolly, David Eby!" she said crossly. "Iwouldn't cry for _that_!"

"What's wrong then?--come on, Phœbe. " He pushed the sunbonnet back andpatted her roguishly on the head. But she drew away from him. 

"Don't you touch me, " she cried. "I'm a Dutchie!"

"What?"

She tossed her head and became silent again. 

"Come on, tell me, " coaxed David. "I want to know what's wrong. Why, ifyou don't tell me I'll be so worried I won't be able to eat any dinner, and I'm so hungry now I could eat nails. "

The girl laughed suddenly in spite of herself--"Ach, David, you're awfulsimple! Abody has to laugh at you. I was mad, for when I was inGreenwald I was smellin' a rose, that pink rose you gave me, and somelady on Mollie Stern's porch laughed at me and called me a LITTLEDUTCHIE! Now wouldn't you got mad for that?"

But David threw back his head and laughed. "And you were ready to cry atthat?" he said. "Why, I'm a Dutchie, so is Phares, so's most of thepeople round here. Ain't so, Phares?"

"Yes, guess so, " the older boy assented, his eyes still upon Phœbe. "D'ye know, " he said, addressing her, "when you were cross a few minutesago your eyes were almost black. You shouldn't get so angry still, Phœbe. "

"I don't care, " she retorted quickly, "I don't care if my eyes waspurple!"

"But you should care, " persisted the boy gravely. "I don't like you soangry. "

"Ach, " she flashed an indignant look at him--"Phares Eby, you're by fartoo bossy! I like David best; he don't boss me all the time like youdo!"

David laughed but Phares appeared hurt. 

Phœbe was quick to note it. "Now I hurt you like that lady hurt me, ain't, Phares?" she said contritely. "But I didn't mean to hurt you, Phares, honest. "

"But you like me best, " said David gaily. "You can't take that back, remember. "

She gave him a scornful look. Then she remembered the flag in theHogendobler garden and became happy and eager again as she said, "Oh, Phares, David, I know the best secret!"

"Can't keep it, I bet!" challenged David. 

"Can't I?" she retorted saucily. "Now for that I won't tell you till youget good and anxious. But then it's not really a secret. " The flag ofgrowing flowers was too glorious a thing to keep; she compromised--"I'lltell you, because it's not a real secret. " And she proceeded to unfoldwith earnest gesticulations the story about the flowers of red and whiteand blue and the invitation for all who cared to come and see thecolors of Old Glory growing in the garden of Old Aaron and Granny, andof the added pleasure of hearing Old Aaron tell his thrilling story ofthe battle of Gettysburg. 

"I won't want to hear about any battle, " said Phares. "I think war ishorrible, awful, wicked. "

"Mebbe so, " said the girl, "but the poor men who fight in wars ain'talways awful, horrible, wicked. You needn't turn your nose up at the oldsoldiers. Folks call Old Aaron lazy, I heard 'em a'ready, lots of times, but I bet some of them wouldn't have fought like he did and left a legat Gettysburg and--ach, I think Old Aaron is just vonderful grand!" sheended in an impulsive burst of eloquence. 

"Hooray!" shouted David. "So do I! When he carries the flag out the pikeevery Decoration Day he's somebody, all right. "

"Ain't now!" agreed Phœbe. 

"Been in the stores?" David asked her, feeling that a change of subjectmight be wise. 

"Yes. "

"See anything pretty?"

"Ach, yes. A lots of things. I saw the prettiest finger ring with a bluestone in. I wish I had it. "

"What would Aunt Maria say to that?" wondered David. 

"Ach, she'd say that so long as my finger ain't broke I don't need aband on it. But I looked at the ring at any rate and wished I had it. "

"You dare never wear gold rings, " Phares told her. 

"Not now, " she returned, "but some day when I'm older mebbe I'll wear alot of 'em if I want. "

The words set the boys thinking. Each wondered what manner of womantheir little playmate would become. 

"I bet she'll be a good-looking one, " thought David. "She'd look swelldressed up fine like some of the people I see in town. "

"Of course she'll turn plain some day like her aunt, " thought the otherboy. "She'll look nice in the plain dress and the white cap. "

Phœbe, ignorant of the visions her innocent words had called to thehearts of her comrades, chattered on until they reached the little greengate of the Metz farm. 

"Now you two must climb the hill yet. I'm glad I'm home. I'm hungry. "

"And me, " the boys answered, and with good-byes were off on the windingroad up the hill. 

As Phœbe turned the corner of the big gray house she came face to facewith her father. 

"So here you are, Phœbe, " he said, smiling at sight of her. "Your AuntMaria sent me out to look if you were coming. It's time to eat. Been tothe store, ain't?"

"Yes, pop. I went alone. "

"So? Why, you're getting a big girl, now you can go to Greenwald alone. "

"Ach, " she laughed. "Why, it's just straight road. "

They crossed the porch and entered the kitchen hand-in-hand, thesunbonneted little girl and the big farmer. Jacob Metz was also a memberof the Church of the Brethren and bore the distinctive mark: hair partedin the middle and combed straight back over his ears and cut so that theedge of it almost touched his collar. A heavy black beard concealed hischin, mild brown eyes gleamed beneath a pair of heavy black brows. Onlyin the wide, high forehead and the resolute mouth could be seen anyresemblance between him and the fair child by his side. 

When they entered the kitchen Maria Metz turned from the stove, whereshe had been stirring the contents of a big iron pan. 

"So you got back safe, after all, Phœbe, " she said with a sigh ofrelief. "I was afraid mebbe something happened to you, with so manystreets to go across and so many teams all the time and theautomobiles. "

"Ach, I look both ways still before I start over. Granny Hogendoblersaid she'll get out early. "

"So. What did she have to say?"

"Ach, lots. She showed me her flowers. Ain't it too bad, now, that herlittle girl died and her boy went away?"

"Well, she spoiled that boy. He grew up to be not much account if hestays away just because he and his pop had words once. "

"But he'll come back some day. Granny knows he will. " The child echoedthe old mother's confidence. 

"Not much chance of that, " said Aunt Maria with her usual decisiveness. "When a man goes off like that he mostly always stays off. He writes toher she says and I guess she's just as good off with that as if he comehome to live. She's lived this long without him. "

"But, " argued Phœbe, the maternal in her over-sweeping all else, "he'sher boy and she wants him back!"

"Ach, " the aunt said impatiently, "you talk too much. Were you at thestore?"

"Yes. I got the thread and ordered the sugar and counted the change andthere was nothing in the post-office for us. "

"Did you enjoy your trip to town?" asked the father. 

"Yes--but----"

"But what?" demanded Aunt Maria. "Did you break anything in the storenow?"

"No. I just got mad. It was this way"--and she told the story of herpink rose. 

Maria Metz frowned. "David Eby should leave his mom's roses on thestalks where they belong. Anyhow, I guess you did look funny if youpoked your nose in it like you do still here. "

"But she had no business to laugh at me, had she, pop?"

"You're too touchy, " he said kindly. "But did you say the lady was onMollie Stern's porch?"

"Yes. "

"Then I guess it was her cousin from Philadelphia, the one that waselected to teach the school on the hill for next winter. "

"Oh, pop, not our school?"

"Yes. Anyhow, her cousin was elected yesterday to teach your school. Itseems she wanted to teach in the country and Mollie's pop is friendswith a lot of our directors and they voted her in. "

"I ain't goin' to school then!" Phœbe almost sobbed. "I don't like her, I don't want to go to her school; she laughed at me. "

"Come, come, " the father laid his hands on her head and spoke gently yetin a tone that she respected. "You mustn't get worked up over it. She'sa nice young lady, and it will be something new to have a teacher fromPhiladelphia. Anyhow, it's a long ways yet till school begins. "

"I'm glad it is. "

"Come, " interrupted the aunt, "help now to dish up. It's time to eatonce. We're Pennsylvania Dutch, so what's the use gettin' cross whenwe're called that?"

"Yes, " Phœbe's father said, smiling, "I'm a Dutchie too, but I'm a bigDutchie. "

Phœbe smiled, but all through the meal and during the days that followedshe thought often of the rose. Her heart was bitter toward the newteacher and she resolved never, never to like her!

CHAPTER IV

THE NEW TEACHER

THE first Monday in September was the opening day of the rural school onthe hill. Phœbe woke that morning before daylight. At four she heard herAunt Maria tramp about in heavy shoes. It was Monday and wash-day and toMaria Metz the two words were so closely linked that nothing less thanserious illness or death could part them. 

"Ach, my, " Phœbe sighed as she turned again under her red and greenquilt, "this is the first day of school! Wish Aunt Maria'd forget tocall me till it's too late to go. "

At five-thirty she heard her father go down-stairs and soon after thatcame her aunt's loud call, "Phœbe, it's time to get up. Get up now andget down for I have breakfast made. "

"Yes, " came the dreary answer. 

"Now don't you go asleep again. "

"No, I'm awake. Shall I dress right aways for school?"

"No. Put on your old brown gingham once. "

Phœbe made a wry face. "Ugh, that ugly brown gingham! What for didanybody ever buy brown when there are such pretty colors in the stores?"

A moment later she pushed back the gay quilt and sat on the edge of thebed. The first gleams of day-break sent bright streaks of light into herroom as she sat on the high walnut bed and swung her bare feet back andforth. 

"It's the first time I wasn't glad for school, " she soliloquized softly. "I used to could hardly wait still, and I'd be glad this time if wedidn't have that teacher from Phildelphy. Miss Virginia Lee her name is, and she's pretty like the name, but I don't like her! Guess she's thatstuck up, comin' from the city, that she'll laugh all the time at uscountry people. I don't like people that poke fun at me, you bet Idon't! I vonder now, mebbe I am funny to look at, that she laughed atme. But if I was I think somebody would 'a' told me long ago. I don'tsee what for she laughed so at me. "

She sprang from the bed and ran to the window, pulled the cord of thegreen shade and sent it rattling to the top. Then she stood on tiptoebefore the mirror in the walnut bureau, but the glass was hung too highfor a satisfactory scrutiny of her features. She pushed a cane-seatedchair before the bureau, knelt upon it and brought her face close to theglass. 

"Um, " she surveyed herself soberly. "Well, now, mebbe if my hair wascombed I'd look better. "

She pulled the tousled braids, opened them and shook her head until thegolden hair hung about her face in all its glory. 

"Why"--she gasped at the sudden change she had wrought, then laughedaloud from sheer childish happiness in her own miracle--"Why, " she saidgladly, "I ain't near so funny lookin' with my hair opened and downinstead of pulled back in two tight plaits! But I wish Aunt Maria'dleave me have curls. I'd have a lot, and long ones, longer'n MaryWarner's. "

"Phœbe!" Aunt Maria's voice startled the little girl. "What in the worldare you doing lookin' in that glass so? And your knees on a cane-bottomchair! You know better than that. What for are you lookin' at yourselflike that? You ought to be ashamed to be so vain. "

Phœbe left the chair and looked at her aunt. 

"Why, " she said in an amazed voice, "I wasn't being vain! I was justlookin' to see if I am funny lookin' that it made Miss Lee laugh at me. And I found out that I'm much nicer to look at with my hair open than inplaits. You say still I mustn't have curls, but can't you see how muchnicer I look this way----"

"Ach, " interrupted her aunt, "don't talk so dumb! I guess you ain't anyfunnier lookin' than other people, and if you was it wouldn't matterlong as you're a good girl. "

"But I wouldn't be a good girl if I looked like some people I sawa'ready. If I had such big ears and crooked nose and big mouth----"

"Phœbe, you talk vonderful! Where do you get such nonsense put in yourhead?"

"I just think it and then I say it. But was that bad? I didn't mean itfor bad. "

She looked so like a cherub of absolute innocency with her deep blueeyes opened wide in wonder, her golden hair tumbled about her face andstreaming over the shoulders of her white muslin nightgown, that AuntMaria, though she had never heard of Reynolds' cherubs, was moved by theadorable picture. 

"I know, Phœbe, " she said kindly, "that you want to be a good girl. Butyou say such funny things still that I vonder sometimes if I'm raisin'you the right way. Come, hurry, now get dressed. Your pop's goin' wayover to the field near Snavely's and you want to give him good-byebefore he goes to work. "

"I'll hurry, Aunt Maria, honest I will, " the child promised and began todress. 

A little while later when she appeared in the big kitchen her father andAunt Maria were already eating breakfast. With her hair drawn back intoone uneven braid and a rusty brown dress upon her she seemed little likethe adorable figure of the looking-glass, but her father's face lightedas he looked at her. 

"So, Phœbe, " he said, a teasing twinkle in his eyes, "I see you get upearly to go to school. "

"But I ain't glad to go. " She refused to smile at his words. 

"Ach, yes, " he coaxed, "you be a good girl and like your new teacher. She's nice. I guess you'll like her when you know her once. "

"Mebbe so, " was the unpromising answer as she slipped the straps of ablue checked apron over her shoulders, buttoned it in the back and tookher place at the table. 

Breakfast at the Metz farm was no light meal. Between the early morningmeal and the twelve o'clock dinner much hard work was generallyaccomplished and Maria Metz felt that a substantial foundation wasnecessary. Accordingly, she carried to the big, square cherry table inthe kitchen an array of well-filled dishes. There was always a glassdish of stewed prunes or seasonable fresh fruit; a plate piled high withthick slices of home-made bread; several dishes of spreadings, as thejellies, preserves or apple-butter of that community are called. Therewas a generous square of home-made butter, a platter of home-cured hamor sausage, a dish of fried or creamed potatoes, a smaller dish ofpickles or beets, and occasionally a dome of glistening cup cheese. Themeal would have been considered incomplete without a liberal supply ofcake or cookies, coffee in huge cups and yellow cream in anold-fashioned blue pitcher. 

That morning Aunt Maria had prepared an extra treat, a platter of goldenslices of fried mush. 

The two older people partook heartily of the food before them but thechild ate listlessly. Her aunt soon exclaimed, "Now, Phœbe, you must eator you'll get hungry till recess. You know this is the first day ofschool and you can't run for a cookie if you get hungry. You ain'teatin'; you feel bad?"

"No, but I ain't hungry. "

"Come now, " urged her father, as he poured a liberal helping of molasseson his sixth piece of mush, "you must eat. You surely don't feel thatbad about going to school!"

"Ach, pop, " she burst out, "I don't hate the school part, the learnin'in books; that part is easy. But I don't like the teacher, and I guessshe laughed at my tight braids. Mebbe if I dared wear curls---- Oh, pop, daren't I have curls? I'd like to show her that I look nice thatway. Say I dare, then I won't be so funny lookin' no more!"

Jacob Metz looked at his offspring--what did the child mean? Why, hethought she was right sweet and surely her aunt kept her clean and tidy. But before he could answer his sister spoke authoritatively. 

"Jacob, I wish you'd tell her once that she daren't have curls! She justplagues me all the time for 'em. Her hair was made to be kept back andnot hangin' all over. "

"Why then, " Phœbe asked soberly, "did God make my hair curly if Idaren't have curls?" She spoke with a sense of knowing that she hadpropounded an unanswerable question. 

"That part don't matter, " evaded Aunt Maria. "You ask your pop once howhe wants you to have your hair fixed. "

The child looked up expectantly but she read the answer in her father'sface. 

"I like your hair back in plaits, Phœbe. You look nice that way. "

"Ach, " her nose wrinkled in disgust, "not so very, I guess. Mary Warnerhas curls, always she has curls!"

"Come, " said the father as he rose from his chair, "you be a good girlnow to-day. I'm going now. "

"All right, pop. I'll tell you to-night how I like the teacher. "

After the breakfast dishes were washed and the other morning tasksaccomplished Phœbe brought her comb and ribbons to her aunt and satpatiently on a spindle-legged kitchen chair while the woman carefullyparted the long light hair and formed it into two braids, each tied atthe end with a narrow brown ribbon. 

"Now, " Aunt Maria said as she unbuttoned the despised brown dress, "youdare put on your blue chambray dress if you take care and not get itdirty right aways. "

"Oh, I'm glad for that. I like that dress best of all I have. It's notso long in the body or tight or long in the skirt like my other dresses. And blue is a prettier color than brown. I'll hurry now and getdressed. "

She ran up the wide stairs, her hands skimming lightly the whitehand-rail, and entered the little room known as the clothes-room, wherethe best clothes of the family were hung on heavy hooks fastened alongthe entire length of the four walls. She soon found the blue chambraydress. It was extremely simple. The plain gathered skirt was fastened tothe full waist by a wide belt of the chambray. But the dress bore onedistinctive feature. Instead of the usual narrow band around the neck itwas adorned with a wide round collar which lay over the shoulders. Phœbeknew that the collar was vastly becoming and the knowledge always had asoothing effect upon her. 

When the call of the school bell floated down the hill to the grayfarmhouse Phœbe picked up her school bag and her tin lunch kettle andstarted off, outwardly in happier mood yet loath to go to the oldschoolhouse for the first session of school. 

From the Metz farm the road to the school began to ascend. Gradually itcurved up-hill, then suddenly stretched out in a long, steep climbuntil, upon the summit of the hill, it curved sharply to the west to awide clearing. It was to this clearing the little country schoolhousewith its wide porch and snug bell-tower called the children back totheir studies. 

Goldenrod and asters grew along the road, dogwood branches hung theirscarlet berries over the edge of the woods, but Phœbe would have scornedto gather any of the flowers she loved and carry them to the newteacher. "I ain't bringing _her_ any flowers, " she soliloquized. 

She trudged soberly ahead. As she reached the summit of the hill severalchildren called to her. From three roads came other children, most ofthem carrying baskets or kettles filled with the noon lunch. All wereeager for the opening of school, anxious to "see the new teacher once. "

From the farm nearest the schoolhouse Phares Eby had come for his lastyear in the rural school. From the little cottage on the adjoining farmDavid Eby came whistling down the road. 

"Hello, Phœbe, " he called as he drew near to her. "Glad for school?"

"I ain't!" She flung the words at him. "You know good enough I ain't. "

"Ha, ha, " he laughed, "don't be cranky, Phœbe. Here comes Phares andhe'll tell you that your eyes are black when you're cross. Won't you, Phares?"

"I----" began the sober youth, but Phœbe rudely interrupted. 

"I don't care. I don't like the new teacher. "

"You must like everybody, " said Phares. 

"Well, I just guess I won't! There's Mary Warner with her white dressand her black curls with a pink bow on them--you don't think I'm likin'her when she's got what I want and daren't have? Come on, it's time togo in, " she added as Phares would have remonstrated with her for herfrank avowal of jealousy. "Let's go in and see what the teacher's goton. "

"Gee, " whistled David, "girls are always thinking of clothes. "

Phœbe gave him a disdainful look, but he laughed and walked by her side, up the three steps, across the porch and into the schoolhouse. 

The red brick schoolhouse on the hill was a typical country school ofLancaster County. It had one large room with four rows of double desksand seats facing the teacher's desk and a long blackboard with itsborder of A B C. A stove stood in one of the corners in the front of theroom. In the rear numerous hooks in the wall waited for the children'swraps and a low bench stood ready to receive their lunch baskets andkettles. Each detail of the little schoolhouse was reproduced in scoresof other rural schools of that community. And yet, somehow, many of theolder children felt on that first Monday a hope that their school wouldbe different that year, that the teacher from Philadelphia would changemany of the old ways and teach them, what Youth most desires, new ways, new manners, new things. It is only as the years bring wisdom that menand women appreciate the old things of life, as well as the new. 

The new teacher became at once the predominating spirit of that littlegroup. The interest of all the children, from the shy little beginnersin the Primer class to the tall ones in the A class, was centered abouther. 

Miss Lee stood by her desk as Phœbe and the two boys entered. It wasstill that delightful period, before-school, when laughter could bereleased and voices raised without a fear of "keep quiet. " The childrenmoved to the teacher's desk as though drawn by magnetic force. MaryWarner, her dark curls hanging over her shoulders, appeared alreadyacquainted with her. Several tiny beginners stood near the desk, a fewolder scholars were bravely offering their services to fetch water fromEby's "whenever it's all or you want some fresh, " or else stay and clapthe erasers clean. 

When the second tug at the bell-rope gave the final call for the openingof school there was an air of gladness in the room. The new teacherpossessed enough of the elusive "something" the country children feltbelonged to a teacher from a big city like Philadelphia. The way sheconducted the opening exercises, led the singing, and then proceededwith the business of arranging classes and assigning lessons served tointensify the first feelings of satisfaction. When recess came thechildren ran outdoors, ostensibly to play, but rather to gather intolittle groups and discuss the merits of the new teacher. The generalverdict was, "She's all right. "

"Ain't she all right?" David Eby asked Phœbe as they stood in the browngrasses near the school porch. 

"Ach, don't ask me that so often!"

"But honest now, Phœbe, don't you like her?"

"I don't know. "

"When will you know?"

"I don't know, " came the tantalizing answer. 

"Ach, sometimes, Phœbe, you make me mad! You act dumb just like theother girls sometimes. "

"Then keep away from me if you don't like me, " she retorted. 

"Sassbox!" said the boy and walked away from her. 

The little tilt with David did not improve the girl's humor. She enteredthe schoolroom with a sulky look on her face, her blue eyes dark andstormy. Accordingly, when Mary Warner shook her enviable curls andleaned forward to whisper ecstatically, "Phœbe, don't you just love thenew teacher?" Phœbe replied very decidedly, "I do not! I don't like herat all!"

For a moment Mary held her breath, then a surprised "Oh!" came from herlips and she raised her hand and waved it frantically to attract theteacher's attention. 

"What is it, Mary?"

"Why, Miss Lee, Phœbe Metz says she don't like you at all!"

"Did she ask you to tell me?" A faint flush crept into the face of theteacher. 

"No--but----"

"Then that will do, Mary. "

But Phœbe Metz did not dismiss the matter so easily. She turned in herseat and gave one of Mary's obnoxious curls a vigorous yank. 

"Tattle-tale!" she hurled out madly. "Big tattle-tale!"

"Yank 'em again, " whispered David, seated a few seats behind the girls, but Phares called out a soft, "Phœbe, stop that. "

It all occurred in a moment--the yank, the outcry of Mary, the whispersof the two boys and the subsequent pause in the matter of teaching andthe centering of every child's attention upon the exciting incident andwondering what Miss Lee would do with the disturbers of the peace. 

"Phœbe, " the teacher's voice was controlled and forceful, "you may foldyour hands. You do not seem to know what to do with them. "

Phœbe folded her hands and bowed her head in shame. She hadn't meant tocreate a disturbance. What would her father say when he knew she wasscolded the first day of school!

The teacher's voice went on, "Mary Warner, you may come to me at noon. Iwant to tell you a few things about tale-bearing. Phœbe may remain afterthe others leave this afternoon. "

"Kept in!" thought Phœbe disconsolately. She was going to be kept in thefirst day! Never before had such punishment been meted out to her! Thedisgrace almost overwhelmed her. 

"Now I won't ever, ever, ever like her!" she thought as she bent herhead to hide the tears. 

The remainder of the day was like a blurred page to her. She was gladwhen the other children picked up their books and empty baskets andkettles and started homeward. 

"Cheer up, " whispered David as he passed out, but she was too miserableto smile or answer. 

"Come on, David, " urged Phares when the two cousins reached outdoors andthe younger one seemed reluctant to go home. "Don't stay here to petPhœbe when she comes out. "

"Ach, the poor kid"--David was all sympathy and tenderness. 

"Let her get punished. Pulling Mary's hair like that!"

"Well, Mary tattled. I was wishing Phœbe'd yank that darned kid's hairhalf off. "

"Mary just told the truth. You think everything Phœbe does is right andyou help her along in her temper. She needs to be punished sometimes. "

"Ach, you make me tired, standing up for a tattle-tale! Anyhow, you goon home. I'm goin' to hang round a while and see if Miss Lee doesanything mean. "

Phares went on alone and the other boy stole to a window and crouched tothe ground. 

Inside the room Phœbe waited tremblingly for the teacher to speak. Itseemed ages before Miss Lee walked down the aisle and stood by the lowdesk. 

Phœbe raised her head--the look in the dark eyes of the teacher filledher with a sudden reversion of feeling. How could she go on hating anyone so beautiful!

"Phœbe, I'm sorry--I'm so sorry there has been any trouble the first dayand that you have been the cause of it. "

"I--ach, Miss Lee, " the child blurted out half-sobbingly, "Mary, shetattled on me. "

"That was wrong, of course. I made her understand that at noon. Butdon't you think that pulling her hair and creating a disturbance wasequally wrong?"

"I guess so, mebbe. But I didn't mean to make no fuss. I--I--why, I justget so mad still! I hadn't ought to pull her hair, for that hurtsvonderful much. "

"Then you might tell her to-morrow how sorry you are about it. "

"Yes. " Phœbe looked up at the lovely face of the teacher. She felt thatsome explanation of Mary's tale was necessary. "Why, now, " shestammered, "you know--you know that Mary said I said I don't like you?"

"Yes. "

"Why, this summer once, early in June it was"--the child hung her headand spoke almost inaudibly--"you laughed at me and called me a LITTLEDUTCHIE!" She looked up bravely then and spoke faster, "And for that, it's just for that I don't like you like all the others do a'ready. "

"Laughed at you!" Miss Lee was perplexed. "You must be mistaken. "

But Phœbe shook her head resolutely and told the story of the pink rose. Miss Lee listened at first with an incredulous smile upon her face, thenwith dawning remembrance. 

"You dear child!" she cried as Phœbe ended her quaint recital. "So youare the little girl of the sunbonnet and the rose! I thought thismorning I had seen you before. But you don't understand! I didn't laughat you in the way you think. Why, I laughed at you just as we laugh at adear little baby, because we love it and because it is so dear andsweet. And DUTCHIE was just a pet name. Can't you understand? You wereso quaint and interesting in your sunbonnet and with the pink rosepressed to your face. Can't you understand?"

Phœbe smiled radiantly, her face beaming with happiness. 

"Ach, ain't that simple now of me, Miss Lee?" she said in herold-fashioned manner. "I was so dumb and thought you was makin' fun ofme, and just for that all summer I was wishin' school would not startever. And I was sayin' all the time I ain't goin' to like you. But now Ido like you, " she added softly. 

"I am glad we understand each other, Phœbe. "

Miss Lee was genuinely interested in the child, attracted by thecharming personality of the country girl. Of the thirty children of thatschool she felt that Phœbe Metz, in spite of her old-fashioned dressand older-fashioned ways, was the preëminent figure. It would be adelight to teach a child whose face could light with so much animation. 

"Now, Phœbe, " she said, "since we understand each other and have becomefriends, gather your books and hurry home. Your mother may be anxiousabout you. "

"Not my mother, " Phœbe replied soberly. "I ain't got no mom. It's myAunt Maria and my pop takes care of me. My mom's dead long a'ready. ButI'm goin' now, " she ended brightly before Miss Lee could answer. "Andthe road's all down-hill so it won't take me long. "

So she gathered her books and kettle, said good-bye to Miss Lee andhurried from the schoolhouse. When she was fairly on the road she brokeinto her habit of soliloquy: "Ach, if she ain't the nicest lady! Sopretty she is and so kind! She was vonderful kind after what I done. Theteacher we had last year, now, he would 'a' slapped my hands with aruler, he was awful for rulers! But she just looked at me and I was sosorry for bein' bad that I could 'a' cried. And when she touched myhands--her hands is soft like the milkweed silk we find still in thefall--I just had to like her. I like her now and I'm goin' to be a goodgirl for her and when I grow up I wish I'd be just like her, justesactly like her. "

David Eby waited until he was certain no harm was coming to Phœbe. Heheard her say, "Now I do like you" and knew that the matter was beingsettled satisfactorily. Relieved, yet ashamed of his eavesdropping, heran down the road toward his home. 

"That teacher's all right, " he thought. "But Jimminy, girls is funnythings!"

He went on, whistling, but stopped suddenly as he turned a curve in theroad and saw Phares sitting on the grass in the shelter of a clump ofbushes. 

The older boy rose. "David, " he said sternly, "you're spoiling PhœbeMetz with your petting and fooling around her. What for need you pityher when she gets kept in for being bad? She was bad!"

"She was not bad!" David defended staunchly. "That Mary Warner makes mesick. Phœbe's got some sense, anyhow, and she's not bad. There's nothingbad in her. "

"Um, " said Phares tauntingly, "mebbe you like her already and nextyou'll want her for your girl. You give her pink roses and you stay tolick the teacher for her if----"

But the sentence was never finished. At the first words David's eyesflashed, his hands doubled into hard fists and, as his cousin paid noheed to the warning, he struck out suddenly, then partially restraininghis rage, he unclenched his right hand and gave Phares a smarting slapupon the mouth. 

"I'll learn you, " he growled, "to meddle in my business! You mind yourown, d'ye hear?"

"Why"--Phares knew no words to answer the insult--"why, David, " hestammered, wiping his smarting lips. 

But his silence added fuel to the other's wrath. 

"You butt in too much, that's what!" said David. "It's just like Phœbesays, you boss too much. I ain't going to take it no more from you. "

"I--now--mebbe I do, " admitted Phares. 

At the words David's anger cooled. He laid a hand on the older boy'sarm, as older men might have gripped hands in reconciliation. "Come on, Phares, " he said in natural, friendly tones. "I hadn't ought to hit you. Let's forget all about it. You and me mustn't fight over Phœbe. "

"That's so, " agreed Phares, but both were thoughtful and silent as theywent down the lane. 

CHAPTER V

THE HEART OF A CHILD

PHŒBE'S aspiration to become like her teacher did not lessen as the dayswent on. Her profound admiration for Miss Lee developed into intensedevotion, a devotion whose depth she carefully guarded from discovery. 

To her father's interested questioning she answered a mere, "Why, I likeher, for all, pop. She didn't laugh to make fun at me. I think she'snice. " But secretly the little girl thought of her new teacher in themost extravagant superlatives. Her heart was experiencing its first"hero" worship; the poetic, imaginative soul of the child was attractedby the magnetic personality of Miss Lee. The teacher's smiles, mannerisms, dress, and above all, her English, were objects worthy ofemulation, thought the child. At times Phœbe despaired of ever becominglike Miss Lee, then again she felt certain she had within herpossibilities to become like the enviable, wonderful Virginia Lee. Butshe breathed to none her ambitions and hopes except at night as sheknelt by her high old-fashioned bed and bent her head to say the prayerAunt Maria had taught her in babyhood. Then to the prayer, "Now I lay medown to sleep, " she added an original petition, "And please let me getlike my teacher, Miss Lee. Amen. "

"Aunt Maria, church is on the hill Sunday, ain't it?" she asked one dayafter several weeks of school. 

"Yes. And I hope it's nice, for we make ready for a lot of companyalways when we have church here. "

"Why, " the child asked eagerly, "dare I ask Miss Lee to come here fordinner too that Sunday? Mary Warner's mom had her for dinner lastSunday. "

"Ach, yes, I don't care. You ask her. Mebbe she ain't been in a plainchurch yet and would like to go with us and then come home for dinnerhere. You ask her once. "

Phœbe trembled a bit as she invited the teacher to the gray farmhouse. "Miss Lee--why--we have church here on the hill this Sunday and AuntMaria thought perhaps you'd like to come out and go with us and thencome to our house for dinner. We always have a lot of people fordinner. "

"I'd love to, Phœbe, thank you, " answered Miss Lee. 

The plain sects of that community were all novel to her. She was eagerto attend a service in the meeting-house on the hill and especiallyeager to meet Phœbe's people and study the unusual child in the intimatecircle of home. 

"Tell your aunt I shall be very glad to go to the service with you, " shesaid as Phœbe stood speechless with joy. "Will you go?"

"Ach, yes, I go always, " with a surprised widening of the blue eyes. 

"And your aunt, too?"

"Why be sure, yes! Abody don't stay home from church when it's so near. That would look like we don't want company. There's church on the hillonly every six weeks and the other Sundays it's at other churches. Thenwe drive to those other churches and people what live near ask us tocome to their house for dinner, and we go. Then when it's here on thehill we must ask people that live far off to come to us for dinner. Thatway everybody has a place to go. It makes it nice to go away and to havecompany still. We always have a lot when church is here. Aunt Mariacooks so good. "

She spoke the last words innocently and looked up with an expression ofwonder as she heard Miss Lee laugh gaily--now what was funny? SurelyMiss Lee laughed when there was nothing at all to laugh about!

"What time does your service begin?" asked the teacher. "What time doyou leave the house?"

"It takes in at nine o'clock----"

Miss Lee smothered an ejaculation of surprise. 

"But we leave the house a little after half-past eight. Then we can goeasy up the hill and have time to walk around on the graveyard a littleand get in church early and watch the people come in. "

"I'll stop for you and go with you, Phœbe. "

Sunday morning at the Metz farm was no time for prolonged slumber. Withthe first crowing of roosters Aunt Maria rose. After the early breakfastthere were numerous tasks to be performed before the departure for themeeting-house. There was the milking to be done and the cans of milkplaced in the cool spring-house; the chickens and cattle to be fed; eachroom of the big house to be dusted; vegetables to be prepared for ahasty boiling after the return from the service; preserves and cannedfruits to be brought from the cellar, placed into glass dishes and setin readiness. 

At eight-fifteen Phœbe was ready. She wore her favorite blue chambraydress and delighted in the fact that Sunday always brought her theprivilege of wearing her hat. The little sailor hat with its narrowribbon and little bow was certainly not the hat she would have chosen ifshe might have had that pleasure, but it was the only hat she owned, sowas not to be despised. She felt grateful that Aunt Maria allowed her towear a hat. Many little girls, some smaller than she, came to churchevery Sunday wearing silk bonnets like their elders!--she felt gratefulfor her hat--any hat!

Tugging at the elastic under her chin, then smoothing her handkerchiefand placing it in her sleeve--she had seen Miss Lee dispose of ahandkerchief in that way--she walked to the little green gate andwatched the road leading from Greenwald. 

Her heart leaped when she saw the teacher come down the long road. Sheopened the gate to go to meet her, then suddenly stood still. Miss Leeas she appeared in the schoolroom, in white linen dress or trim sergeskirt and tailored waist, was attractive enough to cause Phœbe's heartto flutter with admiration a dozen times a day; but Miss Lee in Sundaymorning church attire was so irresistibly sweet that the vision sent thelittle girl's heart pounding and caused a strange shyness to possessher. The semi-tailored dress of dark blue taffeta, the sheer whitecollar, the small black hat with its white wings, the silver coin pursein the gloved hand--no detail escaped the keen eyes of the child. Shelooked down at her cotton dress--it had seemed so pretty just a momentago. But, of course, such dresses and gloves and hats were forgrown-ups! "But just you wait, " she thought, "when I grow up I'll looklike that, too, see if I don't!"

Miss Lee, smiling, never knew the depths she stirred in the heart of thelittle girl. 

"Am I late, Phœbe?"

"Ach, no. Just on time. Pop, he went a'ready, though. He goes earlystill to open the meeting-house. We'll go right away, as soon as AuntMaria locks up. But what for did you bring a pocketbook?"

"For the offering. "

"Offering?"

"The church offering, Phœbe. Surely you know what that is if you go tochurch every Sunday. Don't you have collection plates or baskets passedabout in your church for everybody to put their offerings on them?"

"Why, no, we don't have that in our church! What for do they do that inany church?"

"To pay the preachers' salaries and----"

"Goodness, " Phœbe laughed, "it would take a vonderful lot to pay all thepreachers that preach at our church. Sometimes three or four preach atone meeting. They have to work week-days and get their money just likeother men do. Men come around to the house sometimes for money for thepoor, and when the meeting-house needs a new roof or something likethat, everybody helps to pay for it, but we don't take no collections inchurch, like you say. That's a funny way----"

The appearance of Maria Metz prevented further discussion of churchcollections. With a large, fringed shawl pinned over her plain graydress and a stiff black silk bonnet tied under her chin, she was readyfor church. She was putting the big iron key of the kitchen door into adeep pocket of her full skirt as she came down the walk. 

"That way, now we're ready, " she said affably. "I guess you're Phœbe'steacher, ain't? I see you go past still. "

"Yes. I am very glad to meet you, Miss Metz. It is very kind of you toinvite me to go with you. "

"Ach, that's nothing. You're welcome enough. We always have much companywhen church is on the hill. This is a nice day, so I guess church willbe full. I hope so, anyway, for I got ready for company for dinner. Buthow do you like Greenwald?"

"Very well, indeed. It is beautiful here. "

"Ain't! But I guess it's different from Phildelphy. I was there once, inthe Centennial, and it was so full everywheres. I like the country best. Can't anything beat this now, can it?"

They reached the summit of the hill and paused. 

"No, " said Miss Lee, "this is hard to beat. I love the view from thishill. "

"Ain't now"--Aunt Maria smiled in approval--"this here is about thenicest spot around Greenwald. There's the town so plain you could almostcount the houses, only the trees get in the road. And there's thereservoir with the white fence around, and the farms and the prettycountry around them--it's a pretty place. "

"I like this hill, " said Phœbe. "When I grow up I'm goin' to have a farmon this hill, when I'm married, I mean. "

"That's too far off yet, Phœbe, " said her aunt. "You must eat bread andbutter yet a while before you think of such things. "

"Anyhow, I changed my mind. I'm not goin' to live in the country when Igrow up; I'm going to be a fine lady and live in the city. "

"Phœbe, stop that dumb talk, now!" reproved her aunt sternly. "You turnround and walk up the hill. We'll go on now, Miss Lee. Mebbe you'd liketo go on the graveyard a little?"

"I don't mind. "

"Then come. " Aunt Maria led the way, past the low brick meeting-house, through the gateway into the old burial ground. They wandered among themarble slabs and read the inscriptions, some half obliterated by yearsof mountain storms, others freshly carved. 

"The epitaphs are interesting, " said Miss Lee. 

"What's them?" asked Phœbe. 

"The verses on the tombstones. Here is one"--she read the inscriptionon the base of a narrow gray stone--"'After life's fitful fever shesleeps well. '"

"Ach, " Aunt Maria said tartly, "I guess her man knowed why he put thaton. That poor woman had three husbands and eleven children, so I guessshe had fitful fever enough. "

Phœbe laughed loud as she saw the smile on the face of her teacher, butnext moment she sobered under the chiding of Aunt Maria. "Phœbe, now youkeep quiet! Abody don't laugh and act so on a graveyard!"

"Ugh, " the child said a moment later, "Miss Lee, just read this one. Italways gives me shivers when I read it still. 

 "'Remember, man, as you pass by, What you are now that once was I. What I am now that you will be; Prepare for death and follow me. '"

"That is rather startling, " said Miss Lee. 

Phœbe smiled and asked, "Don't you think this is a pretty graveyard?"

"Yes. How well cared for the graves are. Not a weed on most of them. "

"Well, " Aunt Maria explained, "the people who have dead here mostly takecare of the graves. We come up every two weeks or so and sometimes webring a hoe and fix our graves up nice and even. But some people are toolazy to keep the graves clean. I hoed some pig-ears out a few graveslast week; I was ashamed of 'em, even if the graves didn't belong tous. "

In the corner near the road the aunt stopped before a plain grayboulder. 

"Phœbe's mom, " she said, pointing to the inscription. 

 "_PHŒBE beloved wife of Jacob Metz aged twenty-two years and one month. Souls of the righteous are in the hand of God. _"

"I'm glad, " said the child as they stood by her mother's grave, "thatthey put that last on, for when I come here still I like to know that mymom ain't under all this dirt but that she's up in the Good Place likeit says there. "

Miss Lee clasped the little hand in hers--what words were adequate toexpress her feeling for the motherless child!

"Come on, " Maria Metz said crisply, "or we'll be late. " But Miss Leeread in the brusqueness a strong feeling of sorrow for the child. 

Silently the three walked through the green aisles of the old graveyard, Aunt Maria leading the way, alone; Phœbe's hand still in the hand of herteacher. 

To Miss Lee, whose hours of public worship had hitherto been spent in anEpiscopal church in Philadelphia, the extreme plainness of themeeting-house on the hill brought a sense of acute wonderment. Thecontrast was so marked. There, in the city, was the large, high-vaultedchurch whose in-streaming light was softened by exquisite stainedwindows and revealed each detail of construction and color harmoniouslyconsistent. Here, in the country, was the square, low-ceilingedmeeting-house through whose open windows the glaring light relentlesslyintensified the whiteness of the walls and revealed more plainly eachflaw and knot in the unpainted pine benches. Yet the meeting-house onthe hill was strangely, strongly representative of the frank, honest, unpretentious people who worshipped there, and after the first wave ofsurprise a feeling of interest and reverence held her. 

It was a unique sight for the city girl. The rows of white-capped womenwere separated from the rows of bearded men by a low partition builtmidway down the body of the church. Each sex entered the meeting-housethrough a different door and sat in its apportioned half of thebuilding. On each side of the room rows of black hooks were set into thewalls. On these hooks the sisters hung their bonnets and the shawls andthe brethren placed their hats and overcoats during the service. 

The preachers, varying in number from two to six, sat before a longtable in the front part of the meeting-house. When the duty of preachingdevolved upon one of them he simply rose from his seat and delivered hismessage. 

As Aunt Maria and her two followers took their seats on a bench near thefront of the church a preacher rose. 

"Let us join in singing--has any one a choice?"

Miss Lee started as a woman's voice answered, "Number one hundredforty-seven. " However, her surprise merged into other emotions as theold hymn rose in the low-ceilinged room. There was no accompaniment ofany musical instrument, just a harmonious blending of the deep-tonedvoices of the brethren with the sweet voices of the sisters. The musicswelled in full, deliberate rhythm, its calm earnestness bearing witnessto the fact that every word of the hymn was uttered in a spirit ofworship. 

Maria Metz sang very softly, but Phœbe's young voice rose clearly in thefamiliar words, "Jesus, Lover of my soul. "

Miss Lee listened a moment to the sweet voice of the child by her side, then she, too, joined in the singing--feeling the words, as she hadnever before felt them, to be the true expression of millions of mortalswho have sung, are singing, and shall continue to sing them. 

When the hymn was ended another preacher arose and opened the servicewith a few remarks, then asked all to kneel in prayer. 

Every one--men, women, children--turned and knelt upon the bare floorwhile the preacher's voice rose in a simple prayer. As the Amen fellfrom his lips Miss Lee started to rise, but Phœbe laid a restraininghand upon her and whispered, "There's yet one. "

For a moment there was silence in the meeting-house. Then the voice ofanother preacher rose in the universal prayer, "Our Father, which art inheaven. " Every extemporaneous prayer in the Church of the Brethren iscomplemented by the model prayer the Master taught His disciples. 

There was another hymn, reading of the Scriptures, and then the sermonproper was preached. 

Aunt Maria nodded approvingly as the preacher read, "Whose adorning letit not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing ofgold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of theheart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek andquiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. "

"You listen good now to what the preacher says, " the woman whispered toPhœbe. 

The child looked Up solemnly at her aunt, about her at the manywhite-capped women, then up at Miss Lee's pretty hat with its whiteMercury wings--she was endeavoring to justify the pleasure and beautyher aunt pronounced vanity. Was Miss Lee really wicked when she woreclothes like that? Surely, no! After a few moments the child sighed, folded her hands and looked steadfastly at the tall bearded man who waspreaching. 

The clergy among these plain sects receive no remuneration for theirpreaching. With them the mercenary and the pecuniary are ever distinctfrom the religious. Six days in the week the preacher follows the plowor works at some other worthy occupation; upon the seventh day hepreaches the Gospel. There is, therefore, no elaborate preparation forthe sermon; the preacher has abundant faith in the old admonition, "Takeno thought how or what ye shall speak, for it shall be given you in thatsame hour what ye shall speak, for it is not ye that speak but thespirit of the Father that speaketh in you. " Thus it is that, while thesermons usually lack the blandishments of fine rhetoric and the rhythmicease arising from oratorical ability, they seldom fail in deep sincerityand directness of appeal. 

The one who delivered the message that September morning told of the joyof those who have overcome the desire for the vanities of the world, extolled the virtue of a simple life, till Miss Lee felt convinced thatthere must be something real in a religion that could hold its followersto so simple, wholesome a life. 

She looked about, at the serried rows of white-capped women--how gentleand calm they appeared in their white caps and plain dresses; she lookedacross the partition at the lines of men--how strong and honest theirfaces were; and the children--she had never before seen so many childrenat a church service--would they all, in time, wear the garb of theirpeople and enter the church of their parents? The child at herside--vivacious, untiring, responsive Phœbe--would she, too, wear theplain dress some day and live the quiet life of her people?

The eagerness of the child's face as Miss Lee looked at her denotedintense interest in the sermon, but none could know the real cause ofthat eagerness. 

"I won't, I just won't dress plain!" she was thinking. "Anyway, not tillI'm old like Aunt Maria. I want to look like Miss Lee when I grow up. And that preacher just said that it ain't good to plait the hair, I meanhe read it out the Bible. Mebbe now Aunt Maria will leave me havecurls. I hope she heard him say that. "

She sighed in relief as the sermon was concluded and the next preacherrose and added a few remarks. When the third man rose to add his fewremarks Phœbe looked up at Miss Lee and whispered, "Guess he's the lastone once!"

Miss Lee smiled. The service was rather long, but it was drawing to aclose. There was another prayer, another hymn and the service ended. 

Immediately the white-capped women rose and began to bestow upon eachother the holy kiss; upon the opposite side of the church the brethrengreeted each other in like fashion. Everywhere there were greetings andprofferings of dinner invitations. 

Maria Metz and her brother did not fail in their duty. In a few minutesthey had invited a goodly number to make the gray farmhouse theirstopping-place. Then Aunt Maria hurried home, eager to prepare for herguests. Soon the Metz barnyard was filled with carriages and automobilesand the gray house resounded with happy voices. Some of the women helpedMaria in the kitchen, others wandered about in the old-fashioned garden, where dahlias, sweet alyssum, marigolds, ladies' breastpin andsnapdragons still bloomed in the bright September sunshine. 

Miss Lee, guided by Phœbe, examined every nook of the big garden, peeredinto the deserted wren-house and listened to the child's story of thesix baby wrens reared in the box that summer. Finally Phœbe suggestedsitting on a bench half screened by rose-bushes and honeysuckle. There, in that green spot, Miss Lee tactfully coaxed the child to unfold hercharming personality, all serenely unconscious of the fact that insidethe gray house the white-capped women were discussing the new teacher asthey prepared the dinner. 

"She seems vonderful nice and common, " volunteered Aunt Maria. "Notstuck up, for a Phildelphy lady. "

"Well, why should she be stuck up?" argued one. "Ain't she just MollieStern's cousin? Course, Mollie's nice, but nothing tony. "

"Anyhow, the children all like her, " spoke up another woman. "My Enoslearns good this year. "

"I guess she's all right, " said another, "but Amande, my sister, saysthat she's after her Lizzie all the time for the way she talks. Theteacher tells her all the time not to talk so funny, not to get her t'sand d's and her v's and w's mixed. Goodness knows, them letters is nearenough alike to get them mixed sometimes. I mix them myself. Manda don'twant her Lizzie made high-toned, for then nothing will be good enoughfor her any more. "

"Ach, I guess Miss Lee won't do that, " said Aunt Maria. "I know I'm gladthe teacher ain't the kind to put on airs. When I heard they put in ateacher from Phildelphy I was afraid she'd be the kind to teach thechildren a lot of dumb notions and that Phœbe would be spoiled---- Here, Sister Minnich, is the holder for that pan. I guess the ham is friedenough. Yes, ain't the chicken smells good! I roasted it yesterday, soit needs just a good heating to-day. "

"Shall I take the sweet potatoes off, Maria?"

"Yes, they're brown enough, and the coffee's about done, and plenty ofit, too. "

"And it smells good, too, " chorused several women. 

"It's just twenty-eight cent coffee; I get it in Greenwald. I guess thethings can be put out now. Call the men, Susan. "

In quick order the long table in the dining-room--used only uponoccasions like this--was filled with smoking, savory dishes, the mencalled from the porches and yard and everybody, except the two women whohelped Aunt Maria to serve, seated about the board. All heads were bowedwhile one of the brethren said a long grace and then the feast began. 

True to the standards set by the majority of the Pennsylvania Dutch, themeal was fit for the finest. There was no attempt to serve it accordingto the rules of the latest book of etiquette. All the food was placedupon the table and each one helped herself and himself and passed thedish to the nearest neighbor. Occasionally the services of the threewomen were required to bring in water, bread or coffee, or to replenishthe dishes and platters. Everybody was in good humor, especially whenone of the brethren suddenly found himself with a platter of chicken inone hand and a pitcher of gravy in the other. 

"Hold on, here!" he said laughingly, "it's coming both ways. I can'tmanage it. "

"Now, Isaac, " chided one of the women, "you went and started the gravythe wrong way around. And here, Elam, start that apple-butter roundonce. Maria always has such good apple-butter. "

Miss Lee's ready adaptability proved a valuable asset that day. Everybody was so cordial and friendly that, although she was the onlywoman without the white cap, there was no shadow of any holier-than-thouspirit. She was accepted as a friend; as a lady from Philadelphia shebecame invested with a charm and interest which the frank country peopledid not try to conceal. They spoke freely to her of her work in theschool, inquired about the children and listened with interest as sheanswered their questions about her home city. 

When the dinner was ended heads were bowed again and thanks rendered toGod for the blessings received. Then the men went outdoors, where thebeehives, poultry houses, barns and orchards of the farm affordedseveral hours of inspection and discussion. 

Indoors some of the women began to wash dishes while Aunt Maria and herhelpers ate their belated dinner; others went to the sitting-room andentertained themselves by rocking and talking or looking at the picturesin the big red plush album which lay upon a small table. 

Later, when everything was once more in order in the big kitchen, Mariastood in the doorway of the sitting-room. 

"Now, " she said, "I guess we better go up-stairs and see the rugs beforethe men come in. Susan said she wants to see my new rugs once when shecomes. So come on, everybody that wants to. "

"You come, " Phœbe invited Miss Lee. "I'll show you some of the things inmy chest. "

Maria led the way to the spare-room on the second floor, a large squareroom furnished in old-fashioned country style: a rag carpet, rag rugs, heavy black walnut bureau and wash-stand, the latter with an antiquebowl and pitcher of pink and white, and a splasher of white linenoutlined in turkey red cotton. A framed cross-stitch sampler hung on thewall; four cane-seated chairs and a great wooden chest completed thefurnishing of the room. 

The chest became the centre of attraction as Aunt Maria opened it andbegan to show the hooked rugs she had made. 

Phœbe waited until her teacher had seen and admired several, then shetugged at the silk sleeve ever so gently and whispered, "D'ye want tosee some of the things I made?"

Miss Lee smiled and nodded and the two stole away to the child's room. 

Phœbe closed the door. 

"This is my room and this is my Hope Chest, " she said proudly. 

Among many of the Pennsylvania Dutch the Hope Chest has long beenconsidered an important part of a girl's belongings. During her earlychildhood a large chest is secured and the stocking of it becomes apleasant duty. Into it are laid the girl's discarded infant clothes;patchwork quilts and comfortables pieced by herself or by some fondgrandmother or mother or aunt; homespun sheets and towels that have beenhanded down from other generations; ginghams, linens and minor householdarticles that might be useful in her own home. When the girl leaves theold nest for one of her own building the Hope Chest goes with her as avaluable portion of her dowry. 

"Hope Chest, " echoed Miss Lee. "Do you have a Hope Chest?"

"Ach, yes, long already! Aunt Maria says it's for when I grow up and getmarried and live in my own home, but I--why, I don't know at all yet ifI want to get married. When I say that to her she says still that I canbe glad I have the chest anyhow, for old maids need covers and apronsand things too. "

"You dear child, " Miss Lee said, laughing, "you do say the funniestthings!"

"But"--Phœbe raised her flushed face--"you ain't laughing at me to makefun?"

"Oh, Phœbe, I love you too much for that. It's just that you aredifferent. "

"Ach, but I'm glad! And that's why I want to show you my things. "

She opened the lid of her chest and brought out a quilt, then another, and another. 

"This is all mine. And I finished another one this summer that AuntMaria is going to quilt this fall yet. Then I'll have nine already. Ain't--isn't that a lot?"

"Yes, indeed, " laughed the teacher. "Just nine more than I have. "

"Why"--Phœbe stared in surprise--"don't you have quilts in your HopeChest?"

"I haven't even the Hope Chest. "

"No Hope Chest! Now, that's funny! I thought every girl that could havea chest for the money had a Hope Chest!"

"I never heard of a Hope Chest before I came to Greenwald. "

"Now don't it beat all!" The child was very serious. "We ain't at alllike other people, I believe. I wonder why we are so different from youpeople. Oh, I know we talk different from you, and mostly look differentfrom you and I guess we do things a lot different from you--do youthink, Miss Lee, oh, do you think that I could _ever_ get like you?"

"Yes----" Miss Lee showed hesitancy. 

"For sure?" Phœbe asked, quick to note the slight delay in the answer. 

"Yes, I am sure you could, dear. You can learn to dress, speak and actas people do in the great cities--but are you sure that you want to doso?"

"Want to! Why, I want to so bad that it hurts! I don't want to just goto country school and Greenwald High School and then live on a farm allthe rest of my life and never get anywhere but to the store inGreenwald, to Lancaster several times a year, and to church everySunday. I want to do some things other people in the other parts of thecountry do, that's what I want. I'd like best of all to be a greatsinger and to look and dress and talk like you. I can sing good, popsays I can. "

"I have noticed you have a sweet voice. "

"Ain't!" The child's voice rang with gladness. "I'm so glad I have. AndDavid, he's glad too, for he says that he thinks it's a gift from God tohave a voice that can sing as nice as the birds. David and Phares arejust like my brothers. David's mom is awful nice. I like her"--shewhispered--"I like her almost better than my Aunt Maria because she'sso--ach, you know what I mean! She's so much like my own mom would be. Ilike David better than Phares, too, because Phares bosses me too muchand he is wonderful strict and thinks everything is bad or foolish. Hepreaches a lot. He says it's bad to be a big singer and sing for thepeople and get money for it, in oprays, he means--is it?"

Miss Lee was startled by the ambition of the child before her and amazedat the determination revealed in her young pupil. Before she couldanswer wisely Phœbe went on:

"Now David says still I could be a big opray singer some day mebbe, and_he_ don't think it's bad. I think still that singin' is about likehavin' curls--if God don't want you to use your singin' and your curlswhat did He give 'em to you for?"

Much to the teacher's relief she was spared the difficulty of answeringthe child. The aunt was bringing the visitors to Phœbe's room. 

"Come in and see my things, " Phœbe invited cordially, as though curlsand operatic careers had never troubled her. In the excitement ofdisplaying her quilts she apparently forgot the vital problems she hadso lately discussed. But Miss Lee made a mental comment as she stoodapart and watched the child among the white-capped women, "That littlegirl will do things before she settles into the simple, monotonous lifethese women lead. "

CHAPTER VI

THE PRIMA DONNA OF THE ATTIC

"AUNT MARIA, dare I go without sewing just this one Saturday?"

It was Saturday afternoon in early October. All the week-end work of thefarmhouse was done: the walks and porches scrubbed, the entire housecleaned, the shelves in the cellar filled with pies and cakes. MariaMetz stood by the wooden frame in which she had sewed Phœbe's latestquilt and chalked lines and half-moons upon the calico, preliminary tothe actual work of quilting. 

Phœbe's face was eloquent as her aunt turned and looked down. 

"Why?" asked the woman calmly. 

"Ach, because it's my birthday, eleven I am to-day. And pop's going tobring me new hair-ribbons from Greenwald, pretty blue ones, I asked himto bring, and nice and wide"--she opened her hands in imaginarypicturing of the width of the new ribbons--"but most of all, " shehastened to add as she saw an expression of displeasure on her aunt'sface, "I'd like to have a party all to myself. I thought that so long asyou're going to have women in to help you quilt, and that is like aparty, only you don't call it so, why I could have a party for me alone. I'd like to play all afternoon instead of sewing first like I do still. Dare I, I mean may I?"--in conscientious endeavor to speak as Miss Leewas trying to teach her. 

Maria Metz smiled at the little girl's idea of a party, and after amoment's hesitation replied, "Ach, yes well, Phœbe, I don't care. "

"In the garret, oh, dare I go in the garret and play?" she askedexcitedly. 

"Yes, I guess. If you put everything away nice when you are doneplayin'. "

"I will. "

She started off gleefully. 

"And be careful of the steps. I'm always afraid you'll fall down whenyou go up there, the steps are so narrow. "

"Ach, I won't fall. I'll be careful. I'll play a while and then shall Ihelp to quilt?" she offered magnanimously in return for the privilege ofplaying in the garret. 

"No, I don't need you. But you can quilt nice, too. The last time youtook littler stitches than Lizzie from the Home, but she don't see sogood. But you needn't help to-day, for so many can't get round the framegood. Phares's mom and David's mom and Lyddy and Granny Hogendobler andSusan are comin', and that's enough for one quilt. You go play. "

In a moment Phœbe was off, up the broad stairs to the second floor. There she paused for breath--"Oh, it's like going to a castle somewherein a strange country, goin' to the garret! I'm always a little scared atfirst, goin' to the garret. "

With a laugh she turned into a small room, opened a latched door, closedit securely behind her, and stood upon the lower step of the atticstairs. She looked about a moment. Above her were the stained rafters ofthe attic, where a dim light invested it with a strange, half fearfulinterest. 

"Ach, now, don't be a baby, " she admonished herself. "Go right up thestairs. You're a queen--no, I know!--You're a primer donner going up theplatform steps to sing!"

With that helpful delusion she started bravely up the stairs and neverpaused until she reached the top step. She ran to a small window andthrew it wide open so that the October sunshine could stream in and makethe place less ghostly. 

"Now it's fine up here, " she cried. "And I dare--I may--talk to myselfall I want. Aunt Maria says it's simple to talk to yourself, butgoodness, when abody has no other boys or girls to talk to half the timelike I don't, what else can abody do but talk to your own self? Anyhow, I'm up here now and dare talk out loud all I want. I'll hunt first forrobbers. "

She ran about the big attic, peered behind every old trunk and box, eveninside an old yellow cupboard, though she knew it was filled with oldschool-books and older hymn-books. 

"Not a robber here, less he's back under the eaves. "

She crept into the low nook under the slanting roof but found nothingmore exciting than a spider. "Huh, it's no fun hunting for robbers. Guess I'll spin a while. "

With quick variability she drew a low stool near an old spinning-wheel, placed her foot on the slender treadle and twisted the golden flax inimitation of the way Aunt Maria had once taught her. 

"I'll weave a new dress for myself--oh, goody!" she cried, springingfrom the stool. "Now I know what I'll do! I'll dress up in the oldclothes in that old trunk! That'll be the very best party I can have. "

She skipped to a far corner of the attic, where a long, leather-coveredtrunk stood among some boxes. In a moment the clasps were unfastened, the lid raised, a protecting cloth lifted from the top and the contentsof the trunk exposed. 

The child, kneeling before the trunk, clasped her hands and uttered anecstatic, "Oh, I'll be a primer donner now! I remember there used to bea wonderful fine dress in here somewhere. "

With childish feverishness, yet with tenderness and reverence for therelics of a long dead past, she lifted the old garments from the trunk. 

"The baby clothes my mom wore--my mother, Miss Lee always says, and Ilike that name better, too. My, but they're little! Such tweeny, weenysleeves! I wonder how a baby ever got into anything so tiny. I bet shewas cunning--Miss Lee says babies are cunning. And here's the dress andcap and a pair of white woolen stockings I wore. Aunt Maria told me sothe last time we cleaned house and I helped to carry all these thingsdown-stairs and hang them out in the air so they don't spoil here in thetrunk all locked up tight. I wish I could see how I looked when I worethese things. I wonder if I was a nice baby--but, ach, all babies arenice. I could squeeze every one I see, only when they're not clean I'dwant to wash 'em first. And here's my mom--mother's wedding dress, agray silk one. Ain't it too bad, now, it's going in holes! And thissatin jacket Aunt Maria said my grandpap wore at his wedding; it has asilver buckle at the neck in front. And next comes the dress I like. Itwas my mother's mother's, and it's awful old. But I think it's fine, with the little pink rosebuds and the lace shawl round the neck and thelong skirt. That's the dress I must wear now to play I'm a primerdonner. "

She held out the old-fashioned pink-sprigged muslin, yellowed with age, yet possessing the charm of old, well-preserved garments. The short, puffed sleeves, lace fichu and full, puffed skirt proclaimed it of abygone generation. 

"It's pretty, " the child exulted as she shook out the soft folds. "GuessI can slip it on over my other dress, it's plenty big. It must button inthe front, for that's the way the lace shawl goes. Um--it's long"--shelooked down as she fastened the last little button. "Oh, I know! I'lltuck it up in the front and leave the long back for a trail! How's that, I wonder. "

She unearthed an old mirror, hung it on a nail in the wall and surveyedherself in the glass. 

"Um, I don't look so bad--but my hair ain't right. I don't know howprimer donners wear their hair, but I know they don't wear it in twoplaits like mine. "

She pulled the narrow brown ribbons from her braids, opened the braidsand shook her head vigorously until her curls tumbled about her head andover her shoulders. Then she knotted the two ribbons together and boundthem across her hair in a fillet, tying them in a bow under her flowingcurls. 

"Now, I guess it's as good as I can fix it. I wish Miss Lee could see menow. I wish most of all my mom--mother could see me. Mebbe she'd say, 'Precious child, ' like they say in stories, and then I'd say back, 'Mother dear, mother dear'"--she lingered over the words--"'Motherdear. ' But mebbe she is saying that to me right now, seeing it's mybirthday. I'll make believe so, anyhow. "

She was silent for a moment, a puzzled expression on her face. 

"I just don't see, " she spoke aloud suddenly, "I don't see why Ishouldn't make believe I have a mother, just adopt one like people dochildren sometimes. Aunt Maria says it's a risk to adopt some one'schild, but I don't see that it would be a risk to adopt a mother. Let mesee now--of all the women I know, who do I want to adopt? Not MaryWarner's mom--she's stylish and wears nice dresses, but I don't thinkI'd like her to keep. Not Granny Hogendobler, though she's nice and Ilike her a lot, a whole lot, and I wish her Nason would come back, but Idon't see how I could take her for my mother; she's too old and shedon't wear a white cap and my mother did, so I must take one that does. I don't want Phares's mom, either. Now, David's mom I like--yes, I likeher. Most everybody calls her Aunty Bab and I'm just goin' to ask herif I dare call her Mother Bab! Mother Bab--I like that vonderful much!And I like her. When we go over to her house she's so nice and talks tome kind and the last time I was there she kissed me and said what prettyhair I got. Yes, I want David's mom for mine. I guess he won't care. Healways gives me apples and chestnuts and things and he shows me birds'nests and I think he'll leave me have his mom, so long as he can haveher too. I'll ask him once when I see him. I wonder who's goin' on theroad to Greenwald. "

She gathered up her long skirt and stepped grandly across the bare floorof the attic. As she stood by the window a boyish whistle floated up toher. She leaned over the narrow sill and peered through the evergreentrees at the road. 

"That's David now, I bet! Sounds like his whistle. Oo-oo, David, " shecalled as the boy came swinging down the road. 

"Hello, Phœbe. Where you at?"

He turned in at the gate and looked around. 

"Whew, " he whistled as he glanced up and saw her at the little window ofthe attic. "What you doing up there?"

"Playin' primer donner. I just look something grand. Wait, I'll comedown. "

"Sure, come on down and let me see you. I'm going to hang around awhile. Mom's here quilting, ain't she?"

"Sh!" Phœbe raised a warning finger, then placed her hands to her mouthto shut the sound of her voice from the people in the gray house. "Yousneak round to the kitchen door, to the back one, so they can't hearyou, and I'll come down. Aunt Maria mightn't like my hair and dress, andI don't want to make her cross on my birthday. Be careful, don't make nonoise. "

"Ha, " laughed the boy. "Bet you're sneaking things, you little rascal. "

Phœbe lifted her finger, shook her head, then smiled and turned from thewindow. She tiptoed down the dark attic stairs, then down the narrowback stairs to the kitchen and slipped quietly to the little porch atthe very rear of the house. 

"Gee whiz!" exclaimed David. "You're a swell in that dress!"

"Ain't I--I mean am I--ach, David, it's hard sometimes to talk like MissLee says we should. "

"Where'd you get the dress, Phœbe?"

"Up in the garret. Aunt Maria said I dare go up and play 'cause it's mybirthday. "

"Hold on, that's just what I came for, to pull your ears. "

"No you don't, " she said crossly. "No you don't, David Eby, pull myears. " She clapped a hand upon each ear. 

"Then I'll pull a curl, " he said and suited the action to the word. Hetook one of the long light curls and pulled it gently, yet with abrusque show of savagery and strength--"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and one to make you grow. Now whosays I can't celebrate your birthday!"

"You're mean, awful mean, David Eby!" She tossed her head in anger. Buta moment later she relented as she saw him smile. "Ach, " she said infriendly tone, "I don't care if you pull my curls. It didn't hurtanyhow. You can't do it again for a whole year. But don't you think Ilook like a primer donner, David?"

"Oh, say it right! How can you expect to ever be what you can'tpronounce? It's pri-ma-don-na. "

"Pri-ma-don-na, " she repeated, shaking her curls at every syllable. "DoI look like a prima donna?"

"Yes, all but your face. "

"My face--why"--she faltered--"what's wrong with my face? Ain't itpretty enough to be a prima donna?"

"Funny kid, " he laughed. "Your face is good enough for a prima donna, but to be a real prima donna you must fix it up with cold cream, paintand powder. "

"Powder!" she echoed in amazement. "Not the kind you put in guns?"

"Gee, no! It's white stuff--looks like flour; mebbe it is flour fixed upwith perfume. Mary Warner had some at school last week and showed someof the girls at recess how to put it on. I was behind a tree and sawthem but they didn't see me. "

"I thought some of the girls looked pale--so that was what made themlook so white! But how do you know all about fixing up to be a primadonna? Where did you learn?" She looked at him admiringly, justlyappreciating his superior knowledge. 

"Oh, when I had the mumps last winter I used to read the papers everyday, clean through. There was a column called the 'Hints to Beauty'column, and sometimes I read it just for fun, it was so funny. It toldabout fixing up the face and mentioned a famous singer and some otherpeople who always looked beautiful because they knew how to fix theirfaces to keep looking young. But I wouldn't like to see any one I likefix their faces like it said, for all that stuff----"

"But do you think all prima donnas put such things on their faces?" sheinterrupted him. 

"Guess so. "

"What was it, Davie?"

"Cold cream, paint, powder--here, where are you going?" he asked as shestarted for the door. 

"I'll be out in a minute; you wait here for me. "

"Cold cream, paint, powder, " she repeated as she closed the door andleft David outside. "Cream's all in the cellar. " She took a pewtertablespoon from a drawer, opened a latched door in the kitchen and wentnoiselessly down the steps to the cellar. There she lifted the lid froma large earthen jar, dipped a spoonful of thick cream from the jar, andbegan to rub it on her cheeks. 

"That's _cold_ cream, anyhow, " she said to herself. "It certainly iscold. Ach, I don't like the feel of it on my face; it's too sticky andwet. " But she rubbed valiantly until the spoonful was used and her faceglowed. 

"Now paint, red paint--I don't dare use the kind you put on houses, forthat's too hard to get off; let's see--I guess red-beet juice will do. "

She stooped to the cool, earthen floor, lifted the cover from a crock ofpickled beets, dipped the spoon into the juice and began to rub thecolored liquid upon her glowing cheeks. 

"If I only had a looking-glass, then I could see just where to put iton. But I don't dare to carry the juice up the steps, for if I spilledsome just after Aunt Maria has them scrubbed for Sunday she'd be cross. "

She applied the red juice by guesswork, with the inevitable result thather ears, chin, and nose were stained as deeply as her cheeks. 

"Now the powder, then I'm through. "

She tiptoed up to the kitchen again, took a handful of flour from thebin and rubbed it upon her face. 

"Ugh, um, " she sputtered, as some of the flour flew into her eyes andnostrils. "I guess that was too thick!" Then she knelt on a chair andlooked into the small mirror that hung in the kitchen. She exclaimed inhorror and disappointment at the vision that met her gaze. 

"Why, I don't like that! I look awful! I'll rub off some of the flour. Ihave blotches all over my face. Do all prima donnas look this way, Iwonder. But David knows, I guess. I'll ask him if I did it right. "

She grabbed one end of the kitchen towel and disposed of some of thesuperfluous flour, then, still doubtful of her appearance, opened thedoor to the porch where the boy waited for her. 

"Do I look----" she began, but David burst into hilarious laughter. 

"Oh, oh, " he held his sides and laughed. "Oh, your face----"

"Don't you laugh at me, David Eby! Don't you dare laugh!"

She was deeply hurt at his unseemly behavior, but the deluge was onlybeginning! The sound of David's laughter and Phœbe's raised voicereached the front room where the quilting party was in progress. 

"Sounds like somebody on the back porch, " said Aunt Maria. "Guess Ibetter go and see. With so many tramps around always abody can't be toocareful. "

The sight that met Maria Metz's eyes as she opened the back door lefther speechless. Phœbe turned and the two looked at each other in silencefor a few long moments. 

"Don't scold her, " David said, sobered by the sudden appearance of thewoman and frightened for Phœbe--Aunt Maria could be stern, he knew. "Don't scold her. I told her to do it. "

"You did not, David; don't you tell lies for me! You just told me how todo it and I went and done it myself. I'm playing prima donna, AuntMaria, " she explained, though she knew it was a futile attempt atjustification. "I'm playing I'm a big singer, so I had to fix up in thisdress and put my hair down this way and fix my face. "

"Great singer--march in here!" The woman had fully regained her voice. "It's a bad girl you are! To think of your making such a monkey ofyourself when I leave you go up in the garret to play! This ends playingin the garret. Next Saturday you sew! Ach, yes, you just come in, " shecommanded, for Phœbe hung back as they entered the house. "You comeright in here and let all the women see how nice you play when I leaveyou go up in the garret instead of make you sew. This here's the tramp Ifound, " she announced as she led her into the room where the women sataround the quilting frame and quilted. 

"What!" several of them exclaimed as they turned from their sewing andlooked at the child. Granny Hogendobler and David Eby's mother, however, smiled. 

"What's on your face?" asked one woman sternly. 

Phœbe hung her head, abashed. 

"That's how nice she plays when I leave her go up on the garret and havea nice time instead of making her sew like she always has to Saturdays, "Aunt Maria said in sharp tones which told the child all too plainly ofthe displeasure she had caused. 

"I didn't mean, " Phœbe looked up contritely, "I didn't mean to be badand make you cross. I was just playing I was a big singer and I put coldcream and paint and powder on my face----"

"Cream!"

"Paint!"

"Powder!"

The shrill staccato words of the women set the child trembling. 

"But--but, " she faltered, "it'll all wash off. " She gave a convincingnod of her head and rubbed a hand ruefully across the grotesquelydecorated cheek. "It's just cream and red-beet juice and flour. "

"Did I ever!" exclaimed the mother of Phares Eby. 

"I-to-goodness!" laughed Granny Hogendobler. 

"Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, " quoted one of the other women. 

"Come here, Phœbe, " said the mother of David Eby, and that woman, athin, alert little person with tender, kindly eyes, drew the unhappylittle girl to her. "You poor, precious child, " she said, "it's a shamefor us all to sit here and look at you as if we wanted to eat you. You've just been playing, haven't you?" She turned to the other women. "Why, Maria, Susan, I remember just as well as if it were only yesterdayhow we used to rub our cheeks with rough mullein leaves to make them redfor Love Feast, don't you remember?"

Aunt Maria's cheeks grew pink. "Ach, Barbara, mebbe we did that when wewere young and foolish, but we didn't act like this. "

"Not much different, I guess, " said Phœbe's champion with a smile. "Onlywe forget it now. Phœbe is just like we were once and she'll get over itlike we did. Let her play; she'll soon be too old to want to play or toknow how. She ain't a bad child, just full of life and likes to dothings other people don't think of doing. "

"She, surely does, " said Aunt Maria curtly, ill pleased by the woman'swords. "Where that child gets all her notions from I'd like to know. It's something new every day. "

"She'll be all right when she gets older, " said David's mother. 

"Be sure, yes, " agreed Granny Hogendobler; "it don't do to be toostrict. "

"Mebbe so, " said the other women, with various shades of understandingin their words. 

Phœbe looked gratefully into the face of Granny Hogendobler, then sheturned to David's mother and spoke to her as though there were no otherspresent in the room. 

"You know, don't you, how little girls like to play? You called meprecious child just like she would----"

"She would, " repeated Aunt Maria. "What do you mean?"

"I mean my mother, " she explained and turned again to her champion. "Iwas just thinking this after on the garret that I'd like you for mymother, to adopt you for it like people do with children when they havenone and want some. I hear lots of people call you Aunty Bab--dare Icall you Mother Bab?"

The woman laid a hand on the child's tumbled hair. Her voice trembled asshe answered, "Yes, Phœbe, you can call me Mother Bab. I have no littlegirl so you may fill that place. Now ask Aunt Maria if you should washyour face and get fixed right again. "

"Shall I, Aunt Maria?"

"Yes. Go get cleaned up. Fold all them clothes right and put 'em in thetrunk and put your hair in two plaits again. If you're big enough to dosuch dumb things you're big enough to comb your hair. " And Aunt Maria, peeved and hurt at the child's behavior, went back to her quilting whilePhœbe hurried from the room alone. 

The child scrubbed the three layers of decoration from her face, trudgedup the stairs to the attic, took off the rose-sprigged gown and foldedit away--a disconsolate, disillusioned prima donna. 

When the attic was once more restored to its orderliness she closed thewindow and went down-stairs to wrestle with her curls. They weretangled, but ordinarily she would have been able to braid them into somesemblance of neatness, but the trying experience of the past moments, the joy of gaining an adopted mother, set her fingers bungling. 

"Ach, I can't, I just can't make two braids!" she said at length, readyto burst into tears. 

Then she remembered David. "Mebbe he's on the porch yet. I'll go seeonce. "

With the narrow brown ribbons streaming from her hand and a hair-brushtucked under one arm she ran down the stairs. She found David, for oncea gloomy figure, on the back porch, just where she had left him. 

"David, " she said softly, "will you help me?"

"Why"--his face brightened as he looked at her--"you ain't"--he startedto say "crying"--"you ain't mad at me for getting you into trouble withAunt Maria?"

"Ach, no. And I ain't never going to be mad at you now for I justadopted your mom for my mom--mother. She's going to be my Mother Bab;she said so. "

"What?"

He knitted his forehead in a puzzled frown. Phœbe explained how kind hismother had been, how she understood what little girls like to do, howshe had promised to be Mother Bab. 

"You don't care, Davie, you ain't jealous?" she ended anxiously. 

"Sure not, " he assured her; "I think it's kinda nice, for she thinksyou're a dandy. But did they haul you over the coals in there?"

"Yes, a little, all but Granny Hogendobler and your mom--Mother Bab, Imean. Isn't it funny to get a mother when you didn't have one for solong?"

"Guess so. "

"But, David, will you help me? I can't fix my hair and Aunt Maria is somad at me she said I can just fix it myself. The plaits won't come rightat all. Will you help me, please?" She asserted her femininity by addingnew sweetness to her voice as she asked the uncommon favor. 

"Why"--he hesitated, then looked about to see if any one were near towitness what he was about to do--"I don't know if I can. I never braidedhair, but I guess I can. "

"Be sure you can, David. You braid it just like we braid the daisy stemsand the dandelion stems in the fields. You're so handy with them, youcan do most anything, I guess. "

Spurred by her appreciation of his ability he took the brush and beganto brush the tangled hair as she sat on the porch at his feet. 

"Gee, " he exclaimed as the hair sprang into curls when the brush leftit, "your hair's just like gold!"

"And it's curly, " she added proudly. 

"Sure is. Wouldn't Phares look if he saw it! I told him your hair isprettier than Mary Warner's and he said I was silly to talk about girls'hair. "

"I don't want him to see it this way, " she said, "for he'd say it's asin to have curly, pretty hair, even if God made it grow that way! He'sawful queer! I wouldn't want him for my adopted brother. "

"Guess he'd keep you hopping, " laughed David. 

"Guess I'd keep him hopping, too, " retorted Phœbe, at which the boylaughed. 

"Now what do I do?" he asked when all the hair was untangled. 

"Part it in the middle and make two plaits. "

"Um-uh. "

The boy's clumsy fingers fumbled long with the parting; several timesthe braids twisted and had to be undone, but after a struggle he wasable to announce, "There now, you're fixed! Now you're Phœbe Metz, nomore prima donna!"

"Thanks, David, for helping me. I feel much better around thehead--guess curls would be a nuisance after all. "

CHAPTER VII

"WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET"

WHEN Phœbe adopted Mother Bab she did so with the whole-heartedness andfinality characteristic of her blood. 

Mother Bab--the name never ceased to thrill the erstwhile motherlessgirl whose yearning for affection and understanding had been unsatisfiedby the matter-of-fact Aunt Maria. 

At first Maria Metz did not seem too well pleased with the child'spersistent naming of Barbara Eby as Mother Bab; but gradually, as shesaw Phœbe's joy in the adoption, the woman acknowledged to herself thatanother woman was capable of mothering where she had failed. 

Phœbe spent many hours in the little house on the hill, learning fromMother Bab many things that made indelible impressions upon hersensitive child-heart, unraveling some of the tangled knots of her soul, stirring anew hopes and aspirations of her being. But there remained oneknot to be untangled--she could not understand why the plain dress andwhite cap existed, she could not reconcile the utter simplicity of dresswith the lavish beauty of the birds, flowers--all nature. 

"It will come, " Mother Bab assured her one day. "You are a little girlnow and cannot see into everything. But when you are older you will seehow beautiful it is to live simply and plainly. "

"But is it necessary, Mother Bab?" the child cried out. "Must I dresslike you and Aunt Maria if I want to be good?"

"No, you don't _have_ to. Many people are good without wearing the plaingarb. A great many people in the world never heard of the plain sects wehave in this section of the country, and there are good peopleeverywhere, I'm sure of that. But it is just as true that each personmust find the best way to lead a good life. If you can wear fine clothesand still be good and lead a Christian life, then there is no harm inthe pretty clothes. But for me the easiest way to be living right is tolive as simply as I can. This is the way for me. "

"I'm afraid it's the way for me, too, " confessed Phœbe. "I'm vain, awfully vain! I love pretty clothes and I'll never be satisfied till Iget 'em--silk dresses, soft, shiny satin ones--ach, I guess I'm vain butI'll have to wait to satisfy my vanity till I'm older, for Aunt Maria isso set against fancy clothes. "

It was true, Maria Metz compromised on some matters as Phœbe grew older, but on the question of clothes the older woman was adamant. The childshould have comfortable dresses but there would positively be no uselessornaments or adornments, such as wide sashes, abundance of laces, elaborately trimmed ruffles. Fancy hats, jewelry and unconfined curlswere also strictly forbidden. 

Though Phœbe, even as she grew older, had much time to spend outdoors, there were many tasks about the house and farm she had to perform. Thechest was soon filled with quilts and that bugbear was gone from herlife. But there was continual scrubbing, baking, mending, and otherhousehold tasks to be done, so that much practice caused the girl todevelop into a capable little housekeeper. Aunt Maria frankly admittedthat Phœbe worked cheerfully and well, a matter she found consoling inthe trying hours when Phœbe "wasted time" by playing the low walnutorgan in the sitting-room. 

During Miss Lee's first term of teaching on the hill she taught her howto play simple exercises and songs and the child, musically inclined, made the most of the meagre knowledge and adeptly improved until she wasable to play the hymns in the Gospel Hymn Book and the songs and carolsin the old Music Book that had belonged to her mother and always restedon the top of the old low organ. 

So the organ became a great solace and joy, an outlet for the intensefeelings of desire and hope in her heart. When her voice joined with thesweet tones of the old instrument it seemed to Phœbe as if she wereechoing the harmony of the eternal music of all creation. Child thoughshe was, she sang with the joy and sincerity of the true musician. Shemerely smiled when Aunt Maria characterized her best efforts as"doodling" and rejoiced when her father, Mother Bab or David praised hersinging. 

In school she progressed rapidly but her interest lagged when, aftertwo years of teaching, Miss Lee resigned her position as teacher of theschool on the hill and a new teacher took command. The entire schoolmissed the teacher from Philadelphia, but Phœbe was almost inconsolable. She, especially, appreciated the gain of contact with the teacher sheloved and she continued to profit by the remembrance of many things MissLee had taught her. The Memory Gems, alone, bore evidence of the changethe teacher from the city had wrought in the rural school. Phœbe smiledas she thought how the poems had been sing-songed until Miss Lee taughtthe children to bring out the meaning of the words. 

"Oh, my, " she laughed one day as she and David were speaking of schoolhappenings, "do you remember how John Schneider used to say Memory Gems?The day he got up and said, 'Have-you-heard-the-waters-singing-little-May--where-the-willows-green-are-bending-over-the-way--do-you-know-how-low-and-sweet-are-the-words-the-waves-repeat--to-the-pebbles-at-their-feet--night-and-day?'"

David laughed at the girl's droll imitation, the way she sing-songed theverse in the exact manner prevalent in many rural schools. 

"And do you remember, " he asked, "the day Isaac Hunchberger definedbipeds?"

"Oh, yes! I'll never forget that! It was the day the CountySuperintendent of Schools came to visit our school and Miss Lee wasanxious to have us show off. Isaac showed off, all right, with his'Bipets are sings vis two lex!' I guess Miss Lee decided that day thatthe Pennsylvania Dutch is ingrained in our English and hard to get out. "

To Phœbe each Memory Gem of her school days became, in truth, a gemstored away for future years. Long after she had outgrown the littlerural school scraps of poetry returned to her to rewaken the enthusiasmof childhood and to teach her again to "hear the lark within thesongless egg and find the fountain where they wailed, 'Mirage!'"

Phœbe wanted so many things in those school-day years but she wantedmost of all to become like Miss Lee. So earnestly did she try to speakas her teacher taught her that after a time the peculiar idioms andexpressions became more infrequent and there was only a delightfullyquaint inflection, an occasional phrase, to betray her PennsylvaniaDutch parentage. But in times of stress or excitement she invariablyslipped back into the old way and prefaced her exclamations with anexpressive "Ach!"

Life on the Metz farm went on in even tenor year in and year out. MariaMetz never changed to any appreciable extent her mode of living or hermethods of working, and she tried to teach Phœbe to conform to the samemonotonous existence and live as several generations of Metzes had done. But Phœbe was a veritable Evelyn Hope, made of "spirit, fire and dew. "The distinctiveness of her personality grew more pronounced as sheslipped from childhood into girlhood and Maria Metz needed often toencourage her own heart for the task of rearing into ideal womanhood thedaughter of her brother Jacob. 

Phœbe had a deep love for nature and this love was fostered by hersturdy farmer-father. As she followed him about the fields he taught herthe names of wild flowers, told her the nesting haunts of birds, initiated her into the circle of tree-lore, taught her to keep ears, eyes and heart open for the treasures of the great outdoors. 

Phœbe required no urging in that direction. Her heart was filled with aninsatiable desire to know more and more of the beautiful world abouther. She gathered knowledge from every country walk; she showed so much"uncommon sense, " David Eby said, that it was a keen pleasure to showher the nests of the thrush or the rare nests of the humming-bird. Davidand his mother, enthusiastic seekers after nature knowledge, augmentedthe father's nature education of Phœbe by frequent walks to field andwoods. And so, when Phœbe was twelve years old she knew the haunts ofall the wild flowers within walking distance of her home. With herfather or with David and Mother Bab she found the first marsh-marigoldsin the meadows, the first violets of the wooded slope of the hill, theearliest hepatica with its woolly buds, the first windflowers and springbeauties. She knew when the time was come for the bloodroot to lift itspure white petals about the golden hearts in the spot where the richmould at the base of some giant tree nurtured the blooded plants. Shecould find the canopied Jack-in-the-pulpit and the pink azalea on thehill near her home. She knew the exact spot, a mile from the grayfarmhouse, where, in a lovely little wood by a quiet road, a profusionof bird-foot violets and bluets made a carpet of blue loveliness eachspring--so on, through the fleet days of summer, till the last astersand goldenrod faded, the child reveled in the beauties and wonders ofthe world at her feet and loved every part of it, from the tiny bluespeedwell in the grass to the gorgeous orioles in the trees. What ifAunt Maria sometimes scolded her for bringing so many "weeds" into thehouse! With apparent unconcern she placed her flowers in a glass orearthen jar and secretly thought, "Well, I'm glad I like these prettythings; they are not weeds to me. "

The buoyancy of childhood tarried with her into girlhood. Like the oldinscription of the sun-dial, she seemed to "count none but sunny hours. "But those who knew her best saw that the shadows of life also left theirmarks upon her. At times the gaiety was displaced by seriousness. MotherBab knew of the struggles in the girl's heart. Granny Hogendobler couldhave told of the hours Phœbe spent with her consoling her for theabsence of Nason, mitigating the cruel stabs of the thoughtless peoplewho condemned him, comforting with the assurance that he would return tohis home some day. Old Aaron loved the girl and found her always readyto listen to his hackneyed story of the battle of Gettysburg. 

Phœbe was a student in the Greenwald High School when the war cloudsbroke over Europe and the world seemed to go mad in a whirl. She hurriedto Old Aaron for his opinion on the terrible war. 

"Isn't it awful, " she said to him, "that so many nations are flying ateach other's throats? And in these days of our boasted civilization!"

"Awful, " he agreed. "But, mark my words, this is just the beginning. Before the thing's settled we'll be in it too. "

She shrank from the words. "Oh, no, not America! That would be tooterrible. David might go then, and a lot of Greenwald boys--oh, thatwould be awful!"

"Yes! But it would be far more dreadful to have them sit back safe whileothers died for the freedom of the world. I'd rather have my boy asoldier at a time like this than have him be ruler of a country. "

The old man's words ended quaveringly. The pent-up agony of hisdisappointment in his son surged over him, and he bowed his head in hishands and wept. 

Phœbe sent Granny to comfort him, and then stole away. The veteran'sgrief left an impression upon her. Were his words prophetic? WouldAmerica be drawn into the struggle? It was preposterous to dream ofthat. She would forget the words of Old Aaron, for she had importantmatters of her own to think about. In a few years she would be graduatedfrom High School and then she would have her own life-work to decideupon. Her desire for larger experience, her determination to dosomething of importance after graduation was her chief interest. The waracross the sea was too remote to bring constant fear to her. Dutifullyshe went about her work on the farm and pursued her studies. She was notwithout pity for the brave people of Servia and Belgium, not withoutpraise for the heroic French and English. She added her vehement wordsof horror as she read of the atrocities visited upon the helplesspeoples. She shared in the dread of many Americans that the octopus-armof war might reach this country, and yet she was more concerned abouther own future than about the future of battle-racked France ordevastated Belgium. 

CHAPTER VIII

BEYOND THE ALPS LIES ITALY

PHŒBE'S graduation from the Greenwald High School was her red-letterday. Several times during the morning she stole to the spare-room whereher graduation dress lay spread upon the high bed. Accompanied by AuntMaria she had made a special trip to Lancaster for the frock, thoughAunt Maria had conscientiously bought a few yards of muslin and aprongingham. 

The material was soft silky batiste of the quality Phœbe liked. Thestyle, also, was of her choosing. She felt a glow of satisfaction as shelooked at the dress so simply, yet fashionably, made. 

"For once in my life I have a dress I like, " she thought. 

After supper, just as she was ready to dress for the great event, PharesEby came to the gray farmhouse. 

The years had changed the solemn, serious boy into a more solemn, serious man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was every inch a man inappearance. He was, moreover, a man highly respected in the community, asuccessful farmer and also a preacher in the Church of the Brethren. Thelatter honor had been conferred upon him a year before Phœbe'sgraduation and had seemed to increase his gravity and endow him withtrue bishopric dignity. He dressed after the manner of the majority ofmen who are affiliated with the Church of the Brethren in that district. His chin was covered with a thick, black beard, his dark hair was partedin the middle and combed behind his ears. He looked ten years older thanhe was and gave an impression of reserved strength, indomitable will andrigidity of purpose in furthering what he deemed a good cause. 

Phœbe felt a slight intimidation in his presence as she noted howserious he had grown, how mature he seemed. He appeared to desire thesame friendship with her and tried to be comradely as of old, but thereremained a feeling of restraint between them. 

"Hello, Phares, " she greeted him as cordially as possible on herCommencement night. 

"Good-evening, " he returned. "Are you ready for the great event?"

"Yes, if I don't have heart failure before I get in to town. If only Ihad been fourth or fifth in the class marks instead of second, then Imight have escaped to-night with just a solo. As it is, I must deliverthe Salutatory oration. "

"Phœbe, you want to get off too easily! But I cannot stay more than aminute, for I know you'll want to get ready. I just stopped to give youa little gift for your graduation, a copy of Longfellow's poems. "

"Oh, thanks, Phares. I like his poems. "

"I thought you did. But I must go now, " he said stiffly. "I'll see youto-night at Commencement. I hope you'll get through the oration allright. "

"Thanks. I hope so. "

When he was gone she made a wry face. "Whew, " she whistled. "I'm surePhares is a fine young man but he's too solemncoly. He gives me thewoolies! If he's like that all the time I'm glad I don't have to live inthe same house. Wonder if he really knows how to be jolly. But, shame onyou, Phœbe Metz, talking so about your old friend! Perhaps for that I'llforget my oration to-night. " With a gay laugh she ran away to dress forthe most important occasion of her life. 

The white dress was vastly becoming. Its soft folds fell gracefullyabout her slender young figure. Her hair was brushed back, gathered intoa bow at the top of her head, and braided into one thick braid whichended in a curl. There were no loving fingers of mother or sister toarrange the folds of her gown, no fond eyes to appraise her with looksof approval, but if she felt the omission she gave no evidence of it. She seemed especially gay as she dressed alone in her room. When she hadfinished she surveyed herself in the glass. 

"Um, Phœbe Metz, you don't look half bad! Now go and do as well as youlook. If Aunt Maria heard me she'd be shocked, but what's the usepretending to be so stupid or innocent as not to appreciate your owngood points. Any person with good sight and ordinary sense can tellwhether their appearance is pleasing or otherwise. I like thisdress----"

"Phœbe, " Aunt Maria's voice came up the stairs. 

"Yes?"

"Why, David's down. Are you done dressing?"

"I'll be down in a minute. "

David Eby, too, was a man grown, but a man so different! Like hiscousin, Phares, he was tall. He had the same dark hair and eyes but hiseyes were glowing, and his hair was cut close and his chin keptsmooth-shaven. 

Between him and Phœbe there existed the old comradeship, free ofrestraint or embarrassment. He ran to meet her as her steps sounded onthe stairs. 

But she came down sedately, her hand sliding along the colonialhand-rail, a calm dignity about her, her lovely head erect. 

"Good-evening, " she said in quiet tones. 

"Whew!" he whistled. "Sweet girl graduate is too mild a phrase! Come, unbend, Phœbe. You don't expect me to call you Miss Metz or to kiss yourhand--ah, shall I?"

"Davie"--in a twinkling the assumed dignity deserted her, she was allgirl again, animated and adorable--"Davie, you're hopeless! Here I posebefore the mirror to find the most impressive way to hold my head and besufficiently dignified for the occasion, and you come bursting into thehall like a tomboy, whistling and saying funny things. "

"I'm awfully sorry. But you took my breath away. I haven't gotten itback yet"--he breathed deeply. 

"David, will you ever grow up?"

"I'll have to now. I see you've gone and done it. "

"Ach no, " she lapsed into the childhood expression. "I'm not grown up. But how do I look? You won't tell me so I have to ask you. "

"You look like a Madonna, " he said seriously. 

"Oh, " she said impatiently, "that sounded like Phares. "

"Gracious, then I'll change it! You look like an angel and good enoughto eat. But honestly, Phœbe, that dress is dandy! You look mighty nice. "

"Glad you think so. Shall I tell you a secret, David? I'm scared pinkabout to-night. "

"You scared?" He whistled again. 

"Don't be so smart, " she said with a frown. "Were you scared on yourCommencement night?"

"Um-uh. At first I was. But you'll get over it in a few minutes. Thelights and the glory of the occasion dim the scary feeling when you situp there in the seats of honor. You should be glad your oration isfirst. "

"I am. Mary Warner is welcome to her Valedictory and the long wait todeliver it. "

Phœbe stiffened a bit at the thought of the other girl. Since the dayswhen the two girls attended the rural school on the hill and Mary Warnerwas the possessor of curls while Phœbe wore the despised braids theother girl seemed to have everything for which Phœbe longed. 

"Ah, don't you care about the honor, " said David. "Honors don't alwaystell who knows the most. Why, look at me; I was fifth in my class and Iknow as much any day as the little runt who was first. "

"Conceit!" laughed Phœbe. "But I guess you do know more than he does. Bet he never saw an orioles' nest or found a wild pink moccasin. You'rea wonder at such things, David. "

"Um, " came the sober answer, but there was a merry twinkle in his eyes, "I'm a wonder all right! Too bad only you and Mother Bab know it. But ifI don't soon go you won't get to town in time to get the pink rosesarranged just so for the grand march. The girls in our class primpedabout twenty minutes, patting their hair and fixing their ribbons andfussing with their flowers. "

"David, you're horrid!"

"I know. But I brought you something more to primp with. " He handed hera small flat box. 

"For me?"

"From Mother Bab, " he said. 

"Oh, David, that's a beauty!" she cried as she held up a scarf of paleblue crepe de chine. "I'll wear it to-night. Tell Mother Bab I thank herover and over. But I'll see her to-night and tell her myself; she'll bein at Commencement. "

"She can't come, Phœbe. She's sorry, but she has one of her dreadfulheadaches and you know what that means, how sick she really is. "

"Oh, Davie, Mother Bab not coming to my Commencement--why, I'm sodisappointed, I want her there"--the tears were near the surface. 

"She's sorry, too, Phœbe, but she's too sick when those headaches gether. Her eyes are the cause of them, we think now. "

"And I'm horribly selfish to think of myself and my disappointment whenshe is suffering. You tell her I'll be up to see her in the morning andtell her all about to-night. You are coming?"

"Sure thing! Aunt Mary is coming over to stay with mother, but there isreally nothing to do for her; the pain seems to have to run its course. She'll go to bed early and be perfectly all right when she wakes in themorning. Come on, now, cheer up, and get ready for that 'Over the Alpslies Italy. '"

"It's 'Beyond the Alps lies Italy, '" she corrected him. Herdisappointment was softened by his cheerfulness. 

"Ach, it's all the same, " he insisted, and went off smiling. 

To Phœbe that night seemed like a dream--the slow march down the aisleof the crowded auditorium to the elevated platform where the ninegraduates sat in a semicircle; the sea of faces swathed in the brightglow of many lights; the perfume of the pink roses in her arm; the musicof the High School chorus, and then the time when she rose and stoodbefore the people to deliver her oration, "Beyond the Alps lies Italy. "

She began rather shakily; the sea of faces seemed so very formidable, somany eyes looked at her--how could she ever finish! She spokemechanically at first, but gradually the magic of the Italy of herdreams stole upon her, a singular softness crept into her voice, amellowness like music, as she depicted the blue skies of the sunnyland-of-dreams-come-true. 

When she returned to her place in the semicircle a glow of satisfactionpossessed her. She felt she had not failed, that she had, in truth, donevery well. But later, when Mary Warner rose to deliver the Valedictory, Phœbe felt her own efforts shrink into littleness. The dark-eyedbeautiful Mary was a sad thorn in the flesh for the fair girl who knewshe was always overshadowed by the brilliant, queenly brunette. Involuntarily the country girl looked at David Eby--he was listeningintently to Mary; his eyes never seemed to leave her face. Little, sharppangs of jealousy thrust themselves into the depths of Phœbe's heart. Was it true, then, that David cared for Mary Warner? Town gossips saidhe frequented her house. Phœbe had met them together on the Squarerecently--not that she cared, of course! She sat erect and held her pinkroses more tightly against her heart. It mattered little to her if Davidliked other girls; it was only that she felt a sense of proprietorshipover the boy whose mother was her Mother Bab--thus she tried to consoleherself and quiet the demons of jealousy until the program wascompleted, congratulations received, and she stood with her aunt andfather, ready for the trip back to the gray farmhouse. 

Teachers and friends had congratulated her, but it was David Eby'shearty, "You did all right, Phœbe, " that gave her the keenest joy. 

"Did you walk in?" she asked him as she gathered her roses, diploma andscarf, preparatory to departure. 

"Yes. "

"Then you can drive out with us, " her father offered. 

"Yes, of course, " she seconded the suggestion. "We have room in thecarriage. "

So it happened that Phœbe, the blue scarf about her shoulders, satbeside David as they drove over the country road, home from hergraduation. The vehicle rattled somewhat, but the young folks on therear seat could speak and hear above the clatter. 

"I'm glad it's over, " Phœbe sighed in relief. "But what next?"

"Mary Warner is going to enter some prep school this fall and preparefor Vassar, " David informed the girl beside him. 

"Lucky Mary"--Mary Warner--she was sick of the name! "I wish I knew whatI want to do. "

"Want to go away to school?"

"I don't know. Aunt Maria wants me to stay at home on the farm and justhelp her. Daddy doesn't say much, but he did ask me if I would like togo to Millersville. That's a fine Normal School and if I wanted to be ateacher I'd go to that school, but I don't want to be a teacher. What Ireally want to do is go away and study music. "

"Well, can't you do it? That is not really impossible. "

"No, but----"

"No, but, " he mimicked. "_But_ won't take you anywhere. "

"You set me thinking, David. Perhaps it isn't so improbable, after all. I'm coming over to see Mother Bab to-morrow; she'll be full ofsuggestions. She'll see a way for me to get what I want; she alwaysdoes. "

"I bet she will, " agreed David. "You'll be that primer donner yet, " hemimicked, "I know you will. "

"Oh, Davie, wouldn't it be great! But I wouldn't beautify my face withcream and beet juice and flour!"

They laughed so heartily that Aunt Maria turned and asked the cause ofthe merriment. 

"We were just speaking of the time when I dressed in the garret andfixed my face--the time you had the quilting party. "

"Ach, " Aunt Maria said, smiling in the darkness. "You looked dreadfulthat day. I was good and mad at you! But I'm glad you're big enough nownot to do such dumb things. My, now that you're done with school andwill stay home with me we can have some nice times sewin' and quiltin'and makin' rugs, ain't, Phœbe?"

In the semi-darkness of the carriage Phœbe looked at David. Theappealing wistfulness of her face touched him. He patted her armreassuringly and whispered to her, "Don't you worry. It'll come out allright. Mother Bab will help you. "

CHAPTER IX

A VISIT TO MOTHER BAB

THE next day as Phœbe walked up the hill to visit Mother Bab she wenteagerly and with an unusual light in her eyes--she had transformed herschoolgirl braid into the coiffure of a woman! The golden hair wasparted in the middle, twisted into a shapely knot in the nape of herneck, and the effect was highly satisfactory, she thought. 

"Mother Bab will be surprised, " she said gladly as she swung up the hillin rapid, easy strides. "And David--I wonder what David will say if he'shome. "

At the summit of the hill she paused and turned, looked back at the grayfarmhouse and beyond it to the little town of Greenwald. 

"I just must stand here a minute and look! I love this view from thehill. "

She breathed deeply and continued to revel in the beauty of the scene. At the foot of the hill was the Metz farm nestling in its greensurroundings. Like a tan ribbon the dusty road went winding past greenfields, then hid itself as it dipped into a valley and made a sharpcurve, though Phœbe knew that it went on past more fields and meadows tothe town. Where she stood she had a view of the tall spires of Greenwaldchurches straggling through the trees, and the red and slate roofs ofcomfortable houses gleaming in the sunlight. Beyond and about the townlay fields resplendent in the pristine freshness of May greenery. 

"Oh, " she said aloud after a long gaze, "this is glorious! But I musthurry to Mother Bab. I'm wild to have her see me. Aunt Maria just saidwhen I showed her my hair, 'Yes well, Phœbe, I guess you're old enoughto wear your hair up. ' Mother Bab is different. Sometimes I pity AuntMaria and wonder what kind of childhood she had to make her so grimabout some things. "

The little house in which David and his mother lived stood near thecountry road leading to the schoolhouse on the hill. Like many otherfarmhouses of that county it was square, substantial and unadorned, itsattractiveness being derived solely from its fine proportions, itscolonial doorways, and the harmonious surroundings of trees and flowers. The garden was eloquent of the lavish love bestowed upon it. Mother Babdelighted in flowers and planted all the old favorites. The walksbetween the garden beds were trim and weedless, the yard and buildingswell kept, and the entire little farm gave evidence that the reputedPennsylvania Dutch thrift and neatness were present there. 

Adjoining the farm of Mother Bab was the farm of her brother-in-law, thefather of Phares Eby. This was one of the best known in the community. Its great barns and vast acres quite eclipsed the modest little dwellingbeside it. David Eby sometimes sighed as he compared the two farms andwondered why Fate had bestowed upon his uncle's efforts an almostunparalleled success while his own father had had a continual struggleto hold on to the few acres of the little farm. Since the death of hisfather David had often felt the straining of the yoke. It was toil, toil, on acres which were rich but apparently unwilling to yield theirfullness. One year the crops were damaged by hail, another yearprolonged drought prevented full development of the fruit, againcontinued rainy weather ruined the hay, and so on, year in and year out, there was seldom a season when the farm measured up to the expectationsof the hard-working David. 

But Mother Bab never complained about the ill-luck, neither did she envythe woman in the great house next to her. Mother Bab's philosophy oflife was mainly cheerful:

 "I find earth not gray, but rosy, Heaven not grim, but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All's blue. "

A little house to shelter her, a big garden in which to work, to dream, to live; enough worldly goods to supply daily sustenance; the love ofher David--truly her BELOVED, as the old Hebrew name signifies--the loveof the dear Phœbe who had adopted her--given these blessings and no envyor discontent ever ventured near the white-capped woman. Life hadbrought her many hours of perplexity and several great sorrows, but ithad also bestowed upon her compensating joys. She felt that the yearswould bring her new joys, now that her boy was grown into a man and wasable to manage the farm. Some day he would bring home a wife--how shewould love David's wife! But meanwhile, she was not lonely. Her friendsand she were much together, quilting, rugging, comparing notes on thegarden. 

"Guess Mother Bab'll be in the garden, " thought Phœbe, "for it's such afine day. "

But as she neared the whitewashed fence of the garden she saw that theplace was deserted. She ran lightly up the walk, rapped at the kitchendoor, and entered without waiting for an answer to her knock. 

"Mother Bab, " she called. 

"I'm here, Phœbe, " came a voice from the sitting-room. 

"How are you? Is your headache all gone?" Phœbe asked as she ran to thebeloved person who came to meet her. 

"All gone. I was so disappointed last night--but what have you done toyour hair?"

"Oh, I forgot!" Phœbe lifted her head proudly. "I meant to knock at thefront door and be company to-day. I've got my hair up!"

"Phœbe, Phœbe, " the woman drew her nearer. "Let me look at you. " Hereyes scanned the face of the girl, her voice quivered as she spoke. "You've grown up! Of course it didn't come in a night but it seems thatway. "

"The May fairies did it, Mother Bab. Yesterday I wore a braid. Thismorning when I woke I heard the robin who sings every morning in theapple tree outside my window and he was caroling, 'Put it up! Put itup!' I knew he meant my hair, so here I am, waiting for your blessing. "

"You have it, you always have it! But"--she changed her mood--"are yousure the robin wasn't saying, 'Get up, get up!' Phœbe?"

"Positive; it was only five o'clock. "

"Now I must hear all about last night, " said Mother Bab as they sattogether on the broad wooden settee in the sitting-room. "David told mehow nice you looked and how well you did. "

"Did he tell you how pleased I am with the scarf? It's just lovely! Andthe color is beautiful. I wonder why--I wonder why I love pretty thingsso much, really pretty things, like crepe de chine and taffeta and pannevelvet and satin. Oh, sometimes I think I must have them. When I go toLancaster I want lots of lovely clothes and I hate ginghams and percalesand serviceable things. "

"I know, Phœbe, I know how you feel about it. "

"Do you really? Then it can't be so awfully wicked. You are sounderstanding, Mother Bab. I can't tell Aunt Maria how I feel about suchthings for she'd be dreadfully hurt or worried or provoked, but you seemalways to know what I mean and how I feel. "

"I was eighteen myself once, a good many years ago, but I still rememberit. "

"You have a good memory. "

"Yes. Why, I can remember some of the dresses I wore when I waseighteen. But then, I have a dress bundle to help me remember them. "

"What's a dress bundle?"

"Didn't Aunt Maria keep one for you?"

"I never heard of one. "

"It's a long string of samples of dresses you wore when you were little. Wait, I'll get mine and show you. "

She left the room and went up-stairs. After a short time she returnedand held out a stout thread upon which were strung small, irregularscraps of dress material. "This is my dress bundle. My mother started itfor me when I was a baby and kept it up till I was big enough to do itmyself. Every time I got a new dress a little patch of the goods wasthreaded on my dress bundle. "

"Oh, may I see? Why, that's just like a part of your babyhood andchildhood come back!"

The two heads bent over the bundle--the girl's with its light hair inits first putting up, the woman's with its graying hair folded under thewhite cap. 

"Here"--Mother Bab turned the bundle upside down and fingered the scrapswith that loving way of those who are dreaming of long departed days andtouching a relic of those cherished hours--"this white calico with thelittle pink dots was the first dress any one gave me. GrandmotherHoerner made it for me, all by hand. Funny, wasn't it, the way they usedto put colored dresses on wee babies! See, here are pink calico ones andwhite with red figures and a few blue ones. I wore all these when I wasa baby. Then when I grew older these; they are much prettier. This reddelaine I wore to a spelling bee when I was about sixteen and I got abook for a prize for standing up next to last. This red and blackchecked debaige I can see yet. It had an overskirt on it trimmed withlittle ruffles. This purple cashmere with the yellow sprigs in it I hadall trimmed with narrow black velvet ribbon. I'll never forget thatdress--I wore it the day I met David's father. "

"Oh, you must have looked lovely!"

"He said so. " She smiled; her eyes looked beyond Phœbe, back to thegolden days of her youth when Love had come to her to bless and to abidewith her long beyond the tarrying of the spirit in the flesh. "He said Ilooked nice. I met him the first time I wore the purple dress. It was ata corn-husking party at Jerry Grumb's barn. Some man played the fiddleand we danced. "

"Danced!" echoed Phœbe. 

"Yes, danced. But just the old-fashioned Virginia reel. We had cider andapples and cake and pie for our treat and we went home at ten o'clock!David walked home with me in the moonlight and I guess we liked eachother from the first. We were married the next year, then we both turnedplain. "

"Were you ever sorry, Mother Bab?"

"That I married him, or that I turned plain?"

"Yes. Both, I mean. "

"No, never sorry once, Phœbe, about either. We were happy together. Andabout turning plain, why, I wasn't sorry either. "

"But you had to give up Virginia reels and pretty dresses. "

"Yes, but I learned there are deeper, more important things than dancingand wearing pretty dresses. "

She looked at Phœbe, but the girl had bowed her head over the dressbundle and appeared to be thinking. 

"And so, " continued Mother Bab softly, "my bundle ended with that dress. Since I dress plain I don't wear colors, just gray and black. But Ialways thought if I had a girl I'd start a dress bundle for her, forit's so much satisfaction to get it out sometimes and look over thepieces and remember the dresses and some of the happy times you had whenyou wore them. But the girl never came. "

"But you have David!"

"Yes, to be sure, he's been so much to me, but I couldn't make him adress bundle. He wouldn't have liked it when he grew older--boys aredifferent. And I wouldn't want him to be a sissy, either. "

"He isn't, Mother Bab. He's fine!"

"I think so, Phœbe. He has worked so hard since he's through school andhe's so good to me and takes such care of the farm, though the cropsdon't always turn out as we want. But you haven't told me what you aregoing to do, now that you're through school. "

"I don't know. I want to do something. "

"Teach?"

"No. What I would like best of all is study music. "

"In Greenwald? You mean to learn to play?"

"No, to learn to sing. I have often dreamed of studying music in a greatcity, like Philadelphia. "

"What would you do then?"

"Sing, sing! I feel that my voice is my one talent and I don't want tobury it. "

"Well, don't Miss Lee live in Philadelphia? Perhaps she could help youto get a good teacher and find a place to board. "

"Mother Bab!" Phœbe sprang to her feet and wrapped her arms about theslender little woman. "That's just it!" she cried. "I never thought ofthat! David said you'd help me. I'll write to Miss Lee to-day!"

"Phœbe, " the woman said, smiling at the girl's wild enthusiasm. 

"I'm not crazy, just inspired, " said Phœbe. "You helped me, I knew youwould! I want to go to Philadelphia to study music but I know daddy andAunt Maria would never listen to any proposals about going to a big cityand living among strangers. But if I write to Miss Lee and she saysshe'll help me the folks at home may consider the plan. I'll have a hardtime, though"--a reactionary doubt touched her--"I'll have a dreadfultime persuading Aunt Maria that I'm safe and sane if I mention music andPhiladelphia and Phœbe in the same breath. " Then she smileddeterminedly. "At least I'm going to make a brave effort to get what Iwant. I'm not going to settle down on the farm and get brown and fat andwear gingham dresses all my life, and sunbonnets in the bargain! I nevercould see why I had to wear sunbonnets, I always hated them. Aunt Mariaalways tried to make me wear them, but as soon as I was out of her sightI sneaked them off. I remember one time I threw my bonnet in theChicques and I had the loveliest time watching it disappear down thestream. But Aunt Maria made me make another one that was uglier still, so I gained nothing but the temporary pleasure of seeing it float away. And how I hated to do patchwork! It seemed to me I was always doing it, and I never could see the sense of cutting up pieces and then sewingthem together again. "

"But the sewing was good practice for you, Phœbe. Patchwork--seems to meall our life is patchwork: a little here and a little there; one colornow, then another; one shape first, then another shape fitted in; andwhen it is all joined it will be beautiful if we keep the parts straightand the colors and shapes right. It can be a very beautiful rising sunor an equally pretty flower basket, or it can be just a crazy quilt withlittle of the beautiful about it. "

"Mother Bab, if I had known that while I was patching I would have lovedto patch! I had nothing to make it interesting; it was just stitching, stitching, stitching on seams! But those vivid quilts are all finishedand I guess Aunt Maria is as glad about it as I am, for I gave her someworried hours before the end was sighted. Poor Aunt Maria, she should beglad to have me go to the city. I've led her some merry chases, but Imust admit she was always equal to them, forged ahead of me many times. "

"Phœbe, you're a wilful child and I'm afraid I spoil you more. "

"No you don't! You're my safety valve. If I couldn't come up here andsay the things I really feel I'd have to tell it to the JennyWrens--Aunt Maria hates to have me talk to myself. "

"But she's good to you, Phœbe?"

"Yes, oh, yes! I appreciate all she has done for me. She has taken careof me since I was a tiny baby. I'll never forget that. It's just that weare so different. I can't make Phœbe Metz be just like Maria Metz, canI?"

"No, you must be yourself, even if you are different. "

"That's it, Mother Bab. I feel I have the right to live my life as Ichoose, that no person shall say to me I must live it so or so. If Iwant to study music why shouldn't I do so? My mother left a few hundreddollars for me; it's been on interest and amounts to more than a fewhundred, about a thousand dollars, I think. So the money end of mystudying music need not worry Aunt Maria. I am determined to do it, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose I'd feel the same way. "

"How did you learn to understand so well, Mother Bab? You have lived allyour life on a farm, yet you are not narrow. "

"I hope I have not grown narrow, " the woman said softly. "I have read agreat deal. I have read--don't you breathe it to a soul--I have oftenread when I should have been baking pies or washing windows!"

"No wonder David worships you so. "

"I still enjoy reading, " said Mother Bab. "David subscribes for threegood magazines and when they come I'm so anxious to look into them thatsometimes my cooking burns. "

"That must be one of the reasons your English is correct. I am ashamedof myself when I mix my v's and w's and use a _t_ for a _d_. I haveoften wished the Pennsylvania Dutch dialect would have been put asidelong ago. "

"Yes, " the woman agreed, "I can't see the need of it. It has beenridiculed so long that it should have died a natural death. It's amystery to me how it has survived. But cheer up, Phœbe, the gibberish isdying out. The older people will continue to speak it but the youngergenerations are becoming more and more English speaking. Why, do youknow, Phœbe, since this war started in Europe and I read the dreadfulcrimes the Germans are committing I feel that I never want to hear orsay, 'Yah. '"

"Bully!" Phœbe clapped her hands. "I said to old Aaron Hogendobleryesterday that I'm ashamed I have a German name and some Germanancestors, even if they did come to this country before the Revolution, and he said no one need feel shame at that, but every American who isnot one hundred per cent American should die from shame. I know wePennsylvania Dutch can carry our end of the burdens of the world and bereal Americans, but I want to sound like one too. "

Mother Bab laughed. "Just yesterday I said to David that the butter was_all_. "

"I say that very often. I must read more. "

"And I less. I haven't told you, Phœbe, nor David, but my eyes aregoing back on me. I went to Lancaster a few weeks ago and the doctorthere said I must be very careful not to strain them at all. I think I'drather lose any other sense than sight. I always thought it was thegreatest affliction in the world to be blind. "

"It is! It mustn't come to you, Mother Bab!"

The woman looked worried, but in a moment her face brightened. 

"Anyhow, " she said, "what's the use of worrying or thinking about it? Ifit ever comes I'll have to bear it just as many other people are bearingit. I'm glad I have sight to-day to see you. "

Phœbe gave her an ecstatic hug. "I believe you're Irish instead ofPennsylvania Dutch! You do know how to blarney and you have thatcoaxing, lovely way about you that the Irish are supposed to have. "

"Why, Phœbe, I am part Irish! My mother's maiden name was McKnight. David and I still have a few drops of the Irish blood in us, I suppose. "

"I just knew it! I'm glad. I adore the whimsical way the Irish have, andI like their sense of humor. I guess that's one of the reasons I likeyou better than other people I know and perhaps that's why David isjolly and different from Phares. Ah, " she added roguishly, "I think it'sa pity Phares hasn't some Irish blood in him. He's so solemn he seldomsees a joke. "

"But he's a good boy and he thinks a lot of you. He's just a little tooquiet. But he's a good preacher and very bright. "

"Yes, he's so good that I'm ashamed of myself when I say mean thingsabout him. I like him, but people with more life are more interesting. "

"Hello, who's this you like?" David's hearty voice burst upon them. 

Phœbe turned and saw him standing in the sunlight of the open door. Thethought flashed upon her, "How big and strong he is!"

He wore brown corduroys, a blue chambray shirt slightly open at thethroat, heavy shoes. His face was already tanned by the wind and sun, his hands rough from contact with soil and farming implements, his darkhair rumpled where he had pulled the big straw hat from his head, butthere was an odor of fresh spring earth about him, a boyishwholesomeness in his face, that attracted the girl as she looked at hisframe in the doorway. 

There was a flash of white teeth, a twinkle in his dark eyes, as heasked, "What did I hear you say, Phœbe--that you like _me_?"

"Indeed not! I wouldn't think of liking anybody who deceived me as youhave done. All these years you have left me under the impression thatyou are Pennsylvania Dutch and now Mother Bab says you are part Irish. "

"Little saucebox! What about yourself? You can't make me believe thatyou are pure, unadulterated Pennsylvania Dutch. There's some alien bloodin you, by the ways of you. Have you seen Phares this afternoon?" heasked irrelevantly. 

"Phares? No. Why?"

"He went down past the field some time ago. Said he's going toGreenwald and means to stop and ask you to go to a sale with him nextweek. He said you mentioned some time ago that you'd like to go to areal old-fashioned one and he heard of one coming off next week andthought you might like to go. "

"I surely want to go. Don't you want to come, too, David? And MotherBab?"

But David shook his head. "And spoil Phares's party, " he said. "Phareswouldn't thank us. "

Phœbe shrugged her shoulders. "Ach, David Eby, you're silly! Just asthough I want to go to a sale all alone with Phares! He can take the bigcarriage and take us all. "

"He can but he won't want to. " David showed an irritating wisdom. "WhenI invite you to come on a party with me I won't want Phares taggingafter, either. Two's company. "

"Two's boredom sometimes, " she said so ambiguously that the man laughedheartily and Mother Bab smiled in amusement. 

"Come now, Phœbe, " David said, "just because you put your hair up youmustn't think you can rule us all and don grown-up airs. "

"Then you do notice things! I thought you were blind. You are downrightmean, David Eby! When you wore your first pair of long pants I noticedit right away and made a fuss about them and it takes you ten minutes tosee that my hair is up instead of hanging in a silly braid down myback. "

"I saw it first thing, Phœbe. That was mean--I'm sorry----"

"You look it, " she said sceptically. 

"I'm sorry, " he repeated, "to see the braid go, though you look finethis way. I liked that long braid ever since the day I braided it, theday you played prima donna. Remember?"

The girl flushed, then was vexed at her embarrassment and changedsuddenly to the old, appealing Phœbe. 

"I remember, Davie. You were my salvation that day, you and Mother Bab. "

Before they could answer she added with seeming innocency, yet with aswift glance into the face of the farmer boy, "I must go now so I'll behome when Phares comes to invite me to that sale. I'm going with him;I'm wild to go. "

"Yes?" David said slowly. 

"Yes, " she repeated, a teasing look in her eyes. 

"Mommie, isn't she fine?" David said after Phœbe was gone and helingered in the house. 

"Mighty fine. But she is so different from the general run of girls;she's so lively and bright and sweet, so sensitive to all impressions. She's anxious to get to the city to study music. It would be a wonderfulexperience for her--and yet----"

"And yet----" echoed David, then fell into silence. 

Mother Bab was thinking of her boy and Phœbe, of their gay comradeship. How friendly they were, how well-mated they appeared to be, howappreciative of each other. Could they ever care for each other in adeeper way? Did the preacher care for the playmate of his childhood asshe thought David was beginning to care?

"Well, I must go again, mommie. I came in for a drink at the pump andheard you and Phœbe. Now I must hustle for I have a lot to do beforesundown--ach, why aren't we rich!"

"Do you wish for that?"

"Certainly I do. Not wealthy; just to have enough so we needn't lieawake wondering if the dry spell or the wet spell or the hail will ruinthe crops. I wish I could find an Aladdin's lamp. "

"Davie"--the smile faded from her face--"don't get the money craze. Money isn't everything. This farm is paid for and we can always make acomfortable living. Money isn't all. "

"No, but--but it means everything sometimes to a young, single fellow. But don't you worry; the crops are fine this year, so far. "

The mother did not forget his words at once. "It must be, " she thought, "that David wants Phœbe and feels he must have more money before he canask her to marry him. Will men never learn that girls who are worthgetting are not looking so much for money but the man. The young can'tsee the depth and fullness of love. I've tried to teach David, but Isuppose there's some things he must learn for himself. "

CHAPTER X

AN OLD-FASHIONED COUNTRY SALE

A WEEK later Phares and Phœbe drove into the barnyard of a farm sixmiles from Greenwald, where the old-fashioned sale was scheduled to beheld. 

"We are not the first, after all, " said the preacher as he saw thenumber of conveyances in and about the barnyard. He smiledgood-humoredly as he led the way--he could afford to smile when he waswith Phœbe. 

All about the big yard of the farm were placed articles to be sold atpublic auction. It was a miscellaneous collection. A cradle withminiature puffy feather pillows, straw tick and an old patchwork quiltof pink and white calico stood near an old wood-stove which bore theinscription, CONOWINGO FURNACE. Corn-husk shoe-mats, a quilting frame, rocking-chairs, two spinning-wheels, copper kettles, rolls of hand-wovenrag carpet, old oval hat-boxes and an old chest stood about a huge tablewhich was laden with jars of jellies. Chests, filled with linens andantique woolen coverlets, afforded a resting place for the fortunateones who had arrived earliest. A few antique chairs and tables, amahogany highboy in excellent condition and an antique corner-cupboardof wild-cherry wood occupied prominent places among the collection. Truly, the sale warranted the attention it was receiving. 

"I'd like to bid on something--I'm going to do it!" Phœbe said as theylooked about. "When I was a little girl and went to sales with AuntMaria I coaxed to bid, just for the excitement of bidding. But shealways made me tell what I wanted and then she bid on it. "

"What do you want to buy?" asked the preacher. 

"Oh, I don't know. I don't want any apple-butter in crocks, or anychairs. Oh, I'll have some fun, Phares! I'll bid on the third articlethey put up for sale! I heard a man say the dishes are going to be soldfirst, so I'll probably get a cracked plate or a saucer without a cup, but whatever it is, the third article is going to be mine. "

"That is rather rash, " warned Phares. "It may be a bed or a chest. "

"You can't scare me. I'm going to have some real thrills at this sale. "

The preacher entered into the spirit of the girl and smiled at herpromise to bid on the third thing put up for sale. 

"Oh, look at the highboy, " she exclaimed to him. 

"Do you like it?" he asked. 

"Yes. See how it's inlaid with hollywood and cherry and how fine thelines of it are! I wonder how much it will bring. But Aunt Maria'd scoldif I brought any furniture home, so I can't buy it. "

"The price will depend upon the number of bidders and the size of theirpocketbooks. If any dealers in antiques are here it may run way up. Weused to buy homespun linen and fine old furniture very cheap at sales, but the antique dealers changed that. "

By that time the number of people was steadily increasing. They camesingly and in groups, in carriages, farm wagons, automobiles and afoot. Some of the curious went about examining each article in the motleycollection in the yard. 

Phœbe watched it all with an amused smile; finally she broke into merrylaughter. 

Phares looked up inquiringly: "What is it?"

"This is great sport! I haven't been to a good sale for several years. That old man has knocked his fist upon every chair and table, has testedevery piece of furniture, has opened all the bureau drawers, even thecase of the old clock, and just a moment ago he rocked the cradlefuriously to convince himself that it is in good working condition. Herehe comes with a pewter plate in his hand--let's hear what he has to sayabout it. "

The old man's cracked harsh voice rose above the confusion of othersounds as he leaned against a table near Phœbe and Phares and spoke toanother man:

"Here now, Eph, is one of them pewter plates that folks fuss so aboutjust now, and I hear they put them in their dinin'-rooms along the wall!Why, when I was a boy my granny had a lot of 'em and we'd knock 'emaround any way. Ha, ha, " he laughed loudly, "I can tell you a good one, Eph, about one of them pewter dishes. "

He slapped the plate against his knee, but the thud was instantlydrowned by his quick, "Ach, Jimminy, I hit myself pretty hard that time!But I'll tell you about it, Eph. You heard of the fellows from the citywho go around the country hunting up old relics, all old truck, and sellit again in the city? Well, one of them fellows come to my house theother week and asked if I had anything old-fashioned I would sell. Nowif Lizzie'd been home we might got rid of some of the old things we haveon the garret, but I was alone and I didn't know what I dared sell--youknow how the women is. So I said, 'What kind of old things do you want?'

"'Oh, ' he said, 'I buy old furniture, dishes, linen, pewter----'

"'Pewter?' I said. 'Who wants that?'

"'There is a great demand for it, ' he said, 'and I will give you a goodprice for any you have. '

"'Well, ' I laughed, 'I have just one piece of pewter. '

"'Where is it?'

"'Why, the cats have been eating out of it for a few years. '

"'May I see it?' he asks. 

"So I took him out to the barn and showed him the big pewter bowl thecats eat out of and he said, 'I'll give you fifty cents for that dish. '

"Gosh, I said to him, 'Mister, I was just fooling with you. I know youdon't want a cat-dish. '

"But he said again, 'I'll give you fifty cents for that dish. '

"So when I saw that he really meant it and wanted the dish I wrappedthe old pewter dish in a paper and he gave me half a dollar for it. WhenI told Lizzie about it she laughed good and said the city folks must bedumb if they want pewter dishes when you can buy such nice ones for tencents. Yes, Eph, that's the fellow's going to auctioneer. He's a goodone, you bet; he keeps things lively all the time. All his folks is goodtalkers. Lizzie says his mom can talk the legs off an iron pot. But thenhe needs a good tongue in this business; it takes a lot of wind to be anauctioneer, specially at a big sale like this. He says it's going to bea wonderful sale, that he ain't had one like it for years. There'sthings here belonged to the family for three generations, been handeddown and handed down and now to-day it'll get scattered all overLancaster County, mebbe further. This saving up things and not using 'emis all nonsense. I tell Lizzie we'll use what we got and get new whenit's worn out and not let a lot back for the young ones to fight over orother people to buy. "

Here the auctioneer climbed upon a big box, clapped his hands and calledloudly, "Attention, attention! This sale is about to begin. We have herea collection of fine things, all in good condition. The terms of thesale are cash. Now, folks, bid up fast and talk loud when you bid so Ican hear you. We have here some of the finest antique dishes in thecountry, also some furniture that can't be duplicated in any storeto-day. We'll begin on this cherry table. "

He lifted a spindle-legged table in the air and went on talking. 

"Now that's a fine table to begin with! All solid cherry, no screwsloose--and that's more than you can say about some people--now what'sbid for this table? Fine and good as the day it came out of a goodworkman's shop; no scratches on it--the Brubaker people knew how to takecare of furniture. Who bids? How much for it do you bid? Fiftycents--fifty, all right--make it sixty--sixty cents I'm bid. Sixty, sixty, sixty--seventy--go ahead, eighty--go on--ninety, one dollar, onedollar ten, twenty, thirty--keep on--one dollar thirty, make it forty, forty, forty, forty, I have a dollar forty for this table--all done?Going--all done--all done?"

All was said in one breathless succession of words. He paused an instantto gather fresh impetus, then resumed, "All done--any more? Gone at adollar forty to----"

"Lizzie Brubaker. "

"Sold to Lizzie Brubaker. "

"There, " whispered the preacher to Phœbe, "that's one. "

She smiled and nodded her head. 

"Here now, " called the auctioneer, "here's a fine set of chairs. Bid onthem; wink to me if you don't want to call out. My wife said she don'tcare how many ladies wink to me this afternoon at this sale, but afterthat she won't have it--now then; go ahead! Give me one of the chairs, Sam, so the people can see it--ah, ain't that a beauty! Six in all, allsolid wood, too, none of your cane seats that you have to be afraid tosit in. All solid wood, and every one alike, all painted green andevery one with fine hand-painted flowers on the back. Where can you beatsuch chairs? Don't make them any more these days, real antiques theyare! Bid up now, friends; how much a piece? The six go together, itwould be a shame to part them. Fifteen cents did I hear?--Say, I'mashamed to take a bid like that! Twenty, that's a little better--thirty, thirty, forty over here? Forty cents I have, fifty, sixty, seventy, seventy-five, eighty, eighty, eighty cents I'm bid; I'm bid eightycents--make it ninety--ninety I'm bid, make it a dollar--ninety, ninety--all done at ninety? Guess we'll let Jonas Erb have them atninety cents a piece, and real bargains they are!"

"Here's where I bid, " said Phœbe, her cheeks rosy from excitement. 

"Shall I release you from your promise?" offered the preacher. 

"No, I'll bid. "

"Attention, " called the auctioneer. "Attention, everybody! Here we havea real antique, something worth bidding on!"

Phœbe held her breath. 

"Here now, Sam, give it a lift so everybody can see--ah, there you are!"

He shouted the last words as two men held above the crowd--the oldwooden cradle!

Phœbe groaned and looked at Phares--he was smiling. The old aversion toridicule swelled in her; he should not have reason to laugh at her; shewould show him that she was equal to the occasion--she would bid on thecradle!

"Start it, hurry up, somebody. How much is bid for the cradle? Sam heresays it's been in the Brubaker family for years and years. Think of allthe babies that were rocked to sleep in it--it's a real relic. "

Phœbe, unacquainted with the value of cradles, was silently endeavoringto determine the proper amount for a first bid. She was relieved to heara woman's voice call, "Twenty-five cents. "

"Twenty-five I have, twenty-five, " called the auctioneer. "Make itthirty. "

"Thirty, " said Phœbe. 

"Forty, " came from the other woman. 

"Make it fifty, Miss. " He pointed a fat finger at Phœbe. 

"Fifty, " she responded. 

"Fifty, fifty, anybody make it sixty? Fifty cents--all done at fifty?Then it goes at fifty cents to"--Phœbe repeated her name--"to PhœbeMetz. "

He proceeded with the sale. Phœbe turned triumphantly to thepreacher--"I kept my promise. "

"You did, " he said. "The cradle is yours--what are you going to do withit?"

"Gracious! Why, I never thought of that! I don't want it. I just wantedthe fun of bidding. Can't I pay it and leave it and they can sell itover again?"

"You bid rashly, " the preacher said, though his eyes were smiling andhis usual tone of admonition was absent from his voice. "I think you maybe able to sell it to the woman who was bidding against you. "

"I'll find her and give it to her. "

She elbowed her way through the crowd until she reached the place fromwhich the opposing voice had come. She looked about a moment, thenaddressed a woman near her. "Do you know who was bidding on the cradle?"

"Yes, it was Hetty here, the one with the white waist. Here, Hetty, thislady wants to talk to you. "

"To me?" echoed the rival bidder for the cradle. 

"Did you bid on the cradle?" asked Phœbe. 

"Yes, but I didn't get it. I only wanted it because it was in the familyso long. I'm a Brubaker. I said I wouldn't give more than fifty centsfor it, for it would just stand up in the garret anyway, and be one morething to move around at housecleaning time. Yet I'd liked to have it. Idon't know who got it. "

"I did, but I don't want it. I'd like to give it to you. "

"Why"--the woman was amazed--"what did you bid on it for?"

"Just for the fun of bidding, " said Phœbe, laughing. "Will you let megive it to you?"

"I'll give you half a dollar for it, " offered the woman. 

"No, I mean it. I want to give it to you. I'll consider it a favor ifyou'll take it from me. "

"Well, if you want it that way. But don't you want the quilt and thefeather pillows?"

"No, take it just as it is. "

"Why, thanks, " said the woman as she went to the spot where the cradlestood. She soon walked away with the clumsy gift in her arm. "Now don'tit beat all, " she said as she set it down near her friends. "I just knewthat I'd get a present to-day. This morning I put my stocking on wrongside out and I just left it for they say still that it means you'll geta present before the day is over, and here I get this cradle!"

With a bright smile illumining her face, Phœbe rejoined the preacher. 

"I see you disposed of the cradle, " he greeted her. 

"Yes. But I felt like a hypocrite when she thanked me, for I was givingher what I didn't want. "

Here the busy auctioneer called again, "Attention, everybody! This pieceof furniture we are going to sell now dates back to ante-bellum days. "

"Ach, it don't, " Phœbe heard a voice exclaim. "That never belonged toany person called Bellem; that was old Amanda Brubaker's for years andshe used to tell me that it belonged to her grandmother once. That mandon't know what he's saying, but that's the way these auctioneers do;you can't believe half they say at a sale half the time. "

Phœbe looked up at Phares; both smiled, but the loquacious auctioneer, not knowing the comments he was causing, went on serenely:

"Yes, sir, this is a real old piece of furniture, a real antique. Lookat this, everybody--a chest of drawers, a highboy, some people call it, but it's pretty by any name. All of it is genuine mahogany trimmed withinlaid pieces of white wood. Start it up, somebody. What will you givefor the finest thing we have here at this sale to-day? What's bid? Good!I'm bid five dollars to begin; shows you know a good thing when you seeit. Five dollars--make it ten?"

"Ten, " answered Phares Eby. 

Phœbe gave a start of surprise as the preacher's voice came in answer tothe entreaty of the auctioneer. 

"Phares, " she whispered, "I didn't mean that I want to buy it. "

"I am buying it, " he said calmly, an inscrutable smile in his eyes. "Youlike it, don't you?"

She felt a vague uneasiness at his words, at the new sound of tendernessin his voice. 

"Yes, I like it, but----"

"Then we'll talk about that some other day soon, " he returned, andlooked again at the busy auctioneer. 

"Ten dollars, ten, ten, " came the eager call of the man on thebox. "Who makes it fifteen? That's it--fifteen I have--sixteen, eighteen--twenty--twenty-five, thirty--thirty, thirty, come on, whomakes it more? Not done yet? Not going for that little bit? Who makesit thirty-five?"

"Thirty-five, " said Phares. 

"Thirty-five, " the auctioneer caught at the words. "That's the way tobid. "

"Thirty-eight, " came a voice from the crowd. 

"Thirty-eight, " the auctioneer smiled broadly at the bid. "Some personis going to get a fine antique--keep it up, the highest bidder getsit--thirty-eight----"

"Forty, " offered Phares. 

"Forty, forty dollars--I have forty dollars offered for the highboy--alldone at forty----"

There was a tense silence. 

"Forty dollars--all done at forty--last call--going--going--gone. Goneat forty dollars to Phares Eby. "

Phœbe turned to the preacher. "Did you bid just for the fun of bidding?"she asked. 

"Well, " he replied slowly, "the cases are not exactly alike. You likethe highboy, don't you?"

"Yes--but what has that to do with it?" She looked up, but turned herhead away quickly. What did he mean? Surely Phares was not given tofoolishness or love-making to her!

She was glad that he suggested moving to the edge of the crowd after hissuccessful bidding was completed. There a welcome diversion came in theform of the old man who had previously amused them by his talk about thepewter plate. 

"There now, Eph, " he was saying, "what do you think of paying fortydollars for that old chest of drawers? To be sure it's good and all thedrawers work yet--I tried 'em before the sale commenced. But fortydollars--whew!"

The stupidity and extravagance of some people silenced him for a moment, then he continued: "My Lizzie, now, she knows better how to spend money. She bought ten dollars' worth of flavors and soap and things like thatand she got in the bargain a big chest of drawers bigger than this oldone, and it was polished up finer and had a looking-glass on the topyet. That man must have a lot of money to give forty dollars for onepiece of furniture! Ach"--in answer to a remonstrance from hiscompanion--"they can't hear me. I don't talk loud, and anyhow, they'relistening to the auctioneer. That girl with him has a funny streak too. She bought the old cradle and then I heard her tell Hetty that she justbought it for fun and she gave it to Hetty. So, is that man Phares Ebyfrom near Greenwald? Well, I thought he'd have too much sense to buysuch a thing for forty dollars, but some people gets crazy when they getto a sale. Who ever heard of a person buying a cradle for fun and givingit away? But I guess that cradles went out of style some time ago. Mygirl Lizzie wasn't raised with funny notions like some girls havenowadays, but when she was married and had her first baby and we toldher she could borrow the old cradle she was rocked in to put her babyin, she said she didn't want it, for cradles ain't healthy for babies, it is bad to rock babies! I guess that was her man's dumb notion, forhe's a professor in the High School where they live, but he's just JakeForney's John. They get along fine, but they do some dumb things. Theylet that baby yell till he found out that he wouldn't get rocked. Itmade her mom quite sick when we were up to visit them, and sometimeswe'd sneak rocking it a little, just so the little fellow'd know thereis such a thing as getting rocked. They don't want any person to kissthat baby, neither. Course I ain't in favor of everybody kissing a baby, but I can't see the hurt of its own people kissing it. We used to takeit behind the door and kiss it good, and it's living yet. Ain't, Eph, it's a wonder we ever growed up, the way we were bounced and rocked andjoggled and kissed! I say it ain't right to go back on cradles; theybelong to babies. But look, Eph, there she's buying them old coppersheep bells! Wonder if she keeps sheep. "

Phœbe, triumphant bidder for a pair of hand-beaten copper sheep bells, turned and looked at the farmer. The tenderness of a bright smile stillplayed about her lips and the old man, interpreting the smile as apersonal greeting to him, drew near and spoke to her. 

"I can tell you what to take to clean them bells. "

"Thank you, " she answered cordially, "but I do not want to clean them. "

"But you can make them shiny if you take----"

"You are very kind, but I really want to keep them just as they are. "

The old man looked at her for a moment, then shook his head as though inperplexity and turned away. 

Several more hours of vigorous work on the part of the noisy auctioneerresulted in the sale of the miscellaneous collection of articles. 

The loquacious old farmer was often moved to whistle or to emit a low"Gosh" as the sale progressed and seemingly valueless articles were soldfor high prices. A linen homespun table-cloth, woven in geometricaldesign, occasioned spirited bidding, but the man on the box was equal tothe task and closed the bids at twenty dollars. Homespun linen towelswere bought eagerly for seven, eight, nine dollars. A genuine buffalorobe was knocked down to a bidder at the price of eighty dollars. Cupsand saucers and plates sold for from two to four dollars each. But itwas an old blue glass bottle that provoked the greatest sensation. "Gosh, who wants that?" said the old man as the bottle was broughtforth. "If he throws a cup or plate in with it mebbe somebody will givea penny for it. "

But a moment later, as an antique dealer started the bid at a dollar theold man spluttered, "Jimminy pats! Why, it's just an old glass bottle!"

Some person enlightened him--it was Stiegel glass! After the first bidon the bottle every one became attentive. The two rival bidders werealert to every move of the auctioneer, the bids leapt up and up--tendollars--eleven dollars--twelve dollars--thirteen dollars--gone atthirteen dollars!

It was late afternoon when Phœbe and the preacher turned homeward. Thepreacher's purchase had to be left at the farm until he could return forit in the big farm wagon, but Phœbe thought of the highboy as they rodealong the pleasant country roads. She remembered the expression she hadcaught on the face of Phares and the remembrance troubled her. Shesought desperately for some topic of conversation that would lead theman's thoughts from the highboy and prevent the return of the mood shehad discovered at the sale. 

"You--Phares, " she began confusedly, "you are going to baptize this nexttime, Aunt Maria thought. "

"Yes. "

The preacher looked at the girl. The exhilarating influence of the earlyJune outdoors was visible in her countenance. Her eyes sparkled, hercheeks glowed--she seemed the epitome of innocent, happy girlhood. Thevision charmed the preacher and caused the blood to course more swiftlythrough his veins, but he bit his lip and steadied his voice to speaknaturally. "Yes, Phœbe, I want to speak to you about that. "

"Oh, dear, " she thought, "now I _have_ done it! Why did I start him onthat subject!" Some of the excessive color faded from her face and shelooked ahead as he spoke. 

"Phœbe, the second Sunday in June I am going to baptize a number ofconverts in the Chicques near your home. Are you ready to come with therest, and give up the vanities of the world?"

"Oh, Phares, why do you ask me? I can't wear plain clothes while I lovepretty ones. I can't be a hypocrite. "

"But surely, Phœbe, you see that a simple life is more conducive tohappiness than a complex, artificial life can possibly be. It is my dutyto strive for the saving of souls and we have been friends so long thatI take a special interest in you and desire to see you safe in theshelter of the Church. "

"Phares, I'll tell you frankly, if I ever wear plain garb it will bebecause I _feel_ that it is the right thing for me to do, not becausesome person persuades me to. "

"Of course, that is the only way to come. But can't you come now?"

"I can't. I hurt you when I say that, but I want you to be my goodfriend, as always, in spite of my worldliness. Will you, Phares?"

He opened his lips to speak, but she went on quickly: "Because I amlearning every day how much I need the help and friendship of all myfriends. "

He longed to throw down the reins he was holding and tell her what wasin his heart, but something in her manner, her peculiar stress on theword "friendship" restrained him. She was, after all, only a child. Onlyeighteen--too young to think of marriage. He could wait a while longerbefore he told her of his love and his desire to marry her. 

"I will, Phœbe, " he promised. "I'll be your friend, always. "

"I thought so, " she breathed deeply in relief. "I knew you wouldn't failme. Look at that field, Phares--oh, this is a perfect day! There shouldbe a superlative form of perfect for a day like this! Those fields haveas many colors as the shades reflected on a copper plate: lilac, tan, purple, rose, green and brown. "

The preacher answered a mere "Yes. " She turned again and looked at thefields they were passing. "Perhaps, " she thought, "before that corn isripe I'll be in Philadelphia!" But she did not utter the thought, forshe knew the preacher would not approve of her going to the city. Heshould know nothing about it until it was definitely settled. 

The thought of studying music in Philadelphia left her restless. If onlythe preacher would be more talkative!

"It's just perfect to-day, isn't it, Phares?" she asked radiantly, resolved to make him talk. But his answers were so perfunctory that sheturned her head, made a little grimace through the open side of thecarriage and mentally dubbed him "Bump-on-log. " Very well, if he feltindisposed to talk to her, she could enjoy the drive without his voice!

Suddenly she laughed outright. 

"What----" he looked at her, puzzled. 

"What's funny?" she finished. "You. "

"I?"

"Yes, you. If sales affect you like this you must be careful to avoidthem. You've been half asleep for the last half hour. I think the horseknows the way home; you haven't been driving at all. "

"I have not been asleep, " he contradicted gravely, "just thinking. "

"Must be deep thoughts. "

"They were--shall I tell them to you?"

"Oh, no, not to-day!" she cried. "I've had enough excitement for oneday. Some other time. Besides, we are almost home. "

After that he threw off his lethargic manner and entered the girl's moodof appreciation of the lavish loveliness of the June. Yet, as Phœbealighted from the carriage at the little gate of the Metz farm, andafter she had thanked him and started through the yard to the house, shesaid softly to herself, "If Phares Eby isn't the queerest person I know!Just like a clam one minute and just lovely the next!"

Maria Metz was dishing a panful of fried potatoes as Phœbe entered thekitchen. 

"Hello, daddy, Aunt Maria, " exclaimed the girl. 

"So you come once?" said her aunt. 

"Have a good time?" asked her father. 

"Yes, it was a fine sale, a real old-fashioned one. "

But Aunt Maria was impatient for her supper. "Hurry, " she said, "and getwashed to eat. I have everything out and it'll get cold, then it ain'tgood. Did Phares like the sale? What did he have to say?"

"Um, guess he liked it, " said the girl with a shrug of her shoulders. "It's hard to tell what he likes--he's such a queer person. He said he'sgoing to baptize the second Sunday of June and asked me if I want tocome with the others. "

"He did!" Aunt Maria could not keep the eagerness out of her voice. "Well, let's sit down and eat. "

After a short grace she turned to the girl. "Now then, " she said as shehelped herself generously to sausage and potatoes and handed the dishesacross the table to Phœbe, "tell us about it. "

"There isn't much to tell. I just told him that I can't renounce thepleasures of the world before I had a chance to take hold of them. I'mnot ready yet to dress plain. "

"Why aren't you ready?" asked the woman. 

"Ach, don't ask me, " Phœbe replied, speaking lightly in an effort toconceal her real feeling. "I just didn't come to that state yet. I wantsome more fun and pleasure before I think only of serious things. "

"You're just like a big baby, " her aunt said impatiently. "You can hurta good man like Phares Eby and come home and laugh about it. "

"Now, Maria, " interposed the father, "let her laugh; she'll meet withcrying soon enough, I guess. "

But the woman could not be easily silenced. "Some day, Phœbe, you'llwish you'd been nicer to Phares. "

"Why, I am nice to him. "

"Well, anyhow, I think it's soon time you give up the world and itsvanities, " said Aunt Maria. 

The girl's teasing mood fled. "I think, " she said slowly, "that theplain dress should not be worn by any one who does not realize all thatthe dress stands for. If I ever turn plain I'll do so because I feel itis the right thing to do, but just now vanity and the love of prettyclothes are still in my heart. "

After the meal was over the women washed the dishes while Jacob went outto attend to the evening milking. Later, when the poultry houses andstables were locked he returned to the kitchen and read the weeklypaper. After a while he turned to Phœbe. 

"Will you sing for me this evening?" he asked. 

"Yes, " came the ready response. 

"Then make the door shut, " Aunt Maria directed as they went to thesitting-room. "I want to mark my rug yet this evening and your noisebothers me. "

CHAPTER XI

"THE BRIGHT LEXICON OF YOUTH"

"WHAT shall I sing?" Phœbe asked as her father sank into the big rockerand she took her place at the low organ. 

"Ach, anything, " he replied. 

She smiled, turned the pages of an old music book, and began to sing, "Annie Laurie. " Her father nodded approval and smiled when she followedthat with several other old-time favorites. Then she hesitated a moment, a low melody came from the organ, and the words of the beautiful lullabyfell from her lips:

 "Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea; Low, low, --breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea; Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me, While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. "

Phœbe sang the lullaby as gently as if a tiny head were nestled againsther bosom. She had within her, as has every normal, unspoiled woman, theloving impulses and yearning tenderness of motherhood. Her womanhood'sstar of hope shone brightly, though from a great distance; she devoutlyhoped for the fulfillment of her destiny, but always dreamed of itcoming in some time far removed from the present. Wifehood andmotherhood--that was her goal, but long years of other joys and otherachievements stretched between. Yet she felt an incomparable joy as shesang the lullaby. She sang it easily and sweetly and uttered each wordwith the freedom of one to whom music is second nature. 

To the man who listened memory drew aside the curtains of twenty years. He beheld again the sweet-faced wife glorified with the blessed halo ofmotherhood. He thrilled at the remembrance of her intense rapture as sheclasped her babe in moments of vivid ecstasy, or held it tenderly in herarms as she sang the slumber song. The man was lost in revery--the sweetvoice of the mother had suddenly grown weak and drifted into silence--asilence which would have been intolerable save for the lisping of achild voice that was filled with the same indefinable sweetness thetreasured, silenced voice had possessed. In those first days ofbereavement Jacob Metz had clung to his motherless babe for comfort; herlove and caresses had renewed his strength and touched him with a divinesense of his responsibility. His toil-hardened hands could not do themother's tasks for her but his heart could love sufficiently torecompense, so far as that be possible, for the loss of the mother'spresence. His own childhood had been stripped of all romance, hence hecould not measure the value of the innocent pleasures of which AuntMaria, in her stern and narrow discipline, deprived the little girl; butso far as he saw the light and so far as he was able, he quietly soothedwhere Aunt Maria irritated, and mitigated by his interest and sympathythe sternness of the woman's rule. 

A fleeting retrospect of the past years crowded upon him as he heardPhœbe sing the mother's song. The two voices seemed strangely merged andblended; when she ended and turned her face to him she seemed the vividreincarnation of that other Phœbe. 

"That's a pretty song, isn't it, daddy? You like it?"

"Yes. Your mom used to sing you to sleep with it. "

"I wish I could remember. I can't remember her at all, " the girl saidwistfully. 

"I wish you could, too. You look just like her. I'm glad you do. We Metzpeople all have the black hair and dark eyes but you have your mom'slight hair and blue eyes. I see her every time I look at you. "

She seated herself near him. In a moment he spoke again, verydeliberately, with his characteristic expressiveness:

"Phœbe, I want you to know more about your mom. You know she was plain, a member of our Church. I would like you to dress like she did but Idon't want you to dress that way and then be dissatisfied and go back tothe dress of the world. Not many people do that, but those that do arethe laughing-stock of the world. I don't want you coaxed to be plain andthen not stay plain. I tell you this because I can see that you arejust like your mom was, you like pretty things so much. She came in theChurch with some girls she knew; none of her people were plain. I knewher right after she joined, and I took her to Love Feasts and toMeetings and we were soon promised to marry each other. I saw thatsomething was troubling her and she told me that she wanted prettyclothes again and wanted to go to parties and picnics like some of theother girls she knew. But because she cared for me and was promised tome she kept on dressing plain. So we were married. The second year youcame and then she was satisfied without pretty dresses. She said to meonce, 'Jacob, I was foolish to fret about pretty clothes and jewelry, they could not bring happiness, but this'--she looked down at you--'thisis the most precious, most beautiful jewel any woman could have. ' I knewthen that the love of vanity was gone from her, that she would never betempted to go back to the dress and ways of the world. "

For a moment there was silence in the big room. The memory of the dayswhen the home circle was unbroken left the father quiet and thoughtfuland strangely touched Phœbe. 

"I am glad you told me, daddy, " she said presently. "To-day when Pharestalked about the baptizing he seemed so confident and at peace in hisreligion, yet I could not promise to come into the Church and wear theplain dress. I am going to think about it----"

Here Aunt Maria called loudly, "Phœbe, come out here once. "

Phœbe sighed, then turned from her father and entered the kitchen. Theolder woman was bending over an oblong frame and by the aid of a smallsteel hook was pulling tufts of cloth through the mesh of a piece ofburlap, the foundation of a hooked rug. 

"See once, Phœbe, won't this be pretty till it's done?"

"Yes, very pretty. I like the Wall of Troy design you are using, and theblues and gray will be a good combination. What are you going to do withit?"

"It's for your chest. "

The girl laughed. "Aunt Maria, you'll have to enlarge that chest or buya second one. This spring when we cleaned house and had all the thingsof that chest hung out to air, I counted eleven quilts, six rugs, fivetable-cloths, ten gingham aprons, ever so many towels, besides all theold homespun linen I have in that other chest on the garret. I'll neverneed all that. "

"Why, you don't know. If you marry----"

"But if I don't marry?"

"Ach, I guess old maids need covers and aprons and things as well asthem that marry. But now I guess I'll stop for to-night. I want to sewthe hooks 'n' eyes on my every-day dress yet before I go to bed. "

"But before you go I want to ask you, to talk with you and daddy, " saidPhœbe, determined to decide the matter of studying music inPhiladelphia. The uncertainty of it was growing to be a strain upon her. If there was no possibility of her dreams becoming realities she wouldput the thoughts away from her, but she wanted the question settled. 

"Now what----" Aunt Maria raised her spectacles to her forehead andlooked at the girl, at her flushed cheeks, her eyes darkened byexcitement. 

"So, " the woman chuckled, "Phares picked up spunk once and askedyou----"

"Phares has nothing to do with it, " Phœbe said curtly, her cheeksflushing deeper at the thought of the words she knew her aunt was readyto say. "This is my affair, and, of course, yours and daddy's. " Sheturned to her father--"I want to study music. "

"Music? How--you mean to learn to play the organ?" he asked. 

"No. Oh, no! I mean to sing. Listen, please, " she pleaded as she saw thebewildered look on his face. "You know I have always liked to sing. Ihave told you that many people have said my voice is good. So I'd liketo go to Philadelphia and take lessons from a good teacher. May I? I canuse the money I have in the bank, that my mother left me. I have about athousand dollars. It won't take all of that for a few years' lessons. Daddy, if you'll only say I may go!" Her voice wavered suspiciously atthe end. 

Jacob Metz looked at his daughter, then at the little low organ in theother room. Another Phœbe had loved to sit at that instrument andsing--perhaps he was too easy with the girl--but if she wanted to goaway and take lessons----

Before he could answer the plea Maria Metz found her voice and spokeauthoritatively:

"Jacob Metz, goodness knows you're sometimes dumb enough to do foolishthings, but you surely ain't goin' to leave Phœbe go off to learnsinging! Throwing away money like that! And what good is to come of it, I'd like to know. Who put that dumb notion in her head, it just nowvonders me! If she must go away somewheres to school, like all the youngones think they must nowadays, why not leave her go to Millersville orto Elizabethtown or to Lancaster to learn dressmakin'? But toPhiladelphy--why, that's a big city! Anyhow, I can't see the use of allthis flyin' around to school. We didn't get it when we was young, and wegrowed up, too. We was lucky if we got to the country school regular, and we got through the world so far!"

"But Maria, " her brother spoke gently, "you know things have changedsince we went to school. The world don't stay the same. "

"But to learn music!" she placed a scornful accent on the last word. "What good will that do? And can't any one in Greenwald or Lancaster, even, learn her to sing? Anyhow, she don't need no lessons, she hollerstoo loud already. If she takes lessons yet what'll she do?"

"Oh, Aunt Maria, " Phœbe said impatiently, "you don't understand! If myvoice is worth training it is worth having a good teacher. A city likePhiladelphia is the place to go to. "

"But where would you stay down there? Mebbe you couldn't get a placewith nice people. Abody don't know what kinda people live in a city. "

"I've thought of that. I wrote to Miss Lee last week and asked her andshe wrote back and said it would be a splendid thing for me. She offeredto help me find a boarding place. I could see her often and would not bealone among strangers. Best of all, Miss Lee has a cousin who plays theviolin and who lives with her and her mother and he will help me find agood teacher. Isn't that lovely?"

"Omph, " sniffed Aunt Maria. "It'll cost you a lot of money for board, mebbe as much as four dollars a week! And your lessons will be a lot, and your car fare back and forth. Then I guess you'd want a lot moredresses and things--ach, you just put that dumb notion from your head. "

"Maria, " Phœbe's father spoke in significantly even tones, "you needn'ttalk like that. Phœbe has the money her mom left her and I guess I couldsend her to school if I wanted to. It won't hurt her to go study musicand see something of the world. It'll do her good to get away once likeother girls. "

"Do her good, " echoed Aunt Maria. "Jacob Metz! You know little of thedangers of the big cities! But then, men ain't got no sense! I never metone yet that had enough to fill a thimble!"

"Aunt Maria, " the girl said gently, "I'm not a child. I'm eighteen andI'll be near Miss Lee and her friends. "

"And the fiddler, " added the woman tartly. 

"Ach, " Phœbe laughed. "Miss Lee will take care of me. "

"Mebbe so, " grumbled Aunt Maria. 

"Now look here, Maria, " Jacob spoke up, "Phœbe can go this fall once andtry it and she can come home often and if she don't like it she can comehome right away. It takes only three hours to go to there. So, Phœbe, you write to Miss Lee and tell her to expect you. "

"Then I may go!" She threw her arms about her father's neck and kissedhis bearded face. Demonstrations of affection were rare in the Metzhousehold, but the father smiled as he stroked the girl's hair. 

"You be a good girl, Phœbe, that's all I want, " he said. 

"I will, daddy, I will!"

"Then, Maria, you take Phœbe to Lancaster and get things ready so shecan go in September. I'll let her take that thousand she has in thebank, but that must reach; it's enough for music lessons. "

"I won't need all of it. What's left I'll save for next year. "

"Next year! How many years must you go?" demanded Aunt Maria, stillunhappy and sore. 

"I don't know. But when the thousand is gone I'll earn more if I want tospend more. "

"Ach, my, " groaned the woman, "you talk like money grew on trees! What'sthe world comin' to nowadays?" She rose and pushed her rugging frameinto a corner of the kitchen. 

"Maria, " her brother suggested, "we can get a hired girl if the work'stoo much for you alone. "

"Hired girl! I don't want no hired girl! Half of 'em don't do to suit, anyhow! I don't just want Phœbe here to help to work. It'll be awfullonesome with her gone. "

Phœbe saw the glint of anguish in the dark eyes and felt that her aunt'sprotestations were partly due to a disinclination to be parted from thechild she had reared. 

"Aunt Maria, " she said kindly, "I hate to do what you think I shouldn'tdo, for you're good to me. You mustn't feel that I'm doing this just tobe contrary. You and I think differently, that's all. Perhaps I'm tooyoung to always think right, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'll comehome often. "

"Ach, yes well, " the woman was touched by the girl's tenderness, but wasstill unconvinced. "Not much use my saying more, I guess. You and yourpop will do what you like. You're a Metz, too, and hard to change whenyou make up your mind once. "

That night when Phœbe went to bed in her old-fashioned walnut bed shelay awake for hours, dreaming of the future. If Aunt Maria had known thevisions that flitted before the girl that night she would have quaked inapprehension, for Phœbe finally drifted into slumber on clouds of glory, forecasts of the wonderful time when, as a prima donna in trailing, shimmering gown, she would have the world at her feet while she sang, sang, sang!

CHAPTER XII

THE PREACHER'S WOOING

THERE belonged to the Metz farm an old stone quarry which Phœbe learnedto love in early childhood and which, as she grew older, she adopted asher refuge and dreaming-place. 

Almost directly opposite the green gate at the country road was a narrowlane which led to the quarry. It was bordered on the right by a thicklyinterlaced hedge of blackberry bushes and wild honeysuckle, beyond whichstood the orchard of the Metz farm. On the left of the lane a wide fieldsloped up along the road leading to the summit of the hill where theschoolhouse and the meeting-house stood. The lane was always inviting. It was the fair road to a fairer spot, the old stone quarry. 

The old stone quarry banked its rugged height against the side of agreat wooded hill. Some twenty feet below the level of the lane was ahuge semicircular base, and from this the jagged sides rearedperpendicularly to the summit of the hill. The top and slopes of thishill were covered with a dense growth of underbrush and trees. Tallsycamores bordered the road opposite the quarry, making the spotsheltered and secluded. 

To this place Phœbe hurried the morning after she had gained herfather's consent to go to Philadelphia. 

"I just had to come here, " she breathed rapturously; "the house is toonarrow, the garden too small, this June morning. They won't hold mydreams. "

She stood under the giant sycamore opposite the quarry and lookedappreciatively about her. Earth's warm, throbbing bosom thrilled withthe universal joy of parentage and fruition. Shafts of sunlight shotthrough the green of the trees, odors of wild flowers mingled with thefresh, woodsy fragrance of the fields and woods, song sparrows flittedbusily among the hedges and sang their delicious, "Maids, maids, maids, hang on your tea kettle-ettle-ettle!" From the densest portions of thewoods above the quarry a thrush sang--all nature seemed atune withPhœbe's mood, blithe, happy, joyous!

Phares Eby, going to town that morning, walked slowly as he neared theMetz farm and looked for a glimpse of Phœbe. He saw, instead, the portlyfigure of Aunt Maria as she walked about her garden to see the progressof her early June peas. 

"Why, Phares, " she called, "you goin' to Greenwald?"

"Yes. Anything I can do for you?"

"Ach no. Phœbe was in the other day. But come in once, Phares, I'll tellyou something about her. "

"Where is Phœbe?" he asked as he joined Aunt Maria in the garden. 

"Over at the quarry again. But I must tell you, she's goin' toPhildelphy to study singin'. She asked her pop and he said she dare. "

"Philadelphia--singing!"

"Yes. I don't like it at all, but she's goin' just the same. "

"It is a mistake to let her go, " said the preacher. "It's a big mistake, Aunt Maria. She should stay at home or go to some school and learnsomething of value to her. In this quiet place she has never heard ofmany temptations which, in the city, she must meet face to face. It isthe voice of the Tempter urging her to do this thing and we who are herfriends should persuade her to remain in her good home and near thefriends who care for her. Have you thought, Aunt Maria, that the peopleto whom she will go may dance and play cards and do many worldly things?Philadelphia is very different from Greenwald. Why, she may learn toindulge in worldly amusements and to love the vanities of the worldwhich we have tried to teach her to avoid! She will be like a bird in astrange nest. "

"I know, Phares, but I can't make it different. When Jacob says a thingonce it's hard to change him, and she is like that too. They fixed it uplast night and I had no say at all. All I said against her going did asmuch good as if I said it to the chairs in the kitchen. Phœbe is goingto get Miss Lee, the one that was teacher on the hill once, to help her. And Miss Lee has a cousin that lives with her and he plays the fiddleand he is goin' to get a teacher for her. "

Phares Eby groaned and gritted his teeth. 

"I guess I'll go talk with her a while, " he decided. 

"Mebbe she'll come in soon, if you want to wait. I told her to bring mesome pennyroyal along from the field next the quarry. You know that's sogood for them little red ants, and they got into my jelly cupboard. Shewent a while ago and I guess she'll soon be back now. "

"I think I'll walk over. "

"All right, Phares. Tell her not to forget the pennyroyal. "

With long strides the preacher crossed the road and started up the laneto the quarry. There he slackened his pace--he thought of the previousday when he had asked Phœbe about entering the Church. She haddisappointed him, it was true, but she had seemed so eager to do right, so innocent and childlike, that the interview had not left him whollyunhappy or greatly discouraged. He had hoped last night that she wouldgive the matter of her soul's salvation serious thought, that she wouldsoon stand in the stream and be baptized by him. Over sanguine he hadbeen--so soon she had forgotten serious things and planned a winter inPhiladelphia studying music. 

"I must act, " he thought. "I must tell her of my love. All these years Ihave loved her and kept silent about it because I thought she was just achild. But I must tell her now. If she loves me she shall marry me soonand this great temptation will leave her; she will hearken to the voiceof her conscience, and we will begin our life of happiness together. "

With this resolution strong within him he went up the lane to the quarryand Phœbe. 

She was seated on a rock under the giant sycamore and leaned confidinglyagainst the shaggy trunk. The glaring sunshine that fell upon the fieldsand hills could not wholly penetrate the protecting canopy ofwell-proportioned sycamore leaves; only a few quivering rays fell uponthe girl's upturned face. 

As the preacher approached she looked around quickly but did not movefrom her caressing attitude by the tree. 

"Good-morning, Phares. I'm glad you came. I was wishing for some one toshare the old quarry with me this morning. "

"Aunt Maria told me you were here--she is impatient for her pennyroyal. "Now, that the supreme moment had arrived, he hesitated and grasped atthe first straw for conversation. 

"Oh, dear, " she said childishly, "Aunt Maria expects me to remember antsand pennyroyal when I come here. Phares, I can't explain it, but thisold quarry has a strange fascination for me. The beauty in itsvariegated stone with the sunlight upon it attracts me. Sometimes I amtempted to climb up the hill and hang over the quarry and look down intothe heart of it. "

"Don't ever do that!" cried the preacher. 

"I won't, " laughed Phœbe. "I don't want to die just yet. But isn't itthe loveliest place! I come here often when the men are not blasting. Itseems almost a desecration to blast these rocks when we think how longnature took in their making. "

She paused . . . Only the sounds of nature invaded the quiet of theplace: the drowsy hum of diligent bees, the cattle browsing in a fieldnear by, the ecstatic trill of a bird. The world of bustle and flurrywith its seething vats of evil and corruption, its sordid discontent andpetulance, its ways of pain and darkness, seemed far removed from thatplace of peace and calm solitude. Phœbe could not bear to think thatacross the seas men were lying in the filth of water-soaked trenches, agonizing and bleeding on the battlefields and suffering namelesstortures in hospitals that a peace like unto the peace of her quiethaven might brood undisturbed over the world in future generations. Shedismissed the harrowing thought of war--she would enjoy the calm of herquarry. 

The preacher had listened silently to the girl's rhapsodies--shesuddenly awakened to the realization that he was paying scant attentionto her enthusiastic words. She looked at him, her heart-beats quickened, some intuition warned her of the imminent declaration. 

She rose quickly from the embrace of the sycamore tree, but thecompelling eyes of the preacher restrained her from flight. She stoodbefore him, within reach of his hands. 

His first words reassured her somewhat: "Phœbe, your aunt has told methat you are going to Philadelphia to study music. "

"Yes. Isn't it fine! I'm so happy----" she stopped. Displeasure waswritten plainly upon his countenance. "Don't you think it's all right, Phares?"

"I think it is a great mistake, " he said gravely. "Why not spend yourtime on something of value to yourself and your friends and the world ingeneral?"

"But music is of great value. Why, the world needs it as it needssunshine!"

"But, Phœbe, you must remember you do not come of a people who standbefore the worldly and lift their voices for the joy of the multitude ofcurious people. Your voice is right as it is and needs no training. Itis as God gave it to you and is made to be used in His service, in HisChurch and your home. "

"But I have always wanted to learn to sing well, really well. So I amgoing to Philadelphia this winter and take lessons from a competentteacher. "

"Phœbe, " exhorted the preacher, "put away the temptation before it gripsyou so strongly that you cannot shake it off. You must not go!"

He spoke the last words in a tone of authority which the girl answered, "Phares, let us speak of something else. You know I have some of theMetz determination in my make-up and I can't be easily forced to give upa cherished plan. At any rate, we must not quarrel about it. "

The preacher forbore to try further argument or persuasion. He becamegrave. His habitual serenity of mind was disturbed by shadowyforebodings--when the pebbles of doubt drop into the placid pool ofcontent it invariably follows that the waters become agitated for atime. Hitherto he had been hopeful of winning Phœbe. Had he not knownher and loved her all her life! What was more natural than that theirfriendship should culminate in a deeper feeling!

He stretched out his hand in a sudden rush of feeling--"Phœbe, I loveyou. "

She stepped back a pace and his hand fell to his side. 

"Don't, Phares, " she began, but the next moment she realized that shecould not turn aside his love without listening to him. 

"Phœbe, you must listen--I love you, I have loved you all my life. Can'tyou say that you care for me?"

"Don't ask me that!" she pleaded. "I don't want to marry anybody now. All my life I have dreamed of going to a city and studying music and Ican't let the opportunity slip away from me now when it is so near. Towork under the direction of a master teacher has long been one of mydearest dreams. "

"You mean that you do not love me, then. Or if you do, that you wouldrather gratify your desire to study music than marry me--which is it?"

"Ach, Phares, don't make it hard for me! I said I don't want to getmarried now. All my life I have lived on a farm and have thought that Ishould be wonderfully happy if I could get away from it for a while andknow what it is to live in a big city. There I shall have a chance tosee life in its broader aspects. I shall not be harmed by gathering newideas and ideals, gaining new friends, and, above all, learning to singwell. "

The man groaned in spirit. It was evident that she was thoroughlydetermined to go away from the farm. 

"Phœbe, " he pleaded again, not entirely for his own selfish desire, butworried about her love of worldliness, "do you know that the things forwhich you are going to the city are really not important, that alloutward acquisitions for which you long now are transient? The thingsthat count are goodness and purity and to be without them is to bepauperized; the things that bring happiness are love and home ties andto be without them is to be desolate. You want a larger, broader vision, but the city cannot always give you that. "

There was no bitterness in his voice, only an undertone of sadness as hespoke. "Phœbe, tell me plainly, do you care for me?"

Her face was lamentably pathetic as she looked into his and read therethe desire for what she could not give. "Not as you wish, " she saidsoftly. "But I don't really know what love is yet, I haven't thoughtabout it except as something that will come to me some day, a long timefrom now. There are too many other things I must think about now. When Iam through studying music I'll think about being married. "

The preacher shook his head; his heart was too heavy for more words, more futile words. 

"Let us go, Phares, " she said, the silence becoming intolerable. 

"Yes, " he agreed. "And Phœbe, " he added as they turned away from thequarry, "I hope you'll learn your lesson quickly and come back to us. "

They stepped from the sheltered path into the sunshine of the lane. Longtrails of green lay in their path as they went, but the eyes of bothwere temporarily blinded to the loveliness of the June. When theyreached the dusty road the preacher said good-bye and went on his way tothe town. 

She stood where he left her; the suppressed feelings of the past halfhour soon struggled to avenge themselves and she sped down the laneagain, back to the refuge of the kindly tree, and there, under hersycamore, burst into passionate weeping. 

Some time after Phares left the girl at the end of the lane David Ebycame swinging down the hill and entered the Metz kitchen. 

"Hello, Aunt Maria. Where's Phœbe?"

"Why, I guess over at the quarry. She went for pennyroyal long ago andthen Phares came and he went over after her, but I saw him go on the wayto town a bit ago, so I guess she's still over there. Guess she'sstumbling around after a bird's nest or picking some weeds that ain't nogood. I don't see why she stays so long. "

"I'll go see, " volunteered David. 

"Yes well. And tell her to hurry with that pennyroyal. I want it for redants, but they can carry away the whole jelly cupboard till she getshere. "

"I'll tell her, " said David, and went off, whistling. 

Phœbe's paroxysm of grief was short-lived. The soothing quiet of thequarry calmed her, but her eyes showed telltale marks of tears asDavid's steps sounded down the lane. 

She rose hastily, then sank back to her seat under the tree as she sawthe identity of the intruder. 

"Whew, Phœbe Metz, " he said and whistled in his old, boyish way as hesat beside her, "you're crying!"

"I am not, " she declared. 

"Then you just have been! I haven't seen you in tears for many years. Phœbe"--he changed his tone--"what's gone wrong? Anything the matter?"

"Don't, " she sniffed, "don't ask me or you'll have me at it again. " Shesteadied her voice and went on, "I came over here so gloriously happy Icould have shouted, because daddy said last night that I may go toPhiladelphia this fall----"

"Gee whiz!" David grabbed her hand. "Why, I'm tickled to death. Butwhat--why are you crying? Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes. " She smiled, pleased by his interest and eagerness. "But just as Iwas happiest along came Phares and told me it was wicked to go. It's alla mistake to go, he said. "

"Ach, the dickens with the old fossil!" David cried. "And I'm not goingto take that back or be sorry for saying it. Hadn't he better sense thanto throw a wet blanket on all your happiness!"

"Perhaps I needed it. I was just about burning up with gladness. "

"Well, don't you care what he's thinking about it. You go learn music ifyou want to and your father lets you go. Did he see you cry?"

"Certainly not! I wouldn't cry before him. He would say that wasfoolish or wicked or something it shouldn't be. But you--you are sosensible I don't mind if you do see me with my eyes red. "

"Ha, ha, that's a compliment. I have been told that I am happy-go-luckyand sort of a cheerful idiot, but no person ever told me that I'msensible. Well, don't you forget me when you get to be that primadonna. "

"I won't. You and Mother Bab rub me the right way. "

"But won't she be glad when I tell her, " said David. "I came down to seeif you had decided about it, and I find it all arranged. "

"And me in tears, " added Phœbe, her natural poise and good humor againrestored. "Tell Mother Bab I am coming up soon to tell her about it. "

So, in happier mood, she walked beside David, down the green lane to theroad, across the road to her own gate. 

"So you come once!" Aunt Maria greeted her. 

"Oh, I forgot your pennyroyal! I'll go get it. "

"Never mind. You stayed so long I went over to the field near the barnand got some. But you look like you've been cryin', Phœbe. Did you andPhares have a fall-out?"

"No. "

"You and David, then?"

"No--please don't ask me--it's nothing. "

"Well, there ain't no man in shoe leather worth cryin' about, I can tellyou that. They just laugh at your cryin'. "

Phœbe smiled at her aunt's philosophy and resolved to forget thediscouraging words of the preacher. She would be happy in spite ofhim--the future held bright hours for her!

CHAPTER XIII

THE SCARLET TANAGER

THE days that followed were busy days at the gray farmhouse. Phœbe wassoon deep in the preparations for her stay in the city. Her meagrewardrobe required replenishment; she wanted to go to Philadelphia withan outfit of which Miss Lee would not be ashamed. Much to her aunt'ssurprise the girl selected one-piece dresses of blue serge with sheerwhite collars for every-day wear in cold weather; a few white linens forwarm days; and these, with her blue serge suit, her simple whitegraduation dress, and a plain dark silk dress, were the main articles ofher outfit. Aunt Maria expressed her relief and wonder at the girl'schoice--"Well, it wonders me that you don't want a lot of ugly fancythings to go to Phildelphy. Those dresses all made in one are sensibleonce. I guess the style makers tried all the outlandish styles theycould think of and had to make a nice style once. "

But when Phœbe purchased a piece of long-cloth and began to makeundergarments, beautifying them by sprays of hand embroidery, Aunt Mariascoffed, "Umph, I'd be ashamed to put snake-doctors on my petticoats. "

The girl laughed. "They aren't snake-doctors, they are butterflies, " shesaid. 

"Not much difference--both got wings. I don't see what for you want towaste time like that. "

"It makes them prettier, and I like pretty things. "

"Ach, you have dumb notions sometimes. I guess we better make your otherdresses soon, then you won't have time for sewing snake-doctors orbutterflies. You better get your silk dress made in Greenwald, it's sosoft and slippery that I ain't going to bother my old fingers makin' it. Granny Hogendobler wants to come out and help to sew, and David's momsaid she'll come down and help us cut and fit the serge dresses. She'sreal handy like that. If those dresses look as nice on you as they do onthe pictures they will be all right. Granny and Barb dare just come andboth help with your things--they both think it's so fine for you to goto the city! Granny Hogendobler spoiled her Nason by givin' him justwhat he wanted, and now what has she got for it? And I guess Barb iseasy with that big boy of hers. Mebbe if she was a little stricter he'dbe in the Church like Phares is, though David is a nice boy and I guesshe don't give his mom any trouble. "

"I just love Mother Bab; don't you say such things about her!" Phœbeexclaimed, her eyes flashing. 

"Why, I like her too, " the woman said. She looked at Phœbe in surprise. "You needn't be so touchy. For goodness' sake, don't take to gettin'touchy like some people are! Handling them's like tryin' to plane over aknot in wood; any way you push the plane is the wrong way. This heregoing to Philadelphy upsets you, I guess. You're gettin' as touchy asthe little touch-me-nots we get on the hill; they all snap shut whenyou touch 'em--only you snap open. "

Phœbe laughed. "I guess I am excited, " she admitted. "I'm sewing toomuch for summer days and it makes me irritable. I think I'll let thebutterflies wait and I'll go outdoors. Shall I weed the garden?"

"Weed the garden? Now you're talkin' dumb! Don't you know yet that abodydon't weed a garden on Fridays? Ours always gets done on Monday. But ifyou want to get out you dare take some of the sand-tarts I bakedyesterday up to David's mom, she likes them so much. And you ask her ifshe can come down next week to help with the dresses. But don't stay toolong, for it's been so hot all day and I think it's goin' to storm yet. "

"Don't worry about me if it rains. I won't start for home if it looksthreatening. I'll wait till the storm is over. "

Aunt Maria filled a basket with her delectable cookies and the girlstarted up the hill. It was, indeed, a hot day, even for August. Phœbepaused several times in the shelter of overhanging trees as she ploddedup the steep road. On the summit she climbed the rail fence and perchedin the cool shade for a little while and looked out over the valleywhere the town of Greenwald lay. 

"It's lovely here, and I'm wondering how I can be happy when I know thatI am going to leave it soon and go to the city for a long winter awayfrom my home. But there's a voice calling to me from the great outsideworld and I won't be satisfied until I go and mingle with the multitudeof a great city. It is life, life, that I want to see and know. And yet, I'm glad I'll have this to come back to! It gives me a comfortablefeeling to know that this is waiting for me, no matter where I go--thisis still my home. Sometimes I wonder if Aunt Maria could possibly bespeaking wisely when she says it is all a waste of money to run off tothe city and study music. But what is there on the farm to attract me? Idon't want to marry yet"--the remembrance of Phares Eby's pleading cameto her--"and if I do marry some time, it won't be Phares. No, neverPhares! Ach, Phœbe Metz, you don't know what you want!" she said toherself as she jumped from the fence and ran down the road to the Ebyfarm. 

At the gate she paused. Mother Bab stood among her flowers, herwhite-capped head bare of any other covering, the hot sunshine streamingupon her. 

"Mother Bab, " she cried, "you are simply baking in the sun!"

"No, " the woman turned to Phœbe and smiled. "I'm forgetting it's hotwhile I look at the flowers. You see, Phœbe, I was in the house sewingand trying to keep cool and all of a sudden my eyes grew dim so Icouldn't sew. The fear came to me, the fear that my sight is going, though I try not to strain them at all and never sew at night. Well, Ijust ran out here and began to look and look at my flowers--if I ever dogo blind I'm going to have lots of memories of lovely things I've seen. "

Phœbe drew Mother Bab's face to her and kissed it. "You just mustn'tget blind! It would be too dreadful. There are many clever specialistsin the city these days. Surely, there is some doctor who can help you. "

"They all say there is little to be done in a case like mine. But, let'sforget it; I can see and we'll keep on hoping it will last. I went to adoctor at Lancaster some time ago and I'm going to give him a fairtrial. I guess it'll come out right. "

Phœbe brightened again at the woman's words of contagious cheer andhope. 

"Isn't the garden pretty?" asked Mother Bab as they looked about it. 

"Perfect! Those zinnias are lovely. "

"Yes, I like them. But I like their other name better--Youth and OldAge, my mother used to call them. She used to say that they are not likeother flowers, more like people, for the buds open into tiny flowers andthose tiny flowers grow and develop until they are large and perfect. Iwould think something fine were missing in my garden if I didn't have myYouth and Old Age every year. But you will be too hot in this sun; shallwe go in?"

"No, please, not until I have seen the flowers. I need to gatherprecious memories, too, to take with me to Philadelphia. Oh, I likethis"--she knelt in the narrow path and buried her face in fragrantlemon verbena plants. 

"I like that, too. Mother used to call it Joy Everlasting. We always putit in our bureau drawers between the linens. David likes lavenderbetter, so I use that now. "

"How you spoil him, " said Phœbe. 

"You think so?" asked the mother gently. 

Phœbe smiled in retraction of her statement. "We'll both be parboiled ifwe stay out here any longer, " she said as she linked her arm into MotherBab's. "Aunt Maria sent you some sand-tarts. "

"Isn't she good!"

"Yes, but"--the blue eyes twinkled mischievously--"they are just abribe. We want you to come down and help us with the dresses some daynext week. You are not to sew, but if you are there to tell about thefit of them I'll feel better satisfied. Whew! If it's as hot as thisI'll have a lovely time fitting woolen dresses!"

"You won't mind. "

"I don't believe I shall, so long as the dresses are to be worn inPhiladelphia. Granny Hogendobler is coming out, too. Will you come?"

"I'll be glad to. David can eat his dinner at his aunt's. "

They entered the house and sat in the sitting-room, a room dear to bothbecause of its association with many happy hours. 

"I love this room, " Phœbe said. "This must be one of my pleasantmemories when I go. "

"I like it better than any other room in the house, " said Mother Bab. "Isuppose it's because the old clock and the haircloth sofa are in it. Why, Davie used to slide down the ends of that sofa and call it his boatwhen he was just a little fellow. And that old clock"--her voice sank tothe tenderness of musing retrospect--"why, Davie's father set it up theday we were married and came here and set up housekeeping and it's beenticking ever since. Davie used to say 'tick-tock' when he heard it, whenhe first learned to talk. I like that old clock most as much as if itwere something alive. A man who comes around here to buy antiquefurniture came in one day and offered to buy it. I'll never forget howDavid told him it wasn't for sale. The very thought of selling the oldclock made Davie cross. "

"Davie cross! How could he keep the twinkle out of his eyes long enoughto be cross?"

"Ach, it don't last long when he gets cross. "

"Where is he now, Mother Bab?"

"Working in the tobacco field. "

"In the hot sun!"

"He says he don't mind it. He's so pleased with the tobacco this summer. It looks fine. If the hail don't get in it now it'll bring about fourhundred dollars, he thinks. That will be the most he has ever gotten outof it. But tobacco is an awful risk. If the weather is just so it paysabout the best of anything around this part of the country, I guess, butso often the poor farmers work hard in the tobacco fields and then thehail comes along and all is spoiled. But ours is fine so far. "

"I'm glad. David has been working hard all summer with it. "

"Sometimes he gets discouraged; Phares's crops always seem to do betterthan David's, yet David works just as hard. But Phares plants notobacco. "

At that moment Phares Eby himself came into the room where the two sat. He appeared a trifle embarrassed when he saw Phœbe. Since the Junemeeting under the sycamore tree by the old stone quarry he had made nospecial effort to see her, and the several times they had met in thattime he had greeted her with marked restraint. 

"Good-afternoon, " he murmured, looking from Phœbe to Mother Bab and backagain to Phœbe. "I didn't know you were here, Phœbe. I--Aunt Barbara, Icame in to tell you there's a bright red bird in the woods down by thecornfield. "

"There is!" cried Phœbe with much interest. "Is it all red, or has itblack wings and tail?"

"Why, I couldn't say. I know David and Aunt Barbara are alwaysinterested in birds and I heard David say the other day that he hadn'tseen a red bird this summer, that they must be getting scarce aroundthis section. So I thought I'd come up and tell you about it. I know itis bright red. Do you want to come out and try to find it again, AuntBarbara?"

"Not now, Phares. I have been in the sun so much to-day that my headaches. "

"Would you care to see it?" he asked Phœbe in visible hesitation. 

She answered eagerly, her passionate love of birds mastering herembarrassment. "I'd love to, Phares! I am anxious to see whether it's atanager or a cardinal. I have never seen a cardinal. "

South of David Eby's cornfield stretched a strip of woodland. Thereblackberry brambles tangled about the bases of great oaks and theentire woods--trees and brambles--made an ideal nesting-place for birds. 

"Perhaps it's gone, " said the preacher as they went along to the woods. 

"But it's worth trying for, " she said. 

They kept silent then; only the rustling of the corn was heard as thetwo went through the green aisle. When they reached the woodland asudden burst of glorious melody came to them. Phœbe laid a handimpulsively upon the arm of the preacher, but she removed it quite assuddenly when he looked down at her and said, "Our bird!"

The bird, a scarlet tanager, aware of the presence of the intruders andeager to attract attention to himself and safeguard his hidden mate, flew to an exposed branch of an oak tree. There he displayed hisgorgeous, flaming scarlet body with its touch of black in wings andtail. 

"It's a tanager, " said Phœbe. "Isn't he lovely!"

"Very fine, " said the preacher. "What color is his mate? Is she red?"

"She's green, a lovely olive green. When she sits on the nest she's justthe color of her surroundings. If she were red like her mate she'd betoo easily destroyed. "

"God's providence, " said the preacher. 

"It is wonderful--look, Phares, there he goes!"

The scarlet tanager made a streak of vivid color across the sky as heflew off over the corn. 

"I wonder if he trusts us or if his mate is not about, " Phœbe said. "He's a beauty, so is his mate in her green frock. A few minutes withthe birds can teach us a great deal, can't it?"

"Yes, Phœbe, here, right near your home, are countless lessons to belearned and accomplishments to be acquired. Tell me, do you still wishto go away to the city?"

"Certainly. I am going in September. "

"You remember the verse in the Third Reader we used to have at school:

 "'Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest. For those who wander, they know not where, Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best. '"

"But I have ambitions, Phares. All my eighteen years of life have beenspent on a farm, in the narrow existence of those whose days are passedwithin one little circle. I want to see things, I want to meet people, Iwant to live, I want to learn to sing--I can't do any of these thingshere. Oh, you can't understand my real sincerity in this desire to getaway. It is not that I love my home and my people less than you loveyours. I feel that I must get away!"

"But your voice, Phœbe, like the scarlet tanager's, is right as God madeit. Because we are such old friends it grieves me to see you go. I washoping you would change your mind--there is so much vanity and evil inthe city. "

"I'll try to keep from it, Phares. I shall merely learn to sing better, meet a few new people, and be wiser because of the experience. "

"It is useless to try to persuade you, I suppose. I hoped you wouldreconsider it, that you would learn to care for me as I care. "

"Phares, don't. You make me unhappy. "

"Misery loves company, " he quoted, trying to smile. 

"But can't you see that marriage is the thing I am thinking least aboutthese days? I am too young. "

She looked, indeed, like a fair representation of Youth as she stood bythe crude rail fence at the edge of the woods, one arm flung along therough top rail, her hair tumbled from the walk through the cornfield, her eyes still gleaming with the joy of seeing the tanager, yet shadowywith the startled emotions occasioned by the preacher's wooing. 

He looked at her--

"Oh, look! Our tanager is back!" she exclaimed. 

"I guess she is too young, " he thought as he saw how quickly she turnedfrom the question of marriage to watch the red bird. 

Phœbe's lips parted in pleasure as she saw the tanager again take up hisplace on the oak and burst into song. So absorbed were man and maid thatneither heard the rustle of parted corn nor were aware of the presenceof a third person until a voice exclaimed, "Oh, I beg your pardon. Ididn't know you were here. "

As they turned David Eby stood before them, his expression a mingling ofsurprise and wonder. The flush on Phœbe's face, the awakened look in hereyes, troubled the man who had come through the corn and found the girlhe loved standing with the preacher. The self-conscious look on thepreacher's face assured David that he had stumbled through the field inan awkward moment, that his presence was unwelcome. He turned to goback, but Phœbe stepped quickly to him and took his hand. 

"Ah, " thought Phares with a twinge of jealousy, "she wouldn't do that tome. How quickly she dropped her hand a while ago. They are such goodfriends, she and David. It's wrong to be envious; I must fight againstit--and yet--I want her just as much as David does!"

"David, " Phœbe begged, "come back! Why, I was just wishing you werehere! There's a scarlet tanager--see!" She pointed to the brilliantsongster. 

"I thought he was coming to this woods so I came to hunt him, " saidDavid, his irritation gone. "I saw that fellow over by the tobacco fieldand followed him here. I bet they have their nest in this very woods. We'll look better next spring and try to find it and see the littleones. Tut, tut, " he whistled to the bird, "don't sing your pretty headoff. " His eyes turned to the sky and the smile left his face. "It looksthreatening, " he said. "I thought I heard thunder as I came through thecorn. "

"That so?" said Phares. "Then we better move in. "

Even as they turned and started through the field the thunder cameagain--distant--nearer, rolling in ominous rumbles. 

"Look at the sky, " said David. "Clear yellow--that means hail!"

"Oh, David"--Phœbe stood still and looked at him--"not hail on yourtobacco!"

He took her arm. "Come on, Phœbe, it's coming fast. We must get in. Cometo our house, Phares, that's the nearest. "

Just as they reached the kitchen door, where Mother Bab was looking forthem, the hail came. 

"It's hail, Mommie, " David said. The three words held all the worry andpain of his heart. 

"Never mind"--the little mother patted his shoulder. "It's hail for morepeople than we know, perhaps for some who are much poorer than we are. "

"But the tobacco----" He stood by the window, impotent and weak, whilethe devastating hail pounded and rattled and smote the broad leaves ofhis tobacco and rendered it almost worthless. 

"Won't new leaves grow again?" Phœbe tried to cheer him. 

"Not this late in the summer. My tobacco was almost ready to be cut; itwas unusually early this year. "

"Well, " spoke up the preacher, "I can't see why you always planttobacco. Smoking and chewing tobacco are filthy habits. I can't see whyso many people of this section plant the weed when the soil could beused to produce some useful grain or vegetable. "

"Yes"--David turned and addressed his cousin fiercely--"it's easy enoughfor you to talk! You with your big farm and orchards and every crop asuccess! Your bank account is so fat that you don't need to care whetheryour acres bring in a big return or a lean one. But when you have just afew acres you plant the thing that will be likely to bring in the mostmoney. You know many poor people plant tobacco for that reason, and thatis why I plant it. "

"Davie, " the mother said, "Davie!"

"I know, " he said bitterly. "I'm a beast when my temper gets beyondcontrol, but Phares can be so confounded irritating, he rubs salt inyour cuts every time. "

"Just for healing, " the mother said gently. 

"David, " said Phœbe, "I guess the temper is a little bit of that Irishshowing up. "

At that David smiled, then laughed. 

"Phœbe, " he said, "you know how to rub people the right way. If ever Ihave the blues you are just the right medicine. "

"I don't want to be called medicine, " she said with a shake of her head. 

"Not even a sugar pill?" asked Mother Bab. 

"No. I don't like the sound of _pill_. "

David looked across at the preacher, who stood silent and helpless inthe swift tide of conversation. "You may be right, Phares. It may be thewrath of Providence upon the tobacco. I'll try alfalfa in that fieldnext and then I'll rub Aladdin's lamp. I'll make some money then!"

"Where do you find Aladdin's lamp?" asked Phœbe. 

"I can't tell you now. But I know I'm tired of slaving and havingnothing for my work, so I am going after the magic lamp. "

CHAPTER XIV

ALADDIN'S LAMP

THE morning after the hail storm dawned fair and sunshiny. David wentout and stood at the edge of his tobacco field. All about him the hailhad wrought its destruction. Where yesterday broad, thick leaves ofgreen tobacco had stood out strong and vigorous there hung only limpshreds, punctured and torn into worthlessness. 

"All wasted, my summer's work. I'll rub that magic lamp now. Fool that Iwas, not to do it sooner!"

A little later, as he walked down the road to town, his lips were closedin a resolute line, his shoulders squared in soldierly fashion. "I hopeCaleb Warner is in his office, " he thought. 

Caleb Warner was in; he greeted David cordially. 

"Good-morning, Dave. How are things out your way? Hail do much damage?"

"Some damage, " echoed the farmer. "It hailed just about four hundreddollars' worth too much for me. "

"What, you don't say so! That's the trouble with your farming. "

Caleb Warner was an affable little man with a frank, almost innocent, look on his smooth-shaven face. Spontaneous interest in his friends'affairs made him an agreeable companion and helped materially toincrease his clientele--Caleb Warner dealt in real estate and, incidentally, in oil stocks and gold stocks. 

"That's just the trouble with your farming, " he repeated. "You slave andbreak your back and crops are fine and you hope to have a good returnfor your labor, when along comes a hail storm and ruins your fruit ortobacco or corn, or along comes a dry spell or a wet spell with the sameresult. It sounds mighty fine to say the farmer is the most independentperson on the face of the earth--it's a different proposition when youtry it out. Not so?"

"I'm about convinced you speak the truth about it, " said the farmer. 

"I know I do. I used to be a farmer, but I have grown wiser. I thinkthere are too many other ways to make money with less risk. "

"That is why I came----" David hesitated, but the other man waitedsilently for the explanation. "Have you any more of the gold-mine stockyou offered me some time ago?"

"That Nevada mine?"

"Yes. "

"Just one thousand dollars' worth; the rest is all cleaned out. I sold athousand yesterday. Listen, Dave, there's the chance of your life. Youknow how I worked on that farm of mine, how my wife had to slave, howeven Mary had to work hard. Then one day a friend of mine who had gonewest came to me and offered me some stock in a western gold mine. Mywife was afraid of it, said I'd lose every cent I put in it and we'dhave to go to the poorhouse--women don't generally understand aboutinvestments. But I went ahead and got the stock, and in a few years Isold out part of it for a neat sum and drew big dividends on what Ikept. Then we moved to town; my wife keeps a maid, Mary goes to college, and we're living instead of slaving our lives away on a farm. And it'shonestly made money, for the gold was put into the earth for us to use. It is just a case of running a little risk, but no person loses moneybecause of your risk. Of course, there's lots of stock sold that's notworth the paper it's written on, but I don't sell that kind. "

"People trust you here, " said David. 

If the man winced or had reason to do so, he betrayed no sign of it. "Ihope so, " he said. "You have known me all my life. If I ever want towork any skin game I'll go out of the place where all my friends are. This mine of which I speak is near the mine at Goldfield and some of theveins struck recently are richer than those of the renowned Goldfield. They are still striking deeper veins. I have sold stock in that mine tofifteen people in this town. "

He mentioned some of the residents of Greenwald; people who, in David'sopinion, were too shrewd to be entangled in any nefarious investment. The names impressed David--if those fifteen put their money into it hemight as well be the sixteenth. 

In a little while David Eby walked home with a paper representing theownership of a number of shares of a certain gold mine in Nevada, whileCaleb Warner patted musingly a check for five hundred dollars. 

Mother Bab wondered at her boy's philosophical acceptance of his cropfailure. "I'm glad you take it this way, " she said as he came in, whistling, from his trip to Greenwald. 

"What's the use of crying?" he answered gaily, though he felt far fromgay. Had he been too hasty? Doubts began to assail him. It was going tobe hard to deceive his mother, she was always so eager for hisconfidence. But, then, he was doing it for her sake as much as for hisown. The war clouds were drawing nearer and nearer to this country; ifthe time came when America would enter the war he would have to answerthe call for help. If the stock turned out to be what the other wise menof the town felt confident it would be then the added money would be aboon to his mother while he was away in the service of his country--andyet--it was a great risk he was running. Why had he done it? The oldlines of the poem came back to him and burned into his soul, "O what a tangled web we weave When first we practice to deceive. "

Then, again, swift upon that thought came the old proverb, "Nothingventure, nothing gain. " Thus he was torn between doubt and satisfaction, but it was too late to undo the deed. He was the owner of the stock andCaleb Warner had the five hundred dollars!

CHAPTER XV

THE FLEDGLING'S FLIGHT

PHŒBE found the packing of her trunk a task not altogether without pain. As she gathered her few treasures from her room a feeling of desolationseemed to pervade the place. Going away from home for the first longstay, however bright the new place of sojourn, brings to most hearts anundercurrent of sadness. 

She smiled a bit wistfully at her few treasures--her books, an oldpicture of her mother, the little Testament Aunt Maria gave her to read, the few trinkets her school friends had given her from time to time, alittle kodak picture of Mother Bab and David in the flower garden. 

At last the dreary task was done, the trunk strapped, and she was readyfor the journey. It was a perfect September day when she left the grayfarmhouse, drove in the country road and stood with her father, AuntMaria, Mother Bab, David and Phares at the railroad station in Greenwaldand waited for the noon train to Philadelphia. 

Jacob Metz and the preacher made brave, though visible, efforts to becheerful; Maria Metz made no effort to be anything except very greatlyworried and anxious; but Mother Bab and David were determined that thegirl's departure was to be nothing less than pleasant. 

"Now be sure, Phœbe, " said Aunt Maria for the tenth time, "to ask theconductor at Reading if that train is for Phildelphy before you get on, and at Phildelphy you wait till Miss Lee fetches you. "

"Yes, Aunt Maria, I'll be careful. "

"And don't lose your trunk check--David, did you give it to her forsure?"

"Yes. She'll hold on to it, don't you worry. "

"Phœbe will be all right, " said Mother Bab. 

"And, " said David teasingly, "be sure to let me know when you need thatbeet juice and cream and flour. "

"Davie! Now for that I won't write to you!"

"Yes you will!" His eyes looked so long into hers that she saidconfusedly, "Ach, I'll write. Mind that you take good care of Mother Baband stop in sometimes to see how Aunt Maria and daddy are getting onwithout me. "

"Ach, we'll be all right, " said Aunt Maria. "Just you take care ofyourself so far away from home. And if you get homesick you come righthome. Anyway, you come home soon to see us; and be sure to write everyweek still. "

"Yes, yes!"

A shrill whistle announced the approach of the train. There were hurriedkisses and good-byes, a handshake for the preacher and, last of all, ahandshake for David. He held her hand so long that she cried out, "David, you'll make me miss the train!"

"No--good-bye. "

"Good-bye, David. " Then she tugged at her hand and in a moment washurrying to the train. 

There were few passengers that day, so the train made a short stop. Phœbe smiled as the train started, leaned forward and waved till thefamiliar group was lost to her view, then she settled herself with abrave little smile and looked at the well-known fields and meadows shewas passing. The trees on Cemetery Hill were silhouetted against theblue sky just as she had seen them many times in her walks about thecountry. 

But soon the old landmarks disappeared and unknown fields lay about her. Crude rail fences divided acres of rustling corn from orchards whosetrees were laden with red apples or downy peaches. Occasionally flocksof startled birds rose from fields freshly plowed for the fall sowing ofwheat. Huge red barns and spacious open tobacco sheds, hung with dryingtobacco, gave evidence of the prosperity of the farmers of that section. Little schoolhouses were dotted here and there along the road. Flowersbloomed by the wayside and in them Phœbe was especially interested. Goldenrod in such great profusion that it seemed the very sunshine ofthe skies was imprisoned in flower form, stag-horn sumac with itsgrape-like clusters of red adding brilliancy to the landscape--everywherewas manifest the dawn of autumnal glory, the splendor that forerunsdecay, the beauty that is but the first step in nature's transition fromblossom and harvest to mystery and sleep. 

Every two or three miles the train stopped at little stations and thenPhœbe leaned from her window to see the beautiful stretches of country. 

At one flag station the train was signalled and came to a stop. Justoutside Phœbe's window stood a tall farmer. He rubbed his fingersthrough his hair and stared curiously at the train. 

"Step lively, " shouted the trainman. 

But the farmer shook his head. "Ach, I don't want on your train! Iexpected some folks from Lititz and thought they'd be on this heretrain. Didn't none get on----"

But the angry trainman had heard enough. He pulled the cord and thetrain started, leaving the old man alone, his eyes scanning the movingcars. 

Phœbe laughed. "We Pennsylvania Dutch do funny things! I wonder if I'llseem strange and foolish to the people I shall meet in the great city. "

At Reading she obeyed Aunt Maria's injunction and boarded the propertrain. The ride along the winding Schuylkill was thoroughly enjoyed bythe country girl, but the picture changed when the country was leftbehind, suburban Philadelphia passed, and the train entered the crowdedheart of the city. They passed close to dark houses grimy with theaccumulated smoke of many passing locomotives. Great factories loomedbefore the train, factories where girls looked up for a moment at thewhirring cars and turned again to the grinding life of loom or machine. The sight disheartened Phœbe. Was life in the city like that for somegirls? How dreadful to be shut up in a factory while outdoors the wholepanorama of the seasons moved on! She would miss the fields and woodsbut she would make the sacrifice gladly if she might only see life, meetpeople and learn to sing. The thoughts awakened by the sight of theshut-in girls were not happy ones. She welcomed the call, "ReadingTerminal, Philadelphia. "

As she followed the stream of fellow passengers and walked through thedim train shed to the exit her heart beat more quickly--she was reallyin Philadelphia! But the noise, the stream of people rushing from trainspast other people rushing to trains, bewildered her. She saw the sea offaces beyond the iron gates and experienced for the first time theloneliness that comes to a traveler who enters a thronged depot and seesa host of people but enters unwelcomed and ungreeted. 

However, the loneliness was momentary. The next minute she caught sightof Miss Lee. A wave of relief and happiness swept over her--she was inPhiladelphia, the land of her heart's desire!

CHAPTER XVI

PHŒBE'S DIARY

 _September 15. _

I'M in Philadelphia--really, truly! Phœbe Metz, late of a gray farmhousein Lancaster County, is sitting in a beautiful room of the Leeresidence, Philadelphia. 

What a lot of things I have to write in you, diary! I can scarcely findthe beginning. Before I left home I thought about keeping a diary, howentertaining it would be to sit down when I'm old and gray and read theaccounts of my first winter in the city. So I went to Greenwald andbought the fattest note-book I could find and I'm going to write in youall of my joys--let's hope there won't be any sorrows--and all of mypleasures and all about my impressions of places and people in thisgreat, wonderful City of Brotherly Love. Of course, I'll write lettershome and to David and Mother Bab and some of the girls, but there are somany things one can't tell others yet likes to remember. So you'll haveto be my safety valve, confidant and confessor. 

When I left the train at Philadelphia I was bewildered and confused. Such crowds I never saw, not even in Lancaster. Seemed like everybody inthe city was coming from a train or running to one. I was glad to seeMiss Lee. She's the dearest person! I love her as much as I did when Iwent to her school on the hill. I'm as tall as she is now. She dressesbeautifully. I thought my blue serge suit was lovely but her clothesare--well, I suppose you'd call them creations. I'm so glad I'm going tobe near her all winter and can copy from her. 

As I came through the gates at the depot she caught me and kissed me. Ithought she was alone, but a moment later she turned to a tall man andintroduced him, her cousin, Royal Lee, the musician. If Aunt Maria couldsee him she'd warn me again, as she did repeatedly, not to "leave thatfiddlin' man get too friendly. " He's handsome. I never before met a manlike him. His magnetic smile, his low voice attracted me right away. 

After he piloted us through the crowded depot and into a taxicab MissLee began to ask me questions about Greenwald and the people she knowsthere. I felt rather timid, for I was conscious of the appraising eyesof her cousin. He didn't stare at me, yet every time I glanced at himhis eyes were searching my face. Does he think me very countrified, Iwonder? I do have the red cheeks country girls are always credited with, but I'm glad I'm not "buxom. " I'd hate to be fat!

I wish I could describe Royal Lee. He's just as I pictured him, onlymore so. He has the lean, æsthetic face of the musician, the sensitivenostrils and thin lips denoting acute temperament. His eyes are gray. 

As we rode through the streets of the city Miss Lee told me her motherwould have me stay with them until we can find a suitable boardingplace. To-morrow we're going in search of one. 

Taxicabs travel pretty fast. We skirted past curbs so that I almost heldmy breath and shot past trucks and other cars till I thought we'd surelyland in the street. But we escaped safely and soon stopped at the Leeresidence, a big, imposing brownstone house. It looks bare outside, noyard, no flowers. But inside it's a lovely place, so inviting andattractive that I'd like to settle down for life in it. 

Mrs. Lee is as charming as her daughter. She has been a semi-invalid foryears, but even in her wheelchair she has the poise and manner of onewell born. Her greeting was so cordial and gracious, but all I couldanswer was an inane, "Thank you, you are very kind. " Will I ever learnto express my thoughts as charmingly as these people do, I wonder!

When Miss Lee took me up-stairs it was up a bare, polished stairway uponwhich I was half afraid to tread. And the room she took me to! I'veheard about such rooms and read about them. Delft blue paper and rugs, white woodwork and furniture, blue hangings, white curtains--it's amagazine-room turned to real!

When I tried to express my gratitude for her goodness Miss Lee hushed mewith a kiss and said she anticipated as much joy from my presence in thecity as I did, that I was so genuine and refreshing that it would be apleasure to have me around. I don't know just what she means. I'm justPhœbe Metz, nothing wonderful about me, unless it's my voice, and I hopethat is. She said, too, that I would make her very happy if I'd let herbe a real friend to me, and if I'd call her Virginia. Why, that's justwhat I've been wishing for! I told her so. She is just twelve yearsolder than I am, so she's near the thirty mark yet, and I like a friendwho is older. She seems just the same Miss Lee, no older than she waswhen I walked down the street of Greenwald in my gingham dress andchecked sunbonnet and buried my nose in the pink rose David gave me. Howlucky that little country girl is! I'm here in Philadelphia, in abeautiful house, with Virginia Lee for my friend, and glorious visionsof music and good times flashing before my eyes. I put my hands to myhead to keep it from going dizzy!

There's a little speck of cloud in the blue of my joy right now, though. I'm afraid I've blundered already. Miss Lee--Virginia, I mean--said asshe turned to leave my room that they have dinner at six and I'd haveplenty of time to get ready for it. I had to tell her that I couldn'tchange my dress, that I hadn't thought to bring any light dress in mybag but had packed them all in the trunk. She hurried to assure me thatmy dark skirt and white blouse would do very well, that she would notdress for dinner to-night. But I feel sure that she seldom appears atthe dinner table in a blouse and tailored skirt. Guess Aunt Maria'd sayI'm in a place too tony for me, but I know I can learn how to do here. Imight have remembered that some people make of their evening meal aformal one. I've read about "dressing for dinner" and when my firstopportunity comes to do so it finds me with all my dress-up dressespacked in a trunk in the express office! Perhaps it serves me right forwanting to "put on style, " but I remember an old saying about "doing asthe Romans do. " At any rate, I'm going to make the best of it and quitworrying about it, or I'll be so fussed I'll eat with my knife or pourmy coffee into my saucer!

 _Later in the evening. _

What a whirl my brain is in! Things happen so fast that I scarcely knowwhere to begin again to write about them. But it began with the dinner. That was the grandest dinner I ever tasted but I don't remember a singlething I ate, though I do know there was no bread or jelly. What wouldAunt Maria think of that! The delicate china, fine linen and silver werethe loveliest I have ever seen. There were electric lights withsoft-colored shades and there was a colored waiter who seemed to movewithout effort. The forks and spoons for the different courses botheredme. I had to glance at Virginia to see which one to use. Once during thedinner I thought of the time Mollie Brubaker told Aunt Maria about adinner she had in the home of a city relative. I remember how Aunt Mariasniffed, "Humph, if abody's right hungry you can eat without such dumbstyle put on. I say when you cook and carry things to the table forpeople you don't need to feed them yet, they can help themselves. Justso it's clean and cooked good and enough to go round, that's all I tryfor when I get company to eat. " I felt like a fish out of water at theLee dinner table, but Mrs. Lee and the others were so kind and tactfulthat I could not be embarrassed, not enough to show it. However, Ithought to myself as we rose from the table, "Thank Heaven!"

Mrs. Lee asked me whether I like music. We were in the sitting-room andMr. Lee stood by the piano, his hand on his violin case. 

"Yes, indeed!" I told her, for I was anxious to hear him play. I havenever heard any great violinist but the sound of a violin sets methrilling. I could listen to it for hours. 

Mr. Lee smiled at my enthusiasm, lifted the instrument to his shoulderand began to play. If I live to be a hundred I'll never forget thatmusic! Like the soothing winds of summer, the subtle fragrance of a wildrose, the elusive phantoms of our dreams, it stirred my soul. I sat asone dazed when he ended. 

"You say nothing. Don't you like my music?" he asked me. 

"Like your music? Like is too poor a word!" And I tried to tell him howI loved it. He smiled again, that calling, hypnotizing smile, that mademe want to rush to him and ask him to be my friend. But I restrainedmyself and turned to listen to Virginia. The music haunted me. Itsounded like the voice of a soul searching for something it could neverfind. I was still dreaming about it when I heard Mr. Lee say, "Now, Aunt, shall we have some cribbage?" I watched him uncomprehendingly ashe arranged a small table and brought out cards and boards for a game. The full significance of his actions dawned upon me--they were going toplay cards! I had never seen a game of cards, but Aunt Maria taught melong ago that cards are the instrument of the Evil One. My first impulsewas to run from the room, away from the cards, but I hated to be sorude. 

"Do you play cards?" Royal Lee asked me. 

"No, oh, no!" I gasped. 

"You should learn. I'm sure you would enjoy playing. "

I know my face flushed. He did not notice my bewilderment and went on, "We'll teach you to play, Miss Metz. " Then he turned to the game. 

Virginia came to my rescue and drew me to a seat near her. She asked mequestions about Greenwald. Goodness only knows what I answered her. Myattention was a variant. Troubled thoughts distressed me. In AuntMaria's category of sins dancing, card playing and theatre-going rankside by side with lying, stealing and idolatry. As I sat there I triedto reconcile my opinion of these worldly pleasures with the conduct ofmy new friends. The tangle is too complicated to unravel at once. Icould feel blushes of shame staining my cheeks as the game progressed. What would Aunt Maria say, what would daddy say, what would eventolerant Mother Bab say, if they knew I sat passively by and watched agame of cards? After a little while I asked Virginia whether I couldwrite a letter to Aunt Maria and tell her of my safe arrival. I just hadto get out of that room! I don't know if she saw through my ruse butshe smiled as she put her arm around me and led me to the stairs. "There's a desk in your room, Phœbe. You can be undisturbed there. Tellyour aunt we are going to help you find a comfortable home and that weare going to take care of you. I'll be up presently to visit with you. "

When I got up-stairs I felt like crying. Those cards actually scared me. I shrank from being so near the evil things. But after a while as I cameto think more calmly I decided that cards couldn't hurt me if I didn'tplay them. I promised myself to keep from being contaminated with thewickedness of the city the while I enjoyed its harmless pleasures. Thefirst horror of the cards soon passed but it left me sobered. I wrote along letter to Aunt Maria and then turned off the lights and looked downinto the city street. It seemed wonderful to me to see so many lightsstretched off until some of them were mere specks. There was a weddingacross the street. I saw the guests and caught a glimpse of the bride, dressed all in white. But later, when Virginia came up to my room and Iasked her about it she didn't know a thing about the wedding. Why, athome, if there's a big wedding and the neighbors don't know about it orare not invited to it, they feel slighted. But Virginia says a city isdifferent, that you don't really have neighbors like in Greenwald. 

Virginia told me, too, how she came to teach in our school on the hill. When she finished college she wanted to earn money, just to prove thatshe could. Her father wanted her to stay home and live the life of abutterfly, she says. One day he said, more in jest than earnest, that ifshe insisted upon earning money he'd give his consent to her being ateacher in a rural school. She accepted the challenge and through hercousin she secured the place on the hill and became my teacher. When herfather died and her mother became a semi-invalid she gave up her workand took up the old life again. She said that as if it were not really adesirable life, this going to teas, dances, plays, musicals, lectures, and having no cares or worries. Of course I know many of her pleasuresare forbidden fruit for me, but if I ever can wear pretty clothes likehers and go off to an evening musical or concert I know I'll be asexcited as a Jenny Wren. 

CHAPTER XVII

DIARY--THE NEW HOME

 _September 16. _

I'VE dreamed my first dreams in Philadelphia. Such dreams as they were!Whatever it was I ate for supper it must have been richer than ourLancaster County sausage and fried mush, for I dreamed all night. Myold-fashioned walnut bed with its red and green calico quilt seemed toswing before me while Mother Bab and Aunt Maria talked to me. A clangingtrolley car woke me and I remembered that I had been dreaming of Pharesand the tanager's nest. I slept again and heard the strains of RoyalLee's violin till another car clanged past and woke me. I woke once tofind myself saying, "Braid it straight, Davie. Aunt Maria's awful mad. "When I slept again I thought I heard Royal Lee say, "We'll teach you toplay cards, " and speared tails and horned heads seemed mixedpromiscuously with little pieces of cardboard bearing red and blacksymbols and the words "I'll get you if you don't watch out" rang in myears. "Ugh, what awful dreams, " I thought as I lay awake and listenedfor sounds of activity in the house. I missed Aunt Maria's five o'clockcall. The luxury of an eight o'clock breakfast couldn't be appreciatedthe first morning, as I was wide awake at five. I'll soon learn tosleep later. There are many things I shall learn before I go back to thefarm. 

This morning Virginia and I started out on a glorious adventure, lookingfor a boarding place. She laughed when I called it that. 

"I like the uncertainty of it, " I told her. "The charm of the unknownappeals to me. I do not know under whose roof I shall sleep to-night yetI'm happy because I know I am going to meet new people and see newthings. Of course, if I did not have you to help me I would rememberAunt Maria's dire tales of the evils and dangers of a big city andshould feel afraid. As it is, I feel only curious and gay. No matterwhere I find a place to live it's bound to be quite different from thefarm, not better, necessarily, but different. "

But my "high hopes of youth" received a jolt at the very first interviewwith a boarding-house mistress. She wouldn't take young ladies who werestudying music, their practice would annoy the other boarders. I hadnever thought of that!

The second quest was equally unsatisfactory. One room was vacant, apleasant room--at twelve dollars a week! The sum left me speechless. Virginia had to explain that the amount was a _trifle_ more than Iexpected to pay. 

The third proved to be a smaller house on a narrower street. A charmingold lady led us into a sitting-room. All my life I've been accustomed tothe proverbial cleanliness of the Pennsylvania Dutch but I'm certain Inever saw a place as clean as that house. I said something like that toits mistress and she informed me with a gentle firmness I never heardbefore that she expected every guest in her house to help to keep it inthat condition. She had several rules she wanted all to obey, so thatthe sunshine would not have a chance to fade the rugs and the dust fromthe street could not ruin things. I knew I would not be happy there. Ilike clean rooms, but if it's a matter of choosing between foul air_without_ dust and fresh air _with_ dust I'll take the dust every time. I'd feel like a funeral to live in a house where the curtains and shadeswere down every day, summer and winter, to keep the sunshine out of therooms and prevent the jade-green and china-blue and old-rose of the rugsfrom fading. 

The fourth place was in suburban Philadelphia, fifty minutes' ride fromthe heart of the city. It was a big colonial house set in a great yard, a relic of the days when gardens still flourished in the city and thebreathing spaces allotted to householders were larger than at thepresent time. As we went up the shrubbery-bordered walk to the pillaredporch I said, "I want to live here. "

Mrs. McCrea, the boarding-house mistress, did not object to the music, provided I took the large room on the third floor and did all mypracticing between the hours of eight and five, when the other boarderswere gone to business. The price of the room is seven dollars a week. 

I took the room at once, before Mrs. McCrea had any chance of changingher mind. I thought it was a very pleasant room, with its two windowslooking out on the green yard. 

But later, after Virginia had gone and I was left alone in the room, thequeerest feeling came over me. I never knew what it meant to behomesick, but I think I had a touch of it this afternoon in this room. Ihated this place for about half an hour. I saw that the paint is soiled, the rug worn, the pictures cheap, the bed and bureau trimmed withgingerbready scrolls and knobs. It's so different from the blue andwhite room I slept in last night, so different from my plain, old-fashioned room at home. "It's all right, " I said to myself, halfcrying, "but it's so different. "

Fortunately the word _different_ struck a responsive chord in my memory. I remembered that I wanted different things, and smiled again and dashedthe tears away. I arranged my own pictures and few belongings about theroom and felt more at home. After I had dressed and stood ready to godown for my first dinner in my new home I felt happier. To be living, tobe young and enthusiastic, to possess the colossal courage of youth, wasenough to bring happiness into my heart again. I'm going to like thisplace. I'm going to work and play and live in this wonderful city. 

Mrs. McCrea introduced the "New boarder" and I took my assigned place ata long table in the dining-room. I remembered that I once read that theaverage boarding-house is a veritable school for students of humannature. I wondered what I would learn from the people I met there. Thefat man across the table from me gave me no opportunity for any mentalramblings. He launched me right into conversation by asking my opinionof the war in Europe and whether or not we would be dragged into thetrouble. 

"Really, " I answered him, "I don't know much about it. I don't think ofit any more than I can help. "

Of course that was the wrong thing to say. It started a deluge. Astudious-looking woman wearing heavy tortoise-shell rimmed spectaclestook my answer as a personal affront. "Why not, Miss Metz?" shedemanded. "Why should we not think about it? We women of America need towake up! In this country we are lolling in ease and safety while othernations bleed and die that we might remain safe. We have no thoughtshigher than our hats or deeper than our boots if the catastrophe acrossthe sea does not waken in us an earnest desire to help the strickennations. "

Others took up the argument and I sat quiet and helpless, for I know toolittle about the cause and progress of the war to talk intelligentlyabout it. A sense of responsibility grazed my soul. I wished I were ableto help France and Belgium, but what can I do? The constant harping onthe subject of war irritated me. I felt relieved when a young girl nearme asked, "Miss Metz, do you like the movies? There's a place near herewhere they show fine pictures, funny ones to make you forget the war forseveral hours, at least. "

On the whole, I think I'm going to like life at Mrs. McCrea'sboarding-house. I hear the views of so many different sorts of people. And it certainly is different from my life on the farm. 

CHAPTER XVIII

DIARY--THE MUSIC MASTER

 _September 19. _

MY four days in Philadelphia have just been one exclamation point afteranother! The most wonderful thing happened to me last night! Mrs. Leeinvited me over for dinner. I glided through the courses a little moregracefully--one can learn if the will is there. I always loved daintythings. I suppose that is why I delight in the Lee home and am eager toadopt the ways of my new friends. 

After dinner Mr. Lee played again. Of course I enjoyed that. When Ipraised his playing he said he heard I'm a real genius and asked me tosing for them. Mr. Krause, one of the best teachers of music in thecity, is a friend of Royal and Virginia thinks he would be the very oneto teach me. Mr. Lee wrote to Mr. Krause this summer and the musicteacher promised to take me for a pupil if I have a voice worth thetrouble. Virginia had prepared me for my meeting with him. Seems he'squeer, odd, cranky and painfully frank. But he knows how to teach musicso well that many would-be singers pray to be taken into his studio. Mr. Lee said yesterday that Mr. Krause was expected home from his vacationin a few days and then he'd arrange an interview. I trembled when hesaid that. What if the great teacher did not like my voice!

To-night when Mr. Lee asked me to sing I selected a simple song. As Isat down before the baby grand piano the words of the old song "Sweetand Low" came to me. I would sing that until I gained courage andconfidence to sing a harder selection. I played from memory. As I sang Iwas back again at home, singing to my father at the close of the day. 

As the last words died on my lips and I turned on the chair a man, astranger to me, appeared in the room. He hurried unceremoniously to thepiano and greeted me, "You can sing!"

I stared at him. He was an odd-looking, active little man of about fiftywith keen blue eyes that bored into one like a gimlet. 

Mr. Lee came toward us. "Mr. Krause, " he exclaimed, and presented to methe music master, the teacher for whom I had dreaded so to sing! I wasfilled with inarticulate gladness. 

"Mr. Krause, " I cried, grasping his outstretched hand in my oldimpetuous way, "do you mean it? Can I learn to sing?"

"I said so--yes. You can sing. You need to learn how to use your voicebut the voice is there. "

"I'm so glad. I'll work----" I couldn't say any more. My joy was toogreat to be expressed in words. I looked mutely into the wrinkled faceof the man. 

"Royal said he had found a songbird, " he went on smiling, "but I wasafraid he didn't know the difference between that and an owl--I see hedid. I'll be glad to have you for a pupil. Royal can bring you to mystudio to-morrow at eleven. "

Mr. Krause stayed a while longer and the sitting-room was gay withlaughter and bright conversation. I think I heard little of it, though, for the words, "You can sing!" kept ringing in my ears and crowding outall other sounds. 

I can sing! Mr. Krause has told me I can sing! And I will sing! Some dayall the world may stop to hear!

CHAPTER XIX

DIARY--THE FIRST LESSON

 _September 20. _

I HAD my first music lesson to-day. Mr. Lee called for me at theboarding-house and took me down-town to the studio. After he left Iexpected Mr. Krause to begin at once on the do, ra, me, fa, sol, la, si, do. But he thought differently!

He sat facing me, looking at me till I felt like running. "And so, " hesaid quietly, "you want to learn to sing. "

"Yes, " was all I could say. 

"Well, you have a voice. If you want to work like all great singers havehad to work you can be a singer. You may not set the world afire withyour fame but you'll be worth hearing. You are Pennsylvania Dutch?"

I nodded. What under the sun did Pennsylvania Dutch have to do with mybecoming a singer? I was provoked. I didn't come to the city and pay amusic teacher to ask me foolish questions. 

"That is good, " he went on calmly. "The Pennsylvania Dutch are notafraid of work and that is what you need. The road to success in musicis like the road to success in any other thing, long and hard andup-hill most of the way. Now that Pennsylvania Dutch is a funnylanguage. It is neither Dutch nor English nor German but is like hash, alittle of this and a little of that. Do you speak it?"

I said I have spoken it all my life but wished I had never been taughtit. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"Oh"--I couldn't quite veil my irritation--"it perverts our English. "

"Nothing uncommon, " he answered, smiling. "Every part of this greatcountry has some peculiarities of speech common to that particularsection and laughed at in the other sections. Now we will go on with thelesson. "

When he really did begin to teach I found him a wonder. I'm going toenjoy, thoroughly enjoy, my music lessons. 

Mr. Lee called for me after the lesson. I told him I could find the wayback to the boarding-house alone, but he said he'd consider it apleasure and privilege to call for me. He has the nicest manners! Henever needs to flounder around for the right thing to say, it just slipsfrom his tongue like butter. Aunt Maria always says, "look out for themsmooth apple-sass talkers, " but I'm sure Mr. Lee is a gentleman and justthe right kind for a country girl to know. 

When he called at the studio this morning I felt proud to walk away withhim. He suggested riding home but I told him I'd rather walk, at leastpart of the way. We started up Chestnut Street. What a wonderful placethat is! Such lovely stores I've never seen. I'm going to sneak awaysome day and visit every one that has women's belongings for sale. Andthe clothes I saw on Chestnut Street--on the women, I mean! My ownwardrobe certainly is plain and ordinary compared with the things I sawwomen wear to-day. I couldn't help saying to Mr. Lee, "What lovelyclothes Philadelphia women wear!" He smiled that wonderful smile andsaid, "Miss Metz, a diamond has no need of a glittering case, it hassufficient brilliancy itself. " I caught his meaning, I couldn't helpit--he meant me! Now I know I'm no beauty, but perhaps if I had clotheslike those I saw to-day I'd be more attractive. I wonder if I'll getthem; they must cost lots of money. 

As we walked along Mr. Lee told me he knows I'll have a wonderful yearin the city, and that he is going to help it be the gladdest, merriestone I've ever had. 

"Oh, you're good, " I said. 

"It must be that goodness inspires goodness, " he replied. 

I didn't know what to answer. Men up home never say such things, atleast I never heard them. Phares couldn't think of such things to sayand David never made a "pretty speech" in his life. I know he thinksnice things about me sometimes but he wouldn't word them like Royal Leedoes. I didn't want Mr. Lee to think I'm uncommonly good, I told him I'mnot. 

"Not good?" He laughed at the idea. "Why, you are just a sweet, lovelyyoung thing knowing nothing of evil. "

"Oh!" I said, feeling stupid before him, "you're too polite! I nevermet any one like you. But I want to ask you about cards, playing cards. I can't see that they are wrong but Aunt Maria and my father and all myfriends up home think they are wicked. Aunt Maria would rather part withher right hand than play a game of cards. "

Mr. Lee laughed and said he's surprised that I am willing to accept thebeliefs of others; can't I decide for myself what is wrong or right? DidI want to be narrow and goody-goody?

Of course I don't want to be like that, and I told him so. 

He laughed again, a low, soft laugh. I never heard a man laugh like thatbefore. When daddy laughs he laughs out loud, the kind of laugh you joinin when you hear it. And David laughs like that too, a merry laugh thatsounds, as he says, like it's coming clean from his boots. But Mr. Lee'slaugh is different. I don't like it as well as the other kind, though itfascinates me. He said he knows I can't change my ideas in a night buthe depends upon my good sense to decide what is right for me to do. Heasked if I thought Virginia and her mother are wicked. They have playedcards, danced, gone to theatres, all their lives. If I hope to have areally enjoyable time in the city I must do the same. He said, too, thatI'll soon see that many of the teachings of the country churches areantiquated and entirely too narrow for this day. 

Dancing--I shuddered at the word, but I didn't tell him how I feel aboutit. Aunt Maria says dancing is even worse than playing cards. Why didhe tempt me? I don't want to do wicked things, but when he mentionedforbidden pleasures I felt, somehow, that I wanted to do what Virginiadoes and have a good time with her and her friends. That would bedreadful! What am I thinking of! Is my head turned already? Can the evilof the world have exerted its influence upon me so soon? Of course, if Ibecome a great singer I'll naturally have to live a life different fromthe narrow, restricted life of the farm. I must live a broader, freerlife. But for a while, at least, I'll have to be the same old PhœbeMetz. I tried to tell Mr. Lee something like that, and he quoted, "If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. "

Are city men always free like that? Is it the way of the new world Ihave entered? Before I could think of a suitable answer he said lightly, "But before you turn nun let me buy you some flowers. "

We stopped at a floral shop. Such flowers! I've never seen their equal!I exclaimed in many O's as I paused by the window, but I felt my cheeksflush at the idea of having him buy any of the lovely flowers for me. 

"Come inside, " he said. "What do you like?"

"I love them all, " I told him as we stood before the array of blossoms. "I think I like the yellow rosebuds best, though. We have some at homeon the farm but they bloom only in June. "

I detected an odd smile on his lips. What was wrong? Had I committed abreach of etiquette? Was it wrong to mention farms in a city floralshop? But his courteous, attentive manner returned in an instant. Hewatched me pin the yellow roses on my coat, smiled, and led me outsideagain. I felt proud as any queen, for those were the first flowers anyman ever bought for me. 

CHAPTER XX

DIARY--SEEING THE CITY

 _October 2. _

I HAVE been seeing Philadelphia. Mr. Lee teasingly told me that mostnewcomers want to "do" the city so he and Virginia would take me round. They took me to see all the places I studied about in history class. I've done the Betsy Ross House, Franklin's Grave, Old Christ Church andOld Swede's Church. I like them all. Best of all I like IndependenceHall, with its wonderful stairways and wide window sills and, mostimportant, its grand old Liberty Bell and its history. 

Yesterday Mr. Lee took me to Memorial Hall in Fairmount Park. I like thepictures and oh, I looked long at a white marble statue of Isaac, hishands bound for the sacrifice. The face is beautiful. Royal Lee wasamused at my interest in it and took me off to see the rare Chinesevases. We wandered around among the cases of glassware and then I founda case with valuable Stiegel glass, made in my own Lancaster County. Iwas proud of that! We went through Horticultural Hall and stopped to seethe lovely sunken gardens, with their fall flowers. 

I like to go about with Royal Lee. He is so efficient. Crowds seem tofall back for him. He has the attractive, masterful personality thateverybody recognizes. I feel a reflected glory from his presence. Wehave grown to be great friends in an amazingly short time. Our music, our appreciation of each other's ability, has strengthened the bondbetween us. Mrs. Lee sends me many invitations for dinner and week-endsin her beautiful home, so that Mr. Lee and I are already wellacquainted. He has asked me to call him Royal and if he might call mePhœbe. I've told him all about my life on the farm, my friends up there, and the plans and dreams of my heart. He likes to tease me and call me alittle Quakeress, but I don't enjoy that for he does it in a way I don'tlike. It sounds as if he's scoffing at the plain people. When I told himabout the meeting house and described the service he laughed and saidthat a religion like that might do for a little country place but itwould never do in a city. I bridled at that and tried to tell him aboutthe wholesome, useful lives those people up home lead, how much good awoman like Mother Bab can do in the world. But he could not be easilyconvinced. He thinks they are crude and narrow. When I told him they arelovely and fine he challenged me and asked if I am willing to wear plainclothes and renounce all pleasures, jewelry and becoming raiment. I hadto tell him I'm not ready for that yet, and he smiled triumphantly. Hepredicted I'll play cards and dance before the winter ends. I don't likehim when he's so flippant. I want to be loyal to my home teaching but Isee more clearly every day how great is the difference between thepleasures sanctioned by my people and those Virginia and her friendsenjoy. There's a mystery somewhere I can't solve. Like Omar, I"evermore come out at the same door where in I went. "

 _October 29. _

To-day we went for a long drive along the Wissahickon. The woods arebronze and scarlet now. The wild asters made me homesick for LancasterCounty. I wanted to get out of the car and walk but Virginia and herfriends wouldn't join me. I wanted to bury my nose in the goldenrod andasters--and get hay fever, one of the girls told me--and I just ached topush my way through the tangled bushes along the road and let the goldenleaves of the hickory and beeches brush my face. It seems that most citypeople I have met don't know how to enjoy nature. They have anodding-from-a-motor-acquaintance with it but I like a realhandshake-friendship with it. I just wished David were here to-day! He'dhave taken my hand and run me to the top of the hill and picked a branchof scarlet maple to carry with my goldenrod and asters. Well, I can'thave the penny and the cake. I want to be in the city, of course that'sthe thing I most desire at present--I really am having a good time. 

In the evening we went to Holy Trinity Church. The organ recital grippedmy soul. I wanted it to last for hours. And yet when it was over and therector stood before us and preached one of his impressive sermons I wasjust as much interested as I had been in the music. There's a feeling ofrestful calm comes to me in a big dim church with stained glasswindows. We stopped in the Cathedral one day last week. That is awonderful place, too. I like the idea of having churches open all thetime for prayer and meditation. I'm learning so many new ideas thesedays. If I ever do wear the plain dress I'm sure of one thing, I'll bebroad-minded enough to respect the beliefs of other persons. 

 _November 11. _

I can put another red mark on my calendar. I heard the great IrishTenor! Glory, what a voice! It's the kind can echo in your ears to yourdying day and follow you with its sweetness everywhere you go! I havebeen humming those lovely Irish songs all day. 

But before the recital my heart was heavy. I have no evening gown, noevening wrap, so I couldn't join the box party to which one ofVirginia's friends invited us. I meant to stay at home and not break upthe party, but Royal insisted upon buying two tickets in a section ofthe opera house where a plainer dress would do. In the end I allowedmyself to be persuaded by him and we two went to the recital alone. Whenthat tenor voice sounded through the place I forgot all about my limitedwardrobe. I could hear him sing if I were dressed in calico and think ofnothing but his singing. 

 _November 12. _

I wrote letters to-day. Mother Bab and David write such lovely ones tome that I have to try hard to keep up my end of it. Sometimes Davidtells me he is anxious to supply me with the beet juice, cream and flourwhenever I'm ready to begin the prima donna act. I can hear his laughwhen I read the letter. Sometimes he's serious and talks about the cropsof their farm and tells me the community news like an old grandmother. Phares Eby writes me an occasional letter, a stilted little note thatsounds just like Phares. It always has some good advice in it. AuntMaria's letters and daddy's come every week. I'd feel lost without them. I like to feel that everybody I care for at home is interested in andcares for me even if I am in Philadelphia. 

CHAPTER XXI

DIARY--CHRYSALIS

 _December 3. _

I'M as miserable as any mortal can be! Oh, I'm still having a good timegoing around seeing the city, visiting the stores and museums, practicing hard in music, pleasing my teacher. But just the same, I'mnot happy. The reason is this: I want pretty gowns like Virginia wears, I want to dance and play cards and see real plays. I dare say I'm acontemptible sinner to want all that after the way I've been brought up. I ought to be satisfied with all the wonderful things I enjoy in thisbig city but I'm not. 

Last week Virginia entertained the Bridge Club and tried to persuade meto learn to play and come to the party. Royal was provoked about it. Hethinks I should learn to play. I told him I should have no peace if Ilearned to do such things. 

"Peace, " he scorned, "no one has peace these days. The whole world is ina turmoil. Do you think your little Quaker-like girls of LancasterCounty have peace these days?"

"They have peace of mind and conscience. "

"But that, " he said, "is the peace that touches those who live inselfish solitude. The virtue that dwells in the hearts of those whoretire into hermitages is a negative virtue. "

"You speak like a seer, a philosopher, " I told him. 

"Like a rational human being, I hope, " he said petulantly. "But thethoughts are not original. I am merely echoing the opinion of sanethinkers. I have no appreciation of the foolish and useless sacrificeyou are persistently making. We were not put on this planet to be dullnuns and monks. We have red blood racing through our veins and were notintended for sluggishness. "

"Yes--but----"

He went off peeved at my refusal to do as he wished. 

What can I do? Shall I capitulate? I have wrestled with my desire forpleasure until I'm tired of the struggle. My old contentment hasdeserted me. I'm restless and dissatisfied, scarcely knowing what isright or wrong. 

 _Next day. _

I'm happy again. Being on the fence grows mighty uncomfortable after awhile, so I jumped across. I have decided to become a butterfly!

I had luncheon to-day with Virginia. She had to run off to one of herBridge Clubs so I offered to mend the lace on one of her gowns while shewas gone. I was alone in the sitting-room that adjoins Virginia'sbedroom. I love that little sitting-room. Virginia and I spend manyhappy hours in it when we want to get away from everybody and have along chat. I like its big comfortable winged chairs by the cheery openfire. 

I dreamed a while before the fire, the gown across my knees. It's a pinkgown, that scarcely defined pink of a sea shell. Virginia had oftentempted me to try it on and see how well I'd look in a dress of thatkind. The temptation came to do it. I jumped up in sudden determination. I _would_ put it on! I'd see for once how I looked in a real gown. I ranto Virginia's room to the low dressing table. My hands trembled as Iopened the tight coils of my hair and shook it until it seemed to nodexultingly. I fluffed the curls loosely over my forehead and twisted thehair into a fashionable knot. Then I took off my plain blue serge dressand slipped the pink one over my head. The soft draperies clung to me, the gossamer lace lay upon my breast like a silken mist. I was beautifulin that gown and I knew it. It was my hour of appreciation of my owncharm. 

Later I lifted the dress and saw my plain calfskin shoes. I smiled butsoon grew sober as I thought that the incongruity between gown and shoeswas no greater than that between the gown and the girl--the girl who wasreared to wear plain clothes and be honest and unpretentious. Buthonesty--that is the rock to which I cling now. I am going to be honestwith myself and have my share of happiness while I'm young. 

I went back again to the fire, still wearing the borrowed gown. Virginiafound me there several hours later. When she came in and saw me, agorgeous butterfly, she said, she was very happy. She would have me godown to her mother and Royal. I shrank from it but she said I might aswell become accustomed to being stared at when I was so dazzling andbeautiful. I went down, feeling almost as much of a culprit as I did theday Aunt Maria surprised me at playing prima donna and marched me in tothe quilting party. 

Mrs. Lee was lovely. She is sure I deserve to be happy in my youth. Royal went mad. "Ye Gods!" he cried as he ran to me and grasped myhands. "You take my breath away! You are like this!" He seized hisviolin and began to play the Spring Song. The quivering ecstasy ofspring, the mating calls of robins and orioles, the rushing joy ofbursting blossoms, the delicate perfume of violets and trailing arbutus, the dazzling shafts of sunlight pierced by silver showers of capriciousApril--all echoed in the melody of the violin. 

"You are like that, that is you!" he said as he laid his instrumentaside. His words were very sweet to me. The future beckons into sunlitpaths of joy. 

So I have departed from the teachings of my childhood and turned to theso-called vanities of the world. I am going to grasp my share ofhappiness while I can enjoy them. 

When I went up-stairs again to take off the borrowed gown I was alreadyplanning the new clothes I want to buy. I must have a pink crepegeorgette, a pale, pale blue--just as I'm writing this there flashes tomy mind one of those old Memory Gems I learned in school on the hill. 

 "But pleasures are like poppies spread, -- You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow fall on the river, A moment white, then melts forever. "

I wonder, is there always a fly in the ointment!

CHAPTER XXII

DIARY--TRANSFORMATION

 _December 15. _

A FEW days can make a difference in one's life. I'm well on the way ofbeing a real butterfly. I have bought new dresses, a real evening gownand a lovely silk dress to wear to the Bridge Club. It's lucky I savedmy money these three months and had a nice surplus to buy these newthings. 

Royal is teaching me to play cards. He says I take to them like a duckto water. Virginia and he are giving me dancing lessons. I love todance! The same spirit that prompted me to skip when I wore sunbonnetsis now urging me on to the dance. In a few weeks I'll be ready to joinin the pleasures of my new friends. After the Christmas holidays thecity will be gay until the Lenten season. 

 _January 5. _

I went home for Christmas and I suppose I managed to make everybodythere unhappy and worried. I couldn't let them think I am the same quietgirl and not tell them about the cards and dancing. Daddy was hurt, buthe didn't scold me. He said plainly that he does not approve of mycourse, that he thinks cards and dancing wicked. He added that I hadbeen taught the difference between right and wrong and was old enough tosee it. Perhaps he thinks I'll "run my horns off quicker" if I'm let go, as Aunt Maria often says about people. But she didn't say that about me. She made up for what daddy didn't say. She begged him to make me stay athome away from the wicked influences of the city. I had the hardest timeto keep calm and not say mean things to her. She's ashamed of me andafraid people up there will find out how worldly I am. I had to tellMother Bab too. I know I hurt her. She was so gentle and lovely about itthat I felt half inclined to tell her I'd give up everything she didn'tapprove of, just to please her. But I didn't. I couldn't do that when Iknow I'm not doing anything wrong. She changed the subject and inquiredabout my music. In that I was able to please her. She shared my joy whenI told her of my critical music master's approval of my progress. I sangsome of my new songs for her and she kissed me with the same love andtenderness she has always had for me. I wonder sometimes whether I couldpossibly have loved my own mother more. Somehow, as I sat with her inher dear, cozy sitting-room I hated the cards and the dancing and halfwished I had never left the farm. But that's a narrow, provincial viewto take. Now that I'm back again I'm caught once more in the whirl. Everybody is entertaining, as if in a frantic endeavor to be surfeitedbefore Lent and thus be able to endure the dullness of that period ofsuspended social activities. The harrowing tales of suffering Franceand Belgium have occasioned Benefit Teas and Benefit Bridges andBenefit Dances, all for the aid of the war sufferers. Royal usuallytakes me to the social affairs. I enjoy being with him. He's the mostentertaining man I ever met. He has traveled in Europe and all over ourown country and can tell what he has seen. He attracts attention, whether he speaks or plays or is just silent. One day he said it wouldbe a pleasure to travel with me, I enjoy things so and can appreciatetheir beauty. I could scarcely resist telling him how I'd enjoytraveling with a man like him. Oh, I dream wild dreams sometimes, but Ireally must stop doing that. The present is too wonderful to goborrowing joy from the future. 

 _February 2. _

I'm all in a fluster. I have to write here what happened to-day. If Ihad a mother she could help and advise me but an adopted mother, evenone as dear and near as Mother Bab, won't do for such confidences. 

Royal and I were sitting alone before the open fireplace. It's adangerous place to be! The glowing fire sends such weird shadowsflickering up and down. Its living fire is sometimes an entreating Circewaking undesirable impulses, then again it's a spirit that heals andinspires. I love an open fire but to-day I should have fled from it andyet--I think I'm glad I didn't. 

I looked up suddenly from the gleaming logs--right into the eyes ofRoyal. His voice startled me as he said, with the strangest catch in hisvoice, that my eyes are bluer than the skies. I tried to keep my voiceordinary as I lightly told him that some other person once told me theyare the color of fringed gentians--could he improve on that?

"You little fairy!" he cried. "I can beat that! They are blue asbluebirds!" Then he went on impetuously, telling me I was a realbluebird of happiness, a bringer of joy; that the ancients called thebluebird the emblem of happiness, but he knew the blue of my eyes wasthe real joy sign--or something like that he said. It startled me. Itried to tell him he must not talk like that but my words were useless. He went on to say that the world was bleak and unlovely till I came toPhiladelphia and wouldn't I tell him I care for him. 

Of course I value his friendship and told him so. But he laughed andsaid I was a wise little girl but I couldn't evade his question likethat. He said frankly he doesn't want my friendship, he wants my love, he must have it!

I felt like a helpless bird. I couldn't answer him. He looked at me, along, searching look. Then he pressed his thin lips together, and amoment later, threw back his head and laughed his low laugh. 

"Little bluebird, " he said softly, "I have frightened you and I wouldn'tdo that for worlds! We'll talk it over some other time, after you havehad time to think about it. Shall I play for you?"

I nodded and he began to play. But the music didn't soothe me as itusually does. There were too many confused thoughts in my brain. DidRoyal really love me? I looked at his white hands with the longtapering nails and the shapely fingers and couldn't help thinking of thestrong, tanned hands of David Eby. I glanced at the handsome face of themusician with its magnetic charm--swiftly the countenance of my oldplaymate rose before me and then slowly faded: David, boyish andcomradely; David, manly and strong, without ever a sneer or an unholylight upon his face. Could I ever forget him? Could I ever look into theface of any other man and call it the dearest in the whole world to me?Ach--I shook my head and gathered my recreant wits together! I'd forgetwhat he said and attribute it to the weird influence of the firelight. 

I was glad Virginia came before Royal finished playing. She looked at uskeenly. I suppose my face was flushed. But Royal seldom loses hisoutward calm. He answered her remarks in his casual way and listenedwith seeming interest to her plans for a pre-Lenten masquerade dance shewants to give. She has asked me to go dressed in a plain dress and whitecap like Aunt Maria wears. I hesitated about it but she has done so muchfor me that I hate to refuse. So I've promised to go to the dancedressed in a plain dress and cap. 

A little later when Royal left us alone Virginia began to speak abouthim. She said she's so glad we have grown to be friends, in spite of thefact that he is so much older than I am. He's thirty-seven, she told me. I'm surprised at that. I never thought he's so much older. She mentionedsomething, too, about his being rather a gay Don Juan. I don't knowjust what she means. I'm sure he's a gentleman. Perhaps she expected meto tell her what Royal said to me, but how could I do that when I thinkit was just an impulsive burst that he's likely to forget by morning. Ifhe really meant it--but I must stop dreaming all sorts of improbabledreams! I've had such a glorious time in Philadelphia just living andsinging and working and playing that I wish it hadn't happened. I'mfrightened when I think that any serious questions might confront mehere. 

 _February 10. _

I guessed right when I thought that Royal would forget that foolishoutburst. He has been perfectly lovely to me, taking me out and buyingme flowers and telling me about his trips, but he hasn't said one wordmore of sentimental nature. I'm surely getting my share of fun andpleasure these days. There are so many things to enjoy, so much to learnfrom my fellow-boarders and every one I meet, that the days are all tooshort. Between times I'm making a dress and cap for the masqueradedance. I hate sewing. I lost all love for it during my years of calicopatching. But I don't mind making the dress for I'm eager for the dance, my first masquerade party. I'm hoping for a good time. 

CHAPTER XXIII

DIARY--PLAIN FOR A NIGHT

 _February 21. _

LAST night was the masquerade. I wore the plain gray dress, apron andcape and a white cap on my head. I felt rather like a hypocrite as Ilooked at myself in the glass, but Virginia said it was just the thingand certainly would not be duplicated by any other guest. 

I was dressed early and started down the stairs, my black mask swingingfrom my hand. As I rounded a curve in the stairway I glanced casuallydown the wide hall. The colored servant had admitted visitors. I lookedin that direction--the mask fell from my hand and I ran down the stepsand into the arms of Mother Bab! I couldn't say more than "Oh, oh!" as Ikissed her over and over. When she got her breath she said happily, "Phœbe, you're plain!"

Oh, how it hurt me! I took her and David to a little nook off thelibrary where we could be alone and then I had to tell her that I waswearing the plain dress and white cap as a masquerade dress. Even when Itold her I learned to dance and do things she thinks are worldly therewas no look of pain on her face like the look I brought there as I stoodbefore her in a dress she reverenced and told her I wore it in a spiritof fun. I'll never get over being sorry for hurting her like that. ButMother Bab rallies quickly from every hurt. She soon smiled and said sheunderstood. David came to my aid. He assured his mother that they knew Icould take care of myself and would not do anything really wrong. Icouldn't thank him for his kindness. I felt suddenly all weepy andtearful. But David began to talk on in his old friendly way and tellabout the home news and about the Big Doctor he had taken Mother Bab tosee in Philadelphia and how he hoped she would soon be able to seeperfectly again. While he talked Mother Bab and I had a chance torecover a bit. I noted a quick shadow pass over her face as he spokeabout her eyes--was she less hopeful about them than he was? Had the BigDoctor told her something David did not hear? But no! I dismissed thethought--Mother Bab could not go blind! She would never be asked tosuffer that! I soon forgot my troublesome thoughts as she hastened tosay that perhaps her eyes would improve more quickly than the doctorpromised. Then she changed the subject--"Now, Phœbe, I hope I didn'thurt you about the dress. I guess I looked at you as if I wanted to eatyou. I love you and wouldn't hurt you for anything. "

"Mother Bab!" I gave her a real hug like I used to do when I ranbarefooted up the hill with some childish perplexity and she helped me. "You're an angel! Mother Bab, David, having a good time won't hurt me. Our views up home are too narrow. It's all right to expect older peopleto do nothing more exciting than go to Greenwald to the store, to churchevery Sunday, to an occasional quilting or carpet-rag party, and toLancaster to shop several times a year, but the younger generation needsother things. "

"I guess you mean it can't be Lent all the time for you, " she suggestedwith a smile. 

"I just knew you'd understand. "

Just then Royal began to play and the music floated in to us. It wasTraumerei. Mother Bab's tired face relaxed as she leaned back to listento the piercingly sweet melody. David looked at me--I knew he was askingwhether the player was Royal Lee. 

"Oh, Davie, " Mother Bab said innocently as the music ended, "if only youcould play like that!"

"If I could, " he said half bitterly, "but all I can do is farm. Are youcoming home this spring?" he asked me, as if to forget the violin andits player. 

"I don't know. I'll probably stay here until early June. I may go awaywith Virginia for part of the summer. "

"Not be home for spring and summer!" he said dismally. "Why, it won't bespring without you! We can't go for bird-foot violets or arbutus. "

Arbutus--the name called up a host of memories to me. "How I'd like togo for arbutus this spring, " I told him. 

"Then come home in April and I'll take you to Mt. Hope for some. "

"Oh, David, will you?"

"I'd love to. We'll drive up. "

"I'll come, " I promised. "I'll come home for arbutus. Let me know whenthey're out. "

"All right. But I think we must go now or we'll miss the train. "

"Go?" I echoed. "You're not going home to-night? Can't you stay? Mrs. McCrea has vacant rooms. I've been so excited I forgot my manners. Letme take you to the sitting-room and introduce you to Mrs. Lee andRoyal. "

"Ach, no, " Mother Bab protested. "We can't stay that long. We juststopped in to see you. "

David looked at his watch. "We must go now. There's a train ateight-twenty-one gets to Lancaster at ten-forty-five and we'll get thelast car out to Greenwald and Phares will meet us and drive us home. "

I asked about the home folks as I watched David adjust Mother Bab'sshawl. He looked older and worried. I suppose he was disappointedbecause the Big Doctor didn't promise a quick cure for Mother Bab'seyes. 

As they said good-bye and left me I wanted to run after them and askthem to take me home, back to the simple life of my people. But I stayedwhere I was, the earthiest worldling in a dress of unworldliness. 

"I--I believe I'll take it off, " I thought as I stood in the doorway. 

Just then Royal opened the door and saw me. "Ye Gods!" he exclaimed, "you look like a saint, Phœbe. "

"But I'm not! I'm far from being a saint!"

"Don't be one, please. If you turn saint I shall be disconsolate. Idon't like saints of women and I want to keep on liking you, littleBluebird. Remember, you promised me the first dance. "

"I don't know--I don't feel like dancing. "

"Oh, but you must! You look like a Quakeress but no one expects you toact like one to-night. I'm going up to dress--I'm going as a monk tomatch you. "

He ran off, laughing, and I went in search of Virginia. My heart washeavy. The sudden appearance of Mother Bab and David brought me a vividimpression of the contrast between their lives and mine and the thoughtsleft me worried and restless. What was I doing? Was I shaping my life insuch a way that it would never again fit into the simple grooves ofcountry life? The dance lost its charm for me. I danced and made merryand tried to enter into the gay spirit of the occasion but I longed allthe time to be with Mother Bab and David riding to Lancaster County. 

CHAPTER XXIV

DIARY--DECLARATIONS

 _March 22. _

SPRING is here but I'd never know it if I didn't read the calendar. Ihaven't seen a robin or heard a song-sparrow. Just the same, I've had awonderful time these past weeks. Of course my music gets firstattention. I'm getting on well, though I'm beginning to see what a long, long time it will take before I become a great singer. Since I haveheard really great singers I wonder whether I was not too presumptuouswhen I thought I might be one some day. I went to several big churcheslately and heard fine music. 

I thought Lent would be a dull season but it's been gay enough for me. There has been unusual activity, Virginia says, because of so manycharitable affairs held for the benefit of the war sufferers. 

I bought a new spring hat, a dream. Hope Aunt Maria never asks me what Ipaid for it. After wearing Greenwald hats all my life this one wascoming to me. 

But my thoughts are not all of frivolous matters. I have taken advantageof some of the opportunities Philadelphia offers to improve my mind andbroaden my vision. I've been to lectures and plays and enjoyed them all. 

I asked Royal to-day why he never worked. He laughed and said I was aninquisitive Bluebird. Then he told me his parents left him enough moneyto live without working. He never did a solid hour's real work in hiswhole life. With his talent and his personal attractions he might becomea famous musician if he had some odds to fight against or some person toencourage him and make him do his best. He said he knows he neverdeveloped his talent to the full extent but that since he knows me he isplaying better than he did before. I wonder if I really am aninspiration to him. I suppose a genius does need a wife or sympatheticfriend to bring out the best in him. He has been so lovely, showing hisfondness for me in many ways, but he has never said anything sentimentallike he did the day we sat by the fire. Sometimes he does say ambiguousthings that I can't understand. He is surely giving me a long time tothink it over. I like him but I'm afraid he's cynical, and it worriesme. 

There are other things, too, to dim the blue these days. War clouds arethreatening. U-boats of Germany are sinking our vessels. Where will itall end?

 _April 7. _

War has been declared. America is in it at last. I came home to-dayfeeling disheartened and sad. War was the topic everywhere I went. Papers, bulletin-boards flaunted the words, "The world must be made safefor democracy. " People on the streets and in cars spoke about it, newsboys yelled till they were hoarse. 

I stopped to see Virginia but she was out. Royal said he'd entertain metill she returned. He laughed at my tragic weariness about the war. 

"I'll tell you, Bluebird, " he whispered as he sat beside me, "we'll talkof something better. I love you. "

The fire in his eyes frightened me. I couldn't look at him. "Why do yousay such things?" I asked, and I couldn't keep my voice from trembling. 

That didn't hush him--he said some more. He told me how he loves me, howhe waited for me all his life and wants me with him. He quoted the verseI like so much, "Thou beside me singing in the wilderness--O wildernesswere Paradise enow!" Then he asked me frankly if I loved him. 

I couldn't answer right away. Now that the thing I had dreamed of wasactually happening I was dazed and stupid and sat like a bump-on-a-log. 

He asked me again and before I knew what he was doing he had taken meinto his arms and kissed me. "Say you love me, " he pleaded. 

I said what he wanted to hear and he kissed me again. We were both veryhappy. It is almost too wonderful to believe!

A few minutes later we heard Virginia enter the hall and we came back toearth. I know my cheeks still burned but Royal's ready poise served himwell. He told his cousin he had been trying to make me forget about thewar. 

Virginia probably thought my excitement was due to the war. She began atonce to speak about it. "America is in it and we can't forget it. Everytrue American must help. "

"Do your bit, knit, " chanted the musician. 

She asked him if he is going to do his bit. He flushed and looked vexed, then explained that he can neither knit nor fight, that he is amusician. 

Virginia argued that if he could play a violin he could learn to play abugle, that many of the men who will fight for the flag are men who havenever been taught to fight. She spoke as if she thought Royal shouldenlist in some branch of government service at once. 

I resented her words. "Do you want Royal to go to war and be killed?" Iasked her. 

"My dear, " she said solemnly, "have you ever heard that there is such athing as losing one's life by trying to save it?"

That startled me. I realized then that the war is going to be a veryserious matter, that there will be work for each one of us to do. ButRoyal laughed and made me forget temporarily every solemn, sad thing. Hetold Virginia that she was over-zealous, that she need not worry abouthim. He'd be a true American and give his money to help protect theflag. We began to play Bridge then and I thought no more about the warfor an hour or two. 

 _April 12. _

I have learned to knit. Virginia has taught me and we are elbow-deep ingray and khaki wool. I have wound it and purled it and worked on thething till I'm tasting fuzz. But I do want to do the little bit I can tohelp my country. This war _is_ a serious matter. Already people aretalking about who is going to enlist--what if David would go! I hope hewon't--yet I don't want him to be a coward. Oh, it's all too confusingand terrible to think long about. I try to forget it for a time byremembering that Royal Lee cares for me. He has told me over and overthat he loves me. Love _must_ be blind, for he thinks I am beautiful andperfect. I'm glad I look like that to him. We should be happy when weare married, for we are so congenial, both loving music and things ofbeauty. It's queer, though, I have thought of it several times--he hasnever mentioned our marriage. I suppose he's too happy in the present tomake plans for the future. But I know he is a gentleman, therefore hiswords of love are synonymous with an offer of marriage. All that willcome later. It's enough now just to know we care for each other. 

CHAPTER XXV

DIARY--"THE LINK MUST BREAK AND THE LAMP MUST DIE"

 _April 13. _

I'M in sackcloth and ashes. My dream castles have tumbled down upon myhead and left me bruised and sorrowful. I'm awake at last! I'd like tobury my face in my old red and green patchwork quilt and ask forgivenessfor being a fool. But I must compose myself and write this last chapterof my romance. 

Last night the "Singer with the Voice of Gold" gave a recital in theAcademy of Music. Royal and I helped to make up a merry box party. Ifelt festive and gay in my lovely white crepe georgette gown. Royal saidI looked like a dream and that made me radiant, I know. 

As we sat down I whispered to him that I was excited because hearingthat great singer has always been one of my dearest dreams and now thedream was coming true. He whispered back that more of my dreams wouldsoon come true. I made him hush, for several people were looking at us. But his words sent my heart thrilling. 

The Academy became quiet as the singer appeared, then the audience gaveher a real Brotherly Love welcome and settled once more into silence asher beautiful voice rose in the place. The operatic selections werebeautifully rendered. I thought her voice was most captivating in thesimple songs everybody knows. Annie Laurie had new charm as she sang it. When she sang that Royal whispered, "That is what I feel for you. " Ismiled into his eyes, then turned again to look at the singer. Could Iever sing like that? Would the dreams of my childhood come true? Itseemed improbable and yet--I had traveled a long way from the littlegirl of the tight braids and brown gingham dresses, I thought. Perhapsthe future would bring still more wonderful changes. 

The hours in the Academy of Music passed like a beautiful dream. Ishrank from the last song, though. It was too much like some fatal, direprophecy:

 "The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry, The link must break, and the lamp must die-- Good-bye to hope! Good-bye, good-bye!"

I told Royal I didn't like it, it was too much like Cassandra. 

He laughed and said she generally sings it, but that it couldn't hurtus--was I superstitious?

"No, oh, no, " I declared. But I wished I could forget the words of thatsong. 

Some of the party decided that a proper ending to the delightful eveningwould be a visit to a fashionable café. I didn't care to go. Royal urgedme till I consented and I soon found myself in a beautiful place wheremerry groups of people were seated about small tables. Any desire forfood I might have had left me as I heard Royal and the other men orderwines and highballs. 

"What will you have, Phœbe?" Royal asked me. 

I gasped--"Why--nothing. "

"Be a sport, " he urged, "look around and do as the 'Romans do. '"

I looked around. Some of the women were smoking, others were drinking. 

"Oh, " I said, "this is dreadful. Let's go. "

Royal laughed and the others teased me. One of the girls said I'd bedoing all those things before the year ended. When I declared I wouldnot Royal reminded me that I had said the same about cards and dancing. His words silenced me. I felt engulfed in shame and deeply hurt. Howcould Royal be amused at my discomfiture if he loved me! Did he love me?Did I want him to? Could I promise to honor and love him all my life?But perhaps he was teasing me--ah, that was it! I breathed more easilyagain. Royal was teasing me, sure of my refusal to indulge in anyintoxicant. The others ate and made merry while I toyed idly with theglass of ginger ale the waiter brought me against my wish. I mused anddreamed--would Royal like my people? Somehow, he seemed an incongruityamong the dear ones at the gray farmhouse in Lancaster County. Whatwould he say when we ate in the kitchen and daddy came to the table inhis shirt sleeves? Love can bridge greater chasms than that, I thought. When we are married----

"Royal Lee, are you ever going to marry?" The question broke into myrevery. 

I looked at Royal. There was no rise of color in his handsome face. Hereturned my look dispassionately then turned to his teasing, inquisitivefriend. 

"I'm a bachelor forever, " he declared. "But that does not keep me fromloving. Women I care for have too much good sense to think that marriagealways follows love. Ye Gods, I think love goes when marriage comes, soyou'll have no chance to see my love interred. "

I clenched my hands under the table. I felt my lips go white. How couldhe hurt me so? Of course our love was not a thing to be paraded in apublic place but if he really cared for me as I thought he did he couldhave answered differently. An evasive answer would have served. An hourago he had whispered tender words to me and now he frankly informed allpresent that he was a bachelor forever. I could not grasp the fullsignificance of his words at once. I was dazed by the shock of them. Iwanted to get away and be alone, to cry, to think, to determine what hehad meant by his demonstrations of love if he did not hope to win me forhis wife. 

But later, when I went to bed in the pretty blue and white room nextVirginia's, I did not cry. I lay wide awake thinking over and over, "Howcould he do it? Why is he heartless? Was he only playing?"

When morning came I had partially decided that I had been a ready, sillyfool; that Royal Lee had merely whiled the hours away more pleasantlybecause of my love. I felt tempted to denounce him but I thought thatwould afford him additional amusement and make me not a whit lessmiserable. I was eager to get away from him. I desired but one littlemoment alone with him to satisfy myself that I did not judge himunjustly. Fortunately he came to the sitting-room as I sat there staringat the page of a magazine. 

"Alone?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

"Phœbe"--he drew nearer and I rose and stood away from him. "MyBluebird! You look unhappy. Are you still shocked at the smoking anddrinking you saw last night? It's all in the game, you know. Why not behappy along with the rest of us, why be a prude?"

I shivered. Couldn't he know why I was unhappy! How false and fickle hewas! I wouldn't wear my heart on my sleeve for him to read and laughabout. All my Metz determination rose in me. 

"Why, " I lied, "I'm not unhappy. I'm just tired. Late hours don't agreewith me. "

He stretched out his arm but I eluded him. "Don't, " I said lightly;"we've been foolish long enough. "

"Why"--he looked at me keenly. But I was determined he should not readmy feelings. I smiled in spite of my contempt for him. "Why, Phœbe, " hesaid tenderly, "what has changed you? Why shouldn't I kiss you when Ilove you? Love never hurt any one. "

"No--but----"

"But what?" he asked. 

"Oh, nothing, " I said, stepping farther away from him. "I'm in a hurrythis morning. Good-bye. " And for the first time I saw a look of chagrinmar the handsome face of Royal Lee. Before he could recover hiscustomary equanimity I was gone from the house. 

I walked, caring not where the way led. My brain was in a whirl. I feltas though I were fleeing from a crumbling precipice. In a flash Iunderstood Virginia's tactful attempts at warning. She had tried to makeme understand but my head was too easily turned by the fine speeches andflattering attentions of the musician. I have been vain and foolish butI've had my lesson. It still hurts and yet I can see the value of it. I'll be better qualified after this to discriminate between the falseand true. 

I am going home to-day! It came to me suddenly as I went back to myboarding-house after my long walk. I promised David I'd come home forarbutus and the inspiration came to go home for the whole spring andsummer. I'll write a note to Mr. Krause and one to Virginia. DearVirginia, she has been so good to me and helped me in so many ways! Ican never thank her enough. These eight months in Philadelphia have beena liberal education for me. I'll never regret them. I hope to come backin the fall and go on with the music lessons. By that time Royal Leewill have found another to make love to. 

So I'm going home to-day, back to Lancaster County. The trees are greenand the flowers are out--oh, I'm wild to get back!

CHAPTER XXVI

"HAME'S BEST"

LANCASTER COUNTY never before looked so fertile, so lovely, as it didthat April day when Phœbe returned to it after a long winter inPhiladelphia. 

As she came unexpectedly there was no one to meet her at Greenwald. Shestarted across the street and was soon on the dusty road leading to thegray farmhouse. 

"Let me see, " she thought, "this is Friday afternoon and Aunt Maria willbe scrubbing the kitchen floor. "

But when the girl reached the kitchen of the gray house and tiptoedgently over the sill she found the big room in order and Aunt Mariaabsent. 

"Why, " she thought, "is Aunt Maria sick?" She opened the door to thesitting-room and there, seated by a window, was Aunt Maria with a ballof gray wool in her lap and five steel knitting needles plying in herhands. 

"Aunt Maria!"

"Why, Phœbe!"

The exclamations came simultaneously. 

"What in the world are you doing? I mean why aren't you cleaning thekitchen? Oh, Aunt Maria, you know what I mean! I never saw you sittingdown early on a Friday afternoon. "

Aunt Maria laughed. "I ain't sick! You can see what I'm doin'; I'mknittin'. Ain't you learned to do it yet? I can learn you. "

"Why, I know how. But what are you knitting? For the Red Cross?"

"Why not? You think the ladies in Phildelphy are the only ones do that?There's a Red Cross in Greenwald and they are askin' all who can tohelp. I used to knit all my own stockings still so I thought I'd pitchright in. I let the cleanin' slide a little this week so I could get agood start on this once. "

The girl gasped and looked at her aunt in wonder. All the days of herlife she had never known her aunt to "let the cleanin' slide, " if thephysical strength were there to do the work. Aunt Maria was working forthe Red Cross! While she, who had scorned the country folks and calledthem narrow, had knitted half-heartedly and spent the major part of hertime in the pursuit of pleasure, the people of the little town andsurrounding country had been doing real work for humanity. 

"I think you're splendid, Aunt Maria, to help the Red Cross, " she saidwith enthusiasm. 

The woman looked up from her knitting. "Why, how dumb you talk! I guessabody wants to help. Them soldiers are fightin' for us. Now you can getyourself something to eat. It vonders me, anyhow, why you come home thistime of the year. You said you'd stay till June. "

"I came because I want to be here. "

"So. Then I guess you got enough once of the city. "

"Yes, " said Phœbe, laughing. "But how is everybody?"

"All pretty good. But a lot of boys from round here went a'ready toenlist. I ain't for war, but I guess it has to come sometimes. But it'shard for them that has boys. "

"David?" Phœbe asked. "Has he gone?"

"Ach, no, not him. He's got his mom to take care of. "

Phœbe remembered Virginia's words, "We can't get away from it, we're init. " The thought of them made her feel depressed. "I'm going to forgetthe war, " she thought after a moment, "I'm going to forget it forto-morrow and have one perfect day in the mountains hunting arbutus. "

CHAPTER XXVII

TRAILING ARBUTUS

IT was a balmy day in April when Phœbe and David drove over the countryroads to the mountains where the trailing arbutus grow. 

"Spring o' the year, " called the meadow-larks in clear, piercing tones. 

"It is spring o' the year, " said Phœbe. "I know it now. But last week Ifelt sure that the calendar was wrong and I wondered whether God madeonly English sparrows this year; that was all I could see. Then I saw afew birds early this week when we went along the Wissahickon for a longwalk. Oh, no, " she said in answer to the unspoken question in his eyes, "I did not go alone with a man. In Philadelphia one does not do that. Iwent properly chaperoned by Mrs. Hale. Virginia and Royal and severalothers were in the party. You should have been there; you would haveenjoyed it for you know so much about birds and flowers. Royal didn'tknow a spring beauty from a bloodroot, and when we heard a song-sparrowhe said it was a thrush. "

David threw back his head and laughed. "Some nature student he must be!But it must be fine along the Wissahickon. I have read about it. "

"It is fine, but this is finer. "

"You better say so!"

"Oh, look, David, the soil is pink!" She pointed to a tilled field whosesoil was colored a soft old rose color. "I'm always glad to see the pinksoil. "

"So am I. It means that we are getting near the mountains. We'll driveover to Hull's tavern and leave the carriage there, then we can go tothe patch of woods near the tavern where we used to find the greatbeauties, the fine big ones. There's the old tavern now. " He pointed toa building with a fine background of wooded hills. 

Hull's tavern, a rambling structure erected in 1812, is still aninteresting stopping-place for summer excursionists and travelersthrough that mountainous section of Pennsylvania. Situated on the southside of the beautiful South Mountains and overlooking the richest ofhills, it has long been a popular roadhouse, accommodating many pleasureparties and hikers. 

Phœbe wandered about on the long porches while David took the horse tothe stable. 

"Now then, " he said as he joined her, "give me the lunch box and we'llbe off. "

They walked a short distance in the loamy soil of the mountain road andthen turned aside and scrambled up a steep bank to a tract of woodland. Phœbe sank on her knees in the dry, brown leaves and pushed aside theleaves. "There, " she cried in triumph a moment later, "I found the firstone!" She lifted a small cluster of trailing arbutus and gave it toDavid. 

"Um-ah, " he said, in imitation of a little girl of long ago. 

"Little Dutchie, " she answered. "But you can't provoke me to-day. I'mtoo happy to be peevish. Come, kneel down, you'll never find arbutuswhen you stand up. "

"I'm down, " he said as he knelt beside her. "I'd go on my knees to findarbutus any day. "

"So would I---- Oh, look at this--and this! They are perfect. " Shefairly trembled with joy as she uncovered the waxlike flowers of daintypink and white. "I could bury my nose in them forever. "

"They are perfect, " agreed the man. "Fancy living where you never sawany arbutus or had the joy of picking them. "

"I don't want to fancy that, it's too delicious being where they dogrow. Won't Mother Bab love them?"

"Yes. She'll keep them for days in water. That flower you gave her inPhiladelphia lasted four days. "

"These are better, " Phœbe said quickly, anxious to shut out all thoughtsof the city. Now that she was in the woods again she knew how hungry shehad been for them. "I am going to pick a bunch of big ones for MotherBab. "

"She would like the small ones every whit as much, " the man declared. 

"Perhaps better, " she mused. "She would say they are just as sweet andpretty. David, I don't know what I should have done without Mother Bab!My life was different, somehow, after she allowed me to adopt her. "

"She's great, isn't she?"

"Wonderful! I have many friends, many new ones, many dear ones, butthere is only one Mother Bab. "

The man's hands trembled among the arbutus--did the admiration touchMother Bab's son? Could the dreams of his heart ever come true?

"You know, " Phœbe went on, "if I could always have her near me, in thesame house, I'd be less unworthy of calling her Mother Bab. "

It was well that she bent over the dry leaves and blossoms and missedthe look that flooded the face of the man for a moment. She wanted to bewith Mother Bab--should he tell her of his love? But the very fact thatshe spoke thus was evidence that she did not love him as he desired. Andthe war must change his most cherished plans for the future, change themgreatly for a time. If he went and never returned it would be harder forher if he went as her lover. As it was he was merely her old comrade andfriend; he could read from her manner that no deeper feeling had touchedher--not for him, but he wondered about the musician----

The spell was broken when Phœbe spoke again: "Do you know, Davie, I readsomewhere that arbutus can't be made to grow anywhere except in its ownwoods, that the most skilful hand of man or woman can't transplant it toa garden where the soil is different from its native soil. "

"I never heard that before, but I remember that I tried several timesand failed. I dug up a big box of the soil to make it grow, but itlasted several months and died. Let us go along this path and find anew bed; we have almost cleaned this one. "

"See"--she raised her bunch of flowers--"I didn't take a single root, sonext year when we come we shall find as many as this year. They are tooaltogether lovely to be exterminated. "

They moved about the woods, finding new patches of the fragrant flowers, until they declared it would be robbery to take another one. 

"Let's eat, " she suggested; "I'm hungry as a bear. "

"Race you to that big rock, " cried David and began to run. Phœbefollowed through the brush and dry leaves, but the farmer covered thedistance too quickly for her. 

"Now I'm hungry, " she said, panting; "I'll eat more than my share of thelunch. "

She climbed to the top of the boulder and they sat side by side, thelunch box resting on David's knees. 

"Now anything you want ask for, " said he. 

"I will not!" She delved into the box and brought out a sandwich. "It'smine as much as yours. "

"Going in for Woman's Suffrage and Rights and the like?" he asked, laughing. 

"Ugh, " she wrinkled her nose, "don't mention things like that to-day. Idon't want to hear about war or work or problems or anything but justpure joy this day! I earned this perfect day this year. This is to be aday of all-joy for us. Have another sandwich? I'm going to--this makesonly four more left for each. Aunt Maria knew what she was doing whenshe made me take this big box of lunch for just us two. Now, aren't youglad that I brought lunch in a box instead of eating our dinner atHull's as you suggested?" she said as she kicked her feet, little girlfashion, against the side of the boulder. 

"Of course I am glad. I was afraid you might like dinner at the tavernbetter, that is why I suggested it. "

"Don't you know me better than that? Why, we can eat in dining-roomsthree hundred and sixty-four days in every year. This is one day when weeat in the birds' dining-room. "

"I am enjoying it, Phœbe. It is the first picnic I have had for a longtime. I can't tell how I'm drinking in the joy of it. "

"Now, " said Phœbe later, when the last crumb had been taken out of thelunch box, "we can pack the arbutus in this box. If you find some dampmoss I'll arrange them. "

She laid the flowers on the cushion of moss, covered them with a fewdamp leaves and closed the box. "That will keep them fresh, " she said. "Now for our drink of mountain water, then home again. "

Farther in the woods they found the spring. In a little cove edged withlaurel bushes and overhung with chestnut trees and tall oaks it sent upa bubbling fountain of cold water. 

"I'm sorry the picnic is over, " said Phœbe as she leaned over the clearwater and drank the cold draught. 

"There is still the lovely drive home, " he consoled her. 

"Yes, " she said as they turned and walked back through the woods to theroad again, "and I shall remember this day for a long time. In thespring it's dreadful to be shut in the city. "

"I believe you are growing tired of Philadelphia. "

"Yes and no. I love the many things to do and see there, but on a daylike this I think the country is the place to really enjoy the spring. Iwish you could come down some time to the city; there are many places ofinterest you would like to visit. "

"Yes. " He opened his lips to tell her that he was soon to be in theservice of his country, then he remembered that she had said she did notwant to hear the word war on that day, it must be a day of all joy, sohe closed his mouth resolutely and merely smiled in answer as sheentered the carriage for the ride home. They spoke of many things; shewas gay with the childish happiness she always felt in the woods or opencountry roads. He answered her gaiety, but his heart ached. What did thefuture hold for him? Would she, perchance, love another before he couldreturn--would he return?

"Look, " Phœbe said after they had driven several miles, "it is going tostorm--see how dark! We are going to have an April storm. "

Even as they looked up black clouds moved swiftly across the sky. Theyturned and looked toward the mountains behind them--the summits wereshrouded in dense blackness; the whole countryside was being envelopedin a gloom like the gloom of late twilight. There was an ominous silencein the air, living things of the fields and woods scurried to shelter;only a solitary red-headed woodpecker tapped noisily upon a dead treetrunk. 

Suddenly sharp flashes of lightning darted in zigzag rays through thegloom. 

Phœbe gripped the side of the carriage. "The storm is following us, " shesaid. "Look at the hills--they are black as night. Can we get homebefore the storm breaks over us?"

"Hardly. It travels faster than we can, and we still have four moremiles to go. "

The horse sniffed the air through inflated nostrils and sped unbiddenover the country road. The lightning grew more vivid and blinding anddarted among the hills with greater frequency; loud peals of thunderechoed and reëchoed among the mountains. Then the rain came. In greatsplashes, which increased rapidly, it poured its cool torrents upon theearth. 

Phœbe laughed but David shook his head. "We'll have to stop some placetill it's over. You're getting wet. I'll drive in this barnyard. "

Amid the deafening crashes of thunder and the steady downpour of rainthey ran through the barnyard and up the path that led to the house. Asthey stepped upon the porch a door was opened and a woman appeared. 

"Why, come right in!" she greeted them. "This is a bad storm. "

"If you don't mind, " Phœbe began, but the woman was talkative and brokein, "Now, I just knowed there'd be company come to-day yet! This afterwhen I dried the dishes I dropped a knife and fork and that's a suresign. Mebbe you don't believe in signs?"

"They come true sometimes, " said Phœbe. 

"Ach, yes, my granny used to plant her garden by the signs in thealmanac. Cabbage, now, must be planted in the up-sign. But mebbe you'rehungry after your drive? I'll get some cake. "

"We had lunch----"

"Ach, if your man's like mine he can eat cake any time. " She opened adoor that led to the cellar and soon returned with a plate piled highwith cake. "Now eat, " she invited. "But, ach, I just thought of it--yousaid you come from Greenwald--then I guess you know about Caleb Warnerdying, killing himself, or something. "

"Caleb Warner dying!" David echoed. He half started from his chair, thensank with a visible effort at self-control. 

"Yes. I guess you know him. My mister was in to dinner a while ago andhe said it went over the 'phone at Risser's and Jacob Risser told himthat Caleb Warner of Greenwald was dead. It was from gas or somethingfunny like that. It's the Warner that sold that oil stock and goldstock. You know him?"

David nodded, his lips dry. 

"Well, I guess now a lot of people will lose money. There's a lady livesnear here that gave him almost all her money for some of his stock. Fora while she got big interest from it, but then it stopped and now sheain't got hardly enough money to live. And I guess a lot will losemoney. My mister had no time for that stock. But if the man's dead nowwe should let him rest, I guess. "

"Yes----" David braced himself. "The rain is over. Phœbe, we must go. "

He smiled to the little woman as he gripped her hand. "You have beenvery kind to us and we appreciate it. "

"Yes, indeed, " echoed Phœbe. "I hope we have not kept you from yourwork. "

"Ach, I can work enough to-day yet. I like company and I don't have muchof it week-days. Um, ain't it good smelly after the rain?" She sniffed, smiling, as she followed Phœbe and David down the path to the barnyard. 

"Good-bye, " she called as they drove off. "Safe home. "

"Thank you. Good-bye, " Phœbe called over the side of the carriage. Then, as they entered again upon the country road, she turned to her placebeside David. 

She looked up at him. All the light and joy had faded from his face; hestared straight head, though he must have felt her eyes' intent gazeupon him. 

"David, " she said softly, "what is wrong?"

"Nothing, " he lied. 

"Seems you look different, " she persisted. "Is it anything about CalebWarner's death?"

"I'm not much of a stoic, Phœbe. I should have hidden my worry. But youmust forget it; we must not let it spoil our perfect day. It really isno great matter. I am affected, in some way you can't know, by hisdeath, but I'll get over it, " he tried to treat the matter lightly. 

But Phœbe felt a sudden heaviness of heart. She was almost certain thatDavid had had no money to buy any stock from Caleb Warner, therefore, she jumped to the conclusion, it must be that David cared for MaryWarner, as town gossip said he did, and that the death of the girl'sfather would affect him. She felt hurt and baffled and sorely rebuffedat the withholding of David's confidence and was worried as she saw themarks of worry in the face of the man. Womanlike, she felt certain thatthe other girl was not good enough for David. Mary Warner, beautiful, aristocratic in bearing and manner--what had she to do with a man likeDavid Eby! Was an incipient engagement with Mary Warner the Aladdin'slamp David had mentioned several times as being on the verge of rubbingand thus become rich? The thought left her trembling; she shivered inthe April sunshine. When David spoke it was with an abstracted manner, and the girl beside him finally said, "Oh, don't let us talk. Let usjust sit and look at the fields and enjoy the scenery. "

She said it calmly enough, but the man beside her could not know that itrequired the last shreds of her courage to keep her voice from breaking. She would not let David see that she cared if he did care for MaryWarner! Of course, she didn't want to marry him, it was merely that sheknew Mary was too haughty for him. Mother Bab would also say that he wastoo different from Mary, that he was too fine for her. Then sheremembered that Mother Bab had said on the previous evening that theWarners had taken David to Hershey recently in their fine new car. Sheshook herself in an effort at self-control. "Phœbe, " she thought, "you're selfish! You go to Philadelphia and you go out with Royal Leeand dance with other young men, and yet, when David pays attention toanother girl you have a spasm!"

But the self-administered discipline failed to correct her attitude. Sheknew their day of all-joy was changed for her as it had been changed forDavid. The jealousy in her heart could not be quite overcome. She wasglad when they reached familiar fields and were on the road nearGreenwald. 

"Will you come in?" she invited as she left the carriage. 

"No. I better go right home. "

"I'll divide the flowers, David. "

"Oh, keep them all. "

"No, indeed. Mother Bab would be disappointed if you brought her none. "

She opened the box, separated half of the arbutus from their mates andlaid them in the uplifted corner of her coat. "There, " she said, "therest are yours and Mother Bab's. It was perfect in the woods to-day. Thank you----"

But he interrupted her. "It is I who must say that, Phœbe! This has beena great day. I'll never forget the glorious hour when we were on ourknees and pushed away the leaves and found the arbutus. That issomething to take with one, to remember when the days are not perfect asthis one. "

He laid his fingers a moment on her hand as she held the corner of hercoat to keep the flowers from falling, then he turned and jumped intothe carriage. 

"Give my love to Mother Bab, " she said. 

He turned, smiled and nodded, then started off. Phœbe stood at the gateand watched the carriage as it went slowly up the steep road by thehill. Her thoughts were with the man who was going home to his mother, going with trailing arbutus in his hands and some great unhappiness inhis heart. 

"Is it always so?" she thought. "We carry fragrance in our hands, butwhat in our hearts?" For the time she was once more the old sympathetic, natural Phœbe, eager to help her friend in need, feeling the divinelonging to comfort one who was miserable. "Oh, Davie, Davie, " shethought as she went into the house, "I wish I could help you. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

MOTHER BAB AND HER SON

WHEN David drove over the brow of the hill and down the green lane tothe little house he called home he caught sight of his mother in hergarden. He whistled. At the sound Mother Bab rose from the soft earth inwhich she was working and straightened, smiling. She raised a hand toshade her eyes and waited for the coming of her boy, dreaming of apossible separation from him, dreaming long mother-dreams while he tookthe horse and carriage to the barn. 

When he returned he had mustered all his courage and was smiling--hewould be a stoic as long as he could, but he knew that his mother wouldsoon discover that all was not well with him. 

"Here, mother. " He gave her the box of arbutus. 

"Then you got some, Davie!" She buried her face in the cool, sweetblossoms. "Oh, how sweet they are! Did you and Phœbe have a good time?Did she enjoy it as much as she always used to enjoy a day in thewoods?"

She looked up suddenly from the flowers and caught him unawares. "Whatis wrong?" she asked with real concern. "Did you and Phœbe fall out?"

"No, " he shook his head. He knew that attempts at subterfuge and evasionwould be vain. "No, mommie, no use trying to deceive you any longer--Ifell out with myself--I wish I could keep it from you, " he added slowly;"I know it's going to hurt you. "

"You tell me, Davie. I've lived sixty years and never yet met a troubleI couldn't live through. Tell me about it. "

She placed the box of arbutus in the garden path and laid her hand onhis arm. 

"Oh, mommie, " he blurted out, almost sobbing, "I'm ashamed of myself!You'll be ashamed of your boy. "

"It's no girl----" the mother hesitated. 

He answered with a vehement, "No!"

"Then tell me, " she said softly. "I can look in your eyes and hear youtell me most anything so long as you need not tell me that you havebroken the heart or spoiled the soul of a girl. "

She spoke gently, but the man cried out, "Thank God, I have nothing likethat to confess! You know there is only one girl for me. I could neverlook into her eyes if I had betrayed the trust of any girl. I havedreamed of growing into a man she could love and marry, but I failed. Iwanted to offer her more than slavery on a farm, I wanted to havesomething more than the few hundreds I scraped together. I took the fivehundred dollars we skimped for and bought stock of Caleb Warner--youheard that he died?"

"Phares told me. "

"I guess the five hundred dollars is gone with him! I heard of othermen getting rich by buying gold and oil stock so I took a chance andstaked all the spare money I had. "

"It was your money, Davie. "

"You called it mine, but you helped to earn and save it. Caleb promisedme he would sell half of the stock for me at a great profit in a week ortwo, and I could keep the other half for the big dividends it would payme soon--now he's dead, and the stock is probably worthless. "

He looked miserably at her troubled face. She flung her arm about himand led him to a seat under the budded cherry tree. "We must sit downand talk it over, " she said. "Perhaps it isn't so bad as you think. Areyou sure the stock is worth nothing? Perhaps you can get something outof it. "

"Perhaps I can. " He brightened at the suggestion. 

"Well, " she went on, "I can't say that I think you did right to buy thestock and try to get rich quick. You know that money gotten that way istainted money, more or less. To earn what you have and have a little isbetter and safer than to have much and get it in such a way. But it'stoo late to preach about that now--I guess I didn't tell you that oftenenough and hard enough before this, or else you wouldn't have wanted tobuy the stock. It is partly my fault, for I thought some time ago youtalked as though you were getting the money craze, but I thought itwould soon wear off. You did a foolish thing, but there's no use cryingabout it. You see you did wrong and are sorry, so that is all there isto it. I'm not sorry you lost on the stock, for if you made on it thecraze would go deeper. I can live without the few extra things thatmoney would buy. "

"Don't be so forgiving, mother! Scold me! I'd feel less like a criminal. But here comes Phares; he'll give me the scolding you're saving me. "

The preacher crossed the lawn and advanced to the seat under the cherrytree. 

"Aunt Barbara, " he began, then noted the troubled look on the face ofDavid and asked, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing, " said David, "except that I have some of Caleb Warner'sstock. "

"You do? Whatever made you buy that?"

David spoke as calmly as possible. "I wanted to be rich, that's all. ButI guess I was never intended to be that. "

"I'm afraid you are going to be sorry, " said the preacher very soberly. "I just came from town and they say things look bad for the investors. They said first that Warner was asphyxiated accidentally, but he was sodeep in a hole with investing and re-investing other people's money andhis own and he had lost so much that people think this was the easiestway out of it all for him. I suppose it will be hushed up and no onewill ever know just how he died. There are at least twenty people intown and farms near here who are worried about their money since hedied. Did you have much stock?"

"Five hundred dollars' worth. "

"If people were as eager to lay up treasures in heaven----" the preachersaid thoughtfully. 

"If they were, " said David, struggling to keep the wrath from his wordsand voice. "I know, Phares, you can't understand why everybody shouldnot be as good as you. I wish I were--mother should have had a son likeyou. I'm the black sheep of the Eby family, I suppose. "

"No, no!" cried Mother Bab. "We all make mistakes! You are good andnoble, David. I am proud of you, even if you do err sometimes. "

"We must make the best of it, " said the preacher. "Perhaps the stock isnot quite worthless. If I were you I'd go to the lawyer in Lancaster. He'll see you at his house if you 'phone in. "

"Mighty good to think of that for me, " said David, gripping the hand ofhis cousin. "I'll go in to-night. "

Several hours later David Eby sat before a lawyer and waited for theverdict. "I'm sorry, " the lawyer shook his head. "The stock isworthless. Six months ago you might have sold it; now it's dead as adoor-nail. "

"Guess it was a wildcat scheme, " said David. 

A few minutes later he went out to the street. His Aladdin's lamp wassmashed! What a fool he had been!

When he reached home Mother Bab read the news in his face. "Never mind, "she said bravely, "we'll get along without that money. "

"Yes--but"--David spoke slowly, as if fearing to hurt her further--"Ihoped to have a nice bank account for you to draw on when--when I go. "

"You mean----" Mother Bab stopped suddenly. Something choked her, butshe faced him squarely and looked up into his face. 

"Yes, mother, I mean that I must go. You want me to go, don't you?"

"Yes. " The word came slowly, but David knew how truly she felt it. "Youmust go. I knew it right away when I saw that we were called of God tohelp in the fight for world peace and righteousness. You must go; thereis nothing to keep you. Phares will look after the little farm. I spoketo him about it last week----"

"Mother, you knew then!"

"I saw it in your face as soon as war was declared. Phares was lovelyabout it and said he could just as well take your few acres in with hisand pay a percentage to me for the crops he'll get from them. Phares iskind; he has a big heart, for all his queer ways and his strict views. "

"Phares is too good to be related to me, mommie. I'm ashamed of myself. "

"Ach, you two are just different, that's all. I can go over and stay attheir house. Did you tell Phœbe you are going?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell her yesterday. We had such a greatday in the woods finding the arbutus, eating our lunch on a rock andacting just like we used to when we were ten years younger. She nevermentioned war and I could not seem to break into that day of gladnessto speak about the subject. I meant to tell her all about it when we gothome, but then that storm came up and we stopped at a farmhouse and Iheard about Caleb Warner. It struck me so hard I was just no good afterthat. I'll be a dandy soldier, won't I?"

He laughed and took the little woman in his arms. When, some momentslater, he held the white-capped mother at arms' length and smiled intoher face neither knew if the wet lashes were caused by laughter ortears. 

"Some soldier you'll make, " she said as she looked at him, tall, broadof shoulder, straight of spine. "Some soldier or sailor you'll make!"

CHAPTER XXIX

PREPARATIONS

THE days following the death of Caleb Warner were days of anxiety toother inhabitants of the little town who, like David, had purchasedstock with glorious visions of sudden gain. In a short time the list ofWarner's unfortunate investors was known and they were accorded variousdegrees of sympathy, rebuke or ridicule. The thing that hurt David wasnot so much the knowledge that some were speaking of him in condemnationor pity as the fact that he merited the condemnation. 

But he had neither time nor inclination for self-pity. His country wascalling for his services and he knew his duty was to offer himself. Hecould not conscientiously say his mother had urgent need of him for heknew that the little farm would supply enough for her maintenance. 

Phares Eby, although a preacher among a sect who, as a sect, could notsanction the bearing of arms, accepted the decision of his cousin withno show of disapproval. "I don't believe in wars, " he said gravely, "butthere seems to be no other way this time. One of the Eby family shouldgo. I'll be glad to keep up your farm and help look after your motherwhile you are gone. The most I can do here will be less than you aregoing to do, but I'll raise the best crops I can and help in the foodend of it. "

"You'll do your part here, Phares, and it will count. You're a bona-fidefarmer. You'll have our little place a record farm when I get back. You're a brick, Phares!" For the first time in months he felt a genuineaffection for his preacher cousin. Preaching, prosaic Phares, how kindhe was!

Lancaster County measured up to its fair standard in those first tryingdays of recruit gathering. The sons of the nation answered when shecalled. Pennsylvania Dutch, hundreds of them, rallied round the flag andproved beyond a doubt that the real Pennsylvania Dutch are notGerman-American, but loyal, four-square Americans who are keeping thefaith. Two hundred years ago the ancestors of the present PennsylvaniaDutch came to this country to escape tyranny, and the love of freedomhas been transmitted from one generation to another. The plain sects, soflourishing in some portions of the Keystone State, consider war anevil, yet scores of men in navy blue and army khaki have come from homeswhere the mother wears the white cap, and have gone forth to do theirpart in the struggle for world freedom. 

As David Eby measured the days before his departure he felt grateful toMother Bab for refraining from long homilies of advice. Her whole lifewas a living epistle of truth and nobility and she was wise enough todiscern that what her son wanted most in their last days together washer customary cheerfulness--although he knew that at times thecheerfulness was a bit bluffed!

News travels fast, even in rural communities. The people on the Metzfarm soon learned of David's loss of money and of his desire to enterthe navy. 

"Why didn't you tell me about the stock?" Phœbe chided him. 

"I couldn't. It knocked me out--it changed some of my plans. I knewyou'd despise me and I couldn't stand that too that day. "

"Despise you! How foolish to think that. Of course it's better to earnyour money, but I think you learned your lesson. "

"I have. I'll never try to get rich quick. "

"And you're going to war!" The words were almost a cry. "What doesMother Bab say? How dreadful for her!"

"Dreadful?" he asked gently. "Phœbe, think a minute--would you rather bethe mother of a soldier or sailor than the mother of a slacker?"

"I would, " she cried. "A thousand times rather!" She clutched his sleevein her old impetuous manner. "I see now what it means, what war mustmean to us! We must serve and be glad to do it. Your going is making itreal for me. I'm proud of you and I know Mother Bab must be just aboutbursting with pride, for she always did think you are the grandest sonin the wide world. "

"Phœbe, you always stroke me with the grain. "

"That sounds as if you were a wooden pussy-cat, " she said merrily. "Butyou are just being funny to hide your deeper feelings. I know you, David Eby! Bet your heart's like lead this minute!"

"'I have no heart, '" he quoted. "'The place where my heart was you couldroll a turnip in. '"

She laughed, then suddenly grew sober. "I've been horribly selfish, " shesaid. "Having fine clothes and a good time and dreaming of fame throughmy voice have taken all my time during the past winter. I have takenonly the husks of life and discarded the kernels. I'm ashamed ofmyself. "

"You mustn't condemn yourself too much. It's natural to pass through aperiod when those things seem the greatest things in the world, but ifwe do not shake off their influence and see the need of having realthings to lay hold on we need to be jolted. I was money-mad, but I hadmy jolt. "

"Then we can both make a fresh beginning. And we'll try hard to beworthy of Mother Bab, won't we, David?"

David was mute; he could merely nod his head in answer. Worthy of MotherBab--what a goal! How sweet the name sounded from Phœbe's lips! Shouldhe tell her of his love for her? He looked into her face. Her eyes werelike clear blue pools but they mirrored only sisterly affection, hethought. Ah, well, he would be unselfish enough to go away withouttelling of the hope of his heart. If he came back there would be ampletime to tell her; it was needless to bind her to a long-absent lover. Ifhe came back crippled--if he never came back at all---- Oh, why delveinto the future!

CHAPTER XXX

THE FEAST OF ROSES

IN the little town of Greenwald there is performed each year in June aninteresting ceremony, the Feast of Roses. 

The origin of it dates back to the early colonial days when wigwam firesblazed in many clearings of this great land and Indians, fashioned afterthe similitude of bronze images, stole among the stalwart trees of theprimeval forests. In those days, about the year 1762, a tract of landcontaining the present site of the little town of Greenwald fell intothe hands of a German, who was so charmed by the fertility and beauty ofthe fields encircled by the winding Chicques Creek that he laid out atown and proceeded to build. The erection of those early houses entailedmuch labor. Bricks were imported from England and hauled fromPhiladelphia to the new town, a distance of almost one hundred miles. 

Some time later the founder built a glass factory in the new town, reputed to have been the first of its kind in America. Skilled workmenwere imported to carry on the work, and marvelously skilful they musthave been, as is proven by the articles of that glass still extant. Itis delicately colored, daintily shaped, when touched with metal itemits a bell-like ring, and altogether merits the praise accorded it byevery connoisseur of rare and beautiful glass. 

Tradition claims that the founder of that town was of noble birth, buthis right to a title is not an indisputable fact. It is known, however, that he lived in baronial style in his new town. His red brick mansionwas a treasure house of tapestries, tiles and other beautifulfurnishings. 

However, whether he was a baron or an untitled man, he merits a share ofadmiration. He was founder of a glass factory, builder of a town, founder of iron works, religious and secular instructor of his employeesand citizens, and earnest philanthropist. 

The last rôle resulted in his financial embarrassment. There is anominous silence in the story of his life, then comes the informationthat the man who had done so much for others was left at last tolanguish in a debtors' jail, die unbefriended and be buried in anunknown grave. 

In the days of his prosperity he gave to the congregation of theLutheran Church in his town a choice plot of ground, the considerationbeing the sum of five shillings and an annual rental of one red rose inJune. 

Years passed, the man died, and either through forgetfulness ornegligence the annual rental of one red rose was unpaid for many years. Then, one day a layman of the church found the old deed and the peopleprepared to pay the long-neglected debt once more. Since that renewalthere is set apart each June a Sabbath day upon which the rose is paidto the nearest descendant of the founder of the town. They give but onered rose, but all around are roses, roses, and it seems most fitting tocall the unique occurrence the Feast of Roses. 

If ever the little town puts on royal garb it is on the Feast of RosesSabbath. For days before the ceremony the homes of Greenwald arebeehives of industry. That day each train and trolley, every countryroad, is crowded with strangers or old acquaintances coming into thetown. A heterogeneous crowd swarms through the street. The curiousvisitor who comes to see, the dreamer who is attracted by the romance ofthe rose, the careless youth who rubs his sleeve against some portlyjudge or senator; the tawdry, the refined, the rich, the poor--all meetin the crowd that moves to the red brick church in which the Feast ofRoses is held. 

The old church of that early day has been removed and in its place amodern one has been erected, but by some happy inspiration of thebuilders the new church is devoid of the garish ornamentation that istoo often found in churches. Harmonious coloring, artistic beauty, makeit a fitting place for a Feast of Roses. 

When Phœbe Metz entered the church to keep her promise to sing at theservice she found an eager crowd waiting for the opening. Everyavailable space was occupied; people stood in the rear aisles, otherswaited in the churchyard by the open windows and hoped to catch theresome stray parts of the service. 

Phœbe pushed her way gently through the crowd at the door and stood inthe aisle until an usher saw her and directed her to a seat near theorgan. The pink in her cheeks grew deeper. "I'll sing my best forGreenwald and the Feast of Roses, " she thought. "And for David! He's inthe crowd. He said he's coming to hear me sing. "

At the appointed hour the pipe-organ pealed out. The June sunlightstreamed through the open windows, fell upon the banks of roses, andgleamed upon the fountain that played in the midst of the crimsonflowers. Peace brooded over the place as the last strains of music died. There was silence for a moment, then a prayer, a hymn of adoration, andthen the chosen speaker stood before the crowd and delivered hismessage. 

Phœbe listened to him until he uttered the words, "True life must beservice, true love must be giving. No man has reached true greatnesssave he serves, and he who serves most faithfully is greatest in thekingdom. "

After those words she fell to thinking. Many things that had been darkto her suddenly became light. She seemed to see Royal Lee fiddling whilethe world was in travail, but beside him rose a vision of David insailor's blue, ready to do his whole duty for his country. 

"Oh, " she thought, "I've been blind, but now I see! It's David I want. He's a man!"

She heard as in a dream the words of the one who presented the red roseto the heir. "Once more the time has come to pay our debt of one redrose. It is with cheerfulness and reverence we pay our rental. Amidthese bright surroundings, in the presence of the many who have come towitness this unique ceremony, do we give to you in partial payment ofthe debt we owe--ONE RED ROSE. "

The heir received the flower and expressed her appreciation. Thensilence settled upon the place and Phœbe rose to sing. 

As the organ sent forth the opening strains of music the people in thechurch looked at each other, surprised, disappointed. Why, that was theold tune, "Jesus, Lover of my soul. " The tune they had heard sunghundreds of times--was Phœbe going to sing that? With so many impressiveselections to choose from no soloist need sing that old hymn! Some ofthe town people thought disdainfully, "Was that all she could sing aftera whole winter's study in Philadelphia!"

But Phœbe sang the old words to the old tune. She sang them with a newpower and sweetness. It touched the listeners in that rose-scentedchurch and revealed to them the meaning of the old hymn. The dependenceupon a divine guide, the utter impotence of mortal strength, breathed sopersuasively in the second verse that many who heard Phœbe sing itmentally repeated the words with her. 

 "Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee: Leave, ah! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me; All my trust on Thee is stayed; All my help from Thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of Thy wing. "

Then the hymn changed--hope displaced hopelessness, faith surmountedfear. 

 "Plenteous grace with Thee is found, Grace to cleanse from every sin; Let the healing streams abound, Make and keep me pure within; Thou of life the fountain art, Freely let me take of Thee: Spring Thou up within my heart, Rise to all eternity. "

The people in that rose-scented church heard the old hymn sung as theyhad never heard it sung before. A subdued hum of approval swept over thechurch as the girl sat down. She felt that she had sung well; her heartwas in a tumult of happiness. She was glad when one man rose and liftedhis hands in benediction. 

Again the organ throbbed with glad melodies. The eager crowd fell intoline and walked slowly to the altar to lay their roses there. Childrenwith half withered blossoms, maidens with bunches of crimson flowers, here and there a stranger with gorgeous hot-house roses, older men andwomen with the products of the gardens of the little town--all moved tothe spot where lay a bank of fragrant roses and placed their tributesthere. 

Phœbe added her roses to the others on the altar and left the church. Friends and acquaintances stopped to tell her how well she sang. But thewords that one short year ago would have filled her with overwhelmingpride in her own talent were soon crowded from her thoughts and therereigned there the words of the speaker, "No man has reached truegreatness save he serves. " She had learned great things at that Feast ofRoses service. She had looked deep into her own heart and on its throneshe had found David. 

He was waiting for her outside the church. 

"You sang fine, Phœbe, " he told her as they went down the streettogether. 

"Yes? I'm glad you liked it. "

Then they spoke of other things, of many things, but not one word of thethoughts lying deepest in the heart of each. 

Aunt Maria and Jacob were eating supper in the big kitchen when Phœbereached home. 

"Well, " greeted the aunt, "did you come once! We thought that Feast ofRoses would been out long ago. But when you didn't come for so long andsupper was made we sat down a while. Did you sing?"

"Yes, " the girl said as she removed her hat and gloves and drew a chairto the table. 

"Now, " cautioned the aunt, "put your apron on! That light goods in yourdress is nothin' for wear; everything shows on it so. And if you spillred-beet juice or something on it it'll be spoiled. "

"I forgot. " Phœbe took a blue gingham apron from a hook behind thekitchen door. "There, if I spoil it now you may have it for a rug. "

"Well, I guess that would be housekeepin'! And everything so high sincethe war!"

"Tell me about the Feast of Roses, " said the father. "Was the churchfull?"

"Packed! It was a beautiful service. "

"Well, " spoke up Aunt Maria, "I'm glad it's over and so are many people. Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumbto have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wantedto give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it?It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best redrose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withersright away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot ofbother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready fora lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visither that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guessshe's glad it's over for another year. "

CHAPTER XXXI

BLINDNESS

DAVID EBY had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald atseven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in thesoft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes andthe sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the freshcountry air. 

"Lancaster County, " he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough forme!"

Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. Hepaused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald, then almost ran down the road to his home. 

He whistled his old greeting whistle. 

"Here, David, I'm on the porch, " came his mother's voice. 

"Mommie, " he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, "I knew you'd belooking for me. "

Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mothersob. "Oh, mother, " he asked, "is my going away as hard as all that? Orare you only glad to see me?"

"Glad, " she replied, restraining her emotion. "Sit down on the bench, Davie. "

"Why--I didn't notice it first--you're wearing dark glasses again! Areyour eyes worse?"

"Sit down, Davie, sit down, " she said nervously. "That's right, " sheadded as he sat beside her and put one arm about her. 

"Now tell me, " he said imperiously. "Are you sure you're all right?You're not worrying about me?"

"No, I'm not worrying about you; I quit worrying long ago. But I musttell you--I wish I didn't have to--don't be scared--it's just about myeyes. "

"Tell me! Are they worse?"

She laid her hand on his knees. "Don't get excited--but--I can't see. "

"Can't see!" He repeated the words as though he could not understandthem. Then he put his hands on her cheeks and peered into her face inthe semi-darkness of the porch. "Not blind? Oh, mommie, not blind?"

She nodded, her lips trembling. "Yes, it's come. I'm blind. "

The words, fraught with so much sorrow, sounded like claps of thunder inhis ears. "Mother, " he cried again, "you can't be blind!"

"But I am. I knew it was coming. The light was getting dimmer every day. I could hardly see your face this morning when you went. "

"And I went away and you stayed here and went blind!" He broke into sobsand she allowed him to cry it out as they sat together in the darkness. 

"Come, " she said at length, "now you mustn't take on so. It's not asawful as you think. I said to Phares to-day that I'm almost glad it'shere, for it was awful to know it's coming. "

"But it's awful, " he shuddered. "Come in to the light and let me seeyou--but oh, you can't see me!"

"Yes I can. " She reached a hand to his face. "This is the way I see younow. The same mouth and chin, the same mole on your left cheek--that'sgood luck, Davie--the same nose with its little turn-up. "

"Mommie"--he grabbed her hands and kissed them--"there's not anotherlike you in the whole world! If I were blind I'd be groaning and moaningand making life miserable for everybody near me, and here you are yoursame cheerful self. You're the bravest of 'em all!"

"But you mustn't think that I haven't rebelled against this, that Ihaven't cried out against it! I've had my hours of weakness and tearsand rebellion. "

"And I never knew it. "

"No. Each one goes to Gethsemane alone. "

"But isn't it almost more than you can bear--to be blind?"

"It's dreadful at first. I stumble so and every little sill and rugseems a foot high. But I'll soon learn. "

"Is there nothing to do? What did Dr. Munster say about your eyes whenwe were down to see him?"

"He told me then I'd be blind soon. And he said the only thing mightsave my sight or bring it back was a delicate operation that would be abig risk, for it probably wouldn't help at any rate. So I'm notthinking of ever trying that. Now I don't want you to think I'm braveabout it. I've cried all my tears a month ago, so don't put me on anypedestal. It seems hard not to see the people I love and all thebeautiful things around me, but I'm glad I have the memory of them. I'mglad I know what a rainbow is, and a sunset. "

"Yes, but I think it's awful to know what they look like and never seethem again. I can't, just can't, realize that you're blind!"

"You will when you come back from war and have to fetch and carry forme. Your Aunt Mary and Phares are just lovely about it and willing tohelp in every way. I was going to live over with them at any rate. "

"I wish I could stay with you, mommie. You need me, but I guess UncleSam needs me too. I'm to go soon, you know. "

"You go, even if I am blind. I'm not helpless. It will be awkward for awhile but there are many things I can do. I can knit without seeing. "

"You're a wonder! But is there no hope?"

"Hope, " she repeated softly. "No hope of the kind you mean, except thatvery severe operation that would cost big money and then perhaps nothelp. But this world isn't all. I've always liked that part of Isaiah, 'The eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shallbe unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue ofthe dumb sing. ' I know now what it'll mean to us. It seems like theafflicted will have a special joy in that time. "

David was silent for a moment; his mother's words stirred in himemotions too great for ready words. 

Presently she continued, "But, Davie, this isn't heaven yet! And I'mconcerned just now about helping myself to live the rest of this lifethe best way I can. I can knit like a machine and I like to knitsocks----"

The remainder was left unsaid for the strong arms of her boy surroundedher and held her close while his lips were pressed upon her forehead. 

"Such a mother, " he breathed, as if the touch of her forehead bestowed abenediction upon him. "Such a mother!"

In the morning he brought the news to the Metz farmhouse. 

"Blind?" Phœbe cried. 

David nodded. 

"Blind! Mother Bab blind? Oh, it's too awful!"

"My goodness, " Aunt Maria said with genuine sorrow, "now that's too bad!Her blind and you goin' off to war soon!"

"I'm going up to see her, " said Phœbe, and went off with David. 

Mother Bab heard the girl's step and called gaily, "Phœbe, is that you?I declare, it sounds like you!"

Phœbe ran to the room where Mother Bab sat alone. The girl could notspeak at first; she twined her arms about the woman while her heartached with its poignant grief. Again it was the afflicted one whoturned comforter. "Come, Phœbe, you mustn't cry for me. Laugh like youalways did when you came to see me. "

"Laugh! Oh, Mother Bab, I can't laugh!"

"But, Phœbe, I'll want you to come up to see me every day when you canand you surely can't cry every time and be sad, so you might as wellbegin now to be cheerful. "

"But, Mother Bab, can't something be done?"

"Dr. Munster, the big doctor I saw in Philadelphia, said that only a bigoperation might help me, but he's not sure that even it would do anygood. And, of course, we have no money for it and at my age it doesn'tmatter so much. "

Later, as Phœbe walked down the hill again, she kept revolving in hermind what Mother Bab had said about the operation. An inspirationsuddenly flashed to her. The wonder of it made her stand still in theroad. 

"I know! I'll buy sight for Mother Bab! I will! I must! If it's onlymoney that's necessary, if there's any wonderful doctor can operate onher eyes and make her see again she's going to see! Oh, glory! What ahappy thought! I'm the happiest girl since that idea came to me! Themoney I meant to spend on more music lessons next winter will be put tobetter use; it will give Mother Bab a chance to see again! Why, I'drather have her _see_ than be able to call myself the greatest singer inthe world! But she'll never let me spend so much money for her. I knowthat. I'll have to make her believe the operation will be free. I canfool her in that, dear, innocent, trusting Mother Bab! She'd believe meagainst half the world. But I'm afraid I can't fool David so easily. Imust wait till he goes, then I'll write to Dr. Munster and start thingsgoing!"

CHAPTER XXXII

OFF TO THE NAVY

PHŒBE was glad when David came to her with the news that he had beenaccepted for the navy and was going to Norfolk. 

"That's so far away he won't come home soon, " she thought. "It'll giveme a chance to arrange for the operation. I hope he goes soon. That's adreadful thing to say! The days are all too short for Mother Bab, Iknow. "

If the days seemed Mercury-shod to the blind mother she did notcomplain. 

"It's hard to let you go, " she said to her boy, "but it would be harderto see you a slacker. Phœbe is going to read to me now when you go. She'll be up here often. "

"Yes, that makes it easier for me to go, mommie. "

"Don't you worry about me. Phœbe will be good company for me and she'llwrite my letters for me. We'll send you so many you'll be busy readingthem. "

"I'm going to make her promise that, " he declared with a laugh. 

He exacted the promise as Mother Bab and Phœbe stood with him and waitedfor the train to carry him away. "Mother, you and Phœbe must take me tothe train, " he had said. "I want you to be the last picture I see asthe train pulls out. " Phœbe had assented, though she thought ruefully ofthe deficiency of the English language, which has but one form forsingular _you_ and plural _you_. She wondered whether he included her inthe picture he wanted to cherish in his memory. Now, when he was goingaway from her she knew that she loved her old playmate, that he was theone man in the world for her. She loved David, she would always lovehim! She wanted to run to him and tell him so, but centuries ofrestriction had bequeathed to her the universal fear of womanhood toreveal a love that has not been sought. She felt that in all her lifeshe had never wanted anything so keenly as she wanted to hear David Ebytell her that he loved her, that her face would be with him in whatevercircumstances the future should place him. But David could not read theheart of his old playmate, and while his own heart cried out for itsmate his words were commonplace. 

"Mother has promised that I'm to have so many letters that I can't readthem all. As you're to be private secretary, you'll have to promise tocarry out her promise. "

"David, " she met him with equal jest, "you have as many promises in thatsentence as a candidate for political office. "

"But I want them better kept than that, " he said, laughing. "Will youpromise, Phœbe?"

"Promise what?" she asked, the levity fading suddenly. 

"To write often for mother. "

"Yes--I promise to write often for Mother Bab, " she said, and the mancould not know the effort the simple words cost her. "Oh, Davie, " shethought, "it's not for Mother Bab alone I want to write to you! I wantto write you _my_ letters, letters of a girl to the man she loves. Howblind you are!"

The moment was becoming tense. It was Mother Bab who turned the tideinto a normal channel. "Now, don't you worry, Davie. I can make Phœbemind me. "

The train whistled. Phœbe drew a long breath and prayed that the trainwould make a short stop and speed along for she could not endure muchmore. She looked at Mother Bab. The hysteria was turned from her. Sheknew she would have to be brave for the sake of the dear mother. 

"I'll take care of Mother Bab, David, " she promised as the train drewin, "and I'll write often. "

"Phœbe, you're an angel!" He grasped both hands in his for a longmoment. Then he turned to his mother, folded her in his arms and kissedher. 

"There he is, " Phœbe cried as the train moved. She was eyes for MotherBab. "Turn to the right a bit and wave; that's it! He's waving back----Oh, Mother Bab, he's waving that box of sand-tarts Aunt Maria gave him!They'll be in pieces!"

"Sand-tarts, " said the other, still waving to the boy she could not see. "Well, he'll eat them if they are broken. Davie is crazy for cookies. "

"I'm going to need you more than ever now, Phœbe, " Mother Bab said asthey started home. "Aunt Mary and Phares are so busy and I feel it's solovely of them to have me there when I can do so little to help, that Idon't want to make them more trouble than I must. So if you'll take careof the writing to David for me I'll be glad. " Ah, blind Mother Bab, youhad splendid vision just then!

"I'll write for you. I'll love to do it. Mother Bab----" She hesitated. Should she broach the subject of the operation now? Perhaps it would bekind to divert the thoughts of the mother from the recent parting. "Mother Bab, I've thought about what you said, and I think you shouldhave that operation. The doctor said there was a chance. "

"Ach, a very slim one. One chance in--I don't know how many!"

"But a chance!"

"Yes"--the woman thought a moment--"but it would cost lots of money, Iguess. I didn't ask the doctor, but I know operations are dear. I havefifty dollars saved, but that wouldn't go far. "

"But don't you know, " the girl said guilelessly, "that all big hospitalshave free rooms and do lots of work for nothing? Many rich people endowrooms in hospitals. If you could get into one like that and pay just alittle, would you go?"

A light seemed to settle upon the face of the blind woman. "Why, " sheanswered slowly, "why, Phœbe, I never thought of that! I didn'tremember--why, I guess I would--yes, of course! I'd go and make a fightfor that one chance!"

"I knew you'd be brave! You'll have that operation, Mother Bab! I'llwrite to Dr. Munster right away. But don't you let Phares write and tellDavid. We'll surprise him!"

"Ach, but won't he be glad if I can see when he comes home!"

"Won't he though! I'll make all the arrangements; don't you worry aboutit at all. "

"My, you're good to me, Phœbe!"

"Good--after all you've done for me!"

"_Good_, " she thought after Mother Bab had been left at the home ofPhares and Phœbe turned homeward. "She calls me good the first time Ideceive her. I've begun that tangled web and I know I'll have to tell awhole pack of lies before I'm through with it. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE ONE CHANCE

PHŒBE lost no time in carrying out her plans. When she mentioned theoperation to Phares Eby he looked dubious. 

"I'm afraid it's no use, " he said gravely. "Those operations very oftenfail. "

"But there's a chance, Phares! If it were your eyes wouldn't you snatchat any meagre chance?"

"Why, I guess I would, " he admitted, wondering at her insight into humannature and admiring her devotion to the blind woman. 

Aunt Maria also was sceptical. "Ach, Phœbe, it vonders me now thatBarb'll spend all that money for carfare and to stay in the city andthen mebbe it's all for nothin'. There was old Bevy Way and a lot of oldpeople I knowed went blind and they died blind. When abody gets so oldonce it seems the doctors can't do much. I guess it just is to be. "

"Oh, Aunt Maria, " Phœbe said hotly, "I don't believe in that is-to-bebusiness! Not until you've done all you can to make things better. "

"Well, mebbe, for all, it's worth tryin'. I guess if it was my eyes I'ddo most anything to get 'em fixed again. "

Mother Bab said little about the hopes Phœbe had raised, but the girlknew how the woman built upon having sight for a glad surprise forDavid. 

"I'm afraid the fifty dollars won't reach, " she said the day before theywere to take the trip to Philadelphia. 

"Don't worry about that. Those big doctors usually have hearts to match. I told you there are generous people who give lots of money tohospitals. "

"And I guess the hospitals pay the doctors then, " offered the woman. 

"I guess so, " Phœbe agreed. Her conscience smote her for the deceptionshe was practicing on the dear white-capped woman. "But what's the useof straining at every little gnat of a falsehood, " she thought, "whenI'm swallowing camels wholesale?"

She managed to secure a short interview with Dr. Munster before theexamination of Mother Bab's eyes. 

"I want to ask you what the operation is going to cost, hospital chargesand all, " she said frankly. 

"At least five hundred dollars. "

Phœbe's year in the city had taught her many things. She showed nosurprise at the amount named. "That will be satisfactory, Dr. Munster. But I want to ask you, please don't tell Moth--Mrs. Eby anything aboutit. I--it's to be paid by a friend. I know Mrs. Eby would almost faintif she knew so much money was going to be spent for her. She knows thatmany hospitals have free rooms and thinks some operations are free. Ileft her under that impression. You understand?"

The big doctor understood. "Yes, I see. Well, we'll run this one chanceto cover and make a fight. I wish I could promise more, " he said. 

"Thank you. I know you'll succeed. I'm sure she'll see again!"

True to his promise Dr. Munster answered Mother Bab so tactfully thatshe came out of his office feeling that "the physician is the flower ofour civilization, that cheerfulness and generosity are a part of hisvirtues. "

The optimism in Phœbe's heart tinged the blind woman's with its cheeryfaith. "I figure it this way, " the girl said; "we'll do all we can andthen if we fail there's time enough to be resigned and say it's God'swill. "

"Phœbe, you're a wonderful girl! Your name means _shining_, and thatjust suits you. You're doing so much for me. Why, you didn't even wantto let me pay your carfare down here!"

The girl winced again. "I must learn to wince without showing it, " shethought, "for after she sees she'll keep saying such things and I can'tspoil it all by letting her know the truth. "

Perhaps the optimistic words of Phœbe rang in the ears of the big doctoras he bent over Mother Bab's sightless eyes and began the tediousoperation. His hands moved skilfully, with infinite precision, cuttingto the infinitesimal fraction of an inch. 

Afterward, when Mother Bab had been taken away, he sought Phœbe. "Ihope, " he said, "that your faith was not unwarranted, though I can'tpromise anything yet. "

"Oh, I'm surer now than ever!" the girl said happily. 

But at times, in the days of waiting, her heart ached. What if theoperation had failed, what if Mother Bab would have to bear crueldisappointment? All the natural buoyancy of the girl's nature wasrequired to bear her through the trying days of waiting. With thedawning of the day upon which the bandage should be removed and thetruth known Phœbe's excitement could not be restrained. 

"I can't wait!" she exclaimed. "I want to be right there when he takesit off. I want you to see me first, since David isn't here. "

Long after that day it seemed to her that she could hear Mother Bab'sglad, sweet voice saying, "I can see!"

"I can see!" The words were electric in their effect. Phœbe gave anecstatic "Oh!" then hushed as her lips trembled. 

"You win, " the big doctor said to her. 

"Oh, no, not I! You! But I knew she'd see again!"

"She sees again, but, " he cautioned, "Mrs. Eby, there must be no readingor sewing or any close work to strain your eyes. "

"Oh, doctor, it's enough just to see again! I can do without the readingand writing, for Phœbe, here, does all that for me. And I'll not missthe sewing. I'm glad I can potter around the garden again and plantflowers and _see_ them and"--her voice broke--"I think it's wonderfulthere are men like you in the world!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

BUSY DAYS

THE news of the operation spread quickly and with it spread theinteresting information that Mother Bab was keeping her sight as asurprise for David. So it happened that no letters to him contained thenews, that even the town paper refrained from printing the item of heartinterest and David's surprise was unspoiled. 

His letters to Mother Bab were long and interesting and always requiredfrequent re-reading for the mother. 

"I wanted to read that letter awful bad, " she confessed to Phœbe oneday, "but I didn't. I'm not taking any chances with my eyes. I'm tooglad to be able to see at all. The letter came this morning and Pharesread it for me, but I want to hear it again. Will you read it, Phœbe?Did David write to you this week yet?"

"No. " The girl felt the color surging to her cheeks. "He doesn't writeto me very often. He knows I read your letters. "

"Ach, yes. I guess he's busy, too. It's a big change for him to belearning to be a sailor when he always had his feet on dry land. Butread the letter; it's a nice big one. "

Phœbe's clear laughter joined Mother Bab's at one paragraph: "Do youremember the blue sailor suits you used to make for me when I was a tinychap? And once you made me a real tam and I was proud as a peacock init. Well, since I'm here and wearing a sailor suit I feel like amasculine edition of Alice in Wonderland when she felt herself growingbigger and bigger and I wonder sometimes if I'll shrink back again andbe just that little boy. "

Another portion of the letter set Phœbe's voice trembling as she read, "I must tell you again, mother, how thankful I am that you made it somuch easier for me to go than I dreamed it could be. You are so fineabout it. With a mother as plucky as you I can't very well be ajelly-fish. It's great to have a mother one has to reach high to live upto. "

"Just like David, " said Phœbe as she laid the letter aside. "Of course Ithink war is dreadful, but the training is going to do wonders for manyof the men. "

"Yes, " said the white-capped woman. "Out of it some good will come. Selfishness is going to be erased clean from the souls of many people bythe time war is over. "

"But we must pay a big price for all we gain from it. "

"Yes--I wonder--I guess Davie will be going over soon. He said, youknow, that if we don't hear from him for a while not to worry. I guessthat means he thinks he'll be going over. "

When, at length, news came from the other side it was Phœbe who was thebringer of the tidings. 

"Oh, Mother Bab, " she cried breathlessly one day in autumn as she ranback from the gate after a visit from the postman, "it's a letter fromFrance!"

Phares Eby and his mother ran at the news and the four stood, an eagergroup, as Phœbe opened the letter. 

"Read it, Phœbe! He's over safely!" Mother Bab's voice was eager. 

"I--I can't read it. I'm too excited. I can't get my breath. You readit, Phares. "

The preacher read in his slow, calm way. 

 "_Somewhere in France. _

 "DEAR MOTHER:

 "You see by the heading I'm safe over here. I can't tell you much about the trip--no use wearing out the censor's pencils. The sea's wonderful, but I like dry land better. I'm on dry land now, in a quaint French village where the streets run up hill and the people wear strange costumes. The women wash their clothes by beating them on stones in the brook--how would the Lancaster County women like that?"

It was a long, chatty letter and it warmed the heart of the mother andinterested Phœbe and the others who heard it. 

"He's a great David, " the preacher said as he handed the letter toPhœbe. "I suppose you'll have to read it over and over to Aunt Barbara. "

He looked at the girl as he spoke. Her high color and shining eyes spokeeloquently of her interest in the letter. "Ah, " he thought, "I believeshe still _likes Davie best_. I'm sure she does. "

The preacher had been greatly changed by the events of the past year. He would always be a bit too strict in his views of life, a bit narrowin many things. Nevertheless, he was changed. He was less harsh in hisopinions of others since he had seen and heard how thousands who werenot of his religious faith had gone forth to lay down their lives thatthe world might be made a decent place in which to live. He, Phares Eby, preacher, had formerly denounced all that pertained to actors and thetheatre, yet tears had coursed down his cheeks as he had read theaccount of a famous comedian who had given his only son for the cause offreedom and who was going about in the camps and in the trenchesbringing cheer to the men. As the preacher read that he confessed tohimself that the comedian, familiar as he was with footlights, was doingmore good in the world than a dozen Phares Ebys. That one incident sweptaway some of the prejudice of the preacher. He knew he could neversanction the doings so many people indulge in but he felt at the sametime that those same pleasures need not have a damning influence uponall people. 

Phœbe noted the change in him. She felt like a discoverer of hiddentreasure when she heard of the influence he was exerting in behalf ofthe Red Cross and Liberty Loans. But she was finding hidden treasures inmany places those days. Strenuous, busy days they were but they heldmany revelations of soul beauty. 

Every link with Phœbe's former life in Philadelphia was broken save theone binding her to Virginia. That friendship was too precious to beshattered. The country girl had written a long letter to the city girl, telling of the decision to give up the music lessons. "My dear, dearfriend, " she wrote frankly, "you tried to keep me from being hurt, but Iwouldn't see. How I must have worried you and how foolish I was! I knowbetter now. I do not regret my winter in the city and I do appreciateall you did for me, but I am happy to be back on the farm again. I'mafraid I tried to be an American Beauty rose when I was meant to be justsome ordinary wild flower like the daisy or even the common yarrow. Iowe so much to you. We must always be friends. "

One day in late summer Phœbe fairly radiated joy as she hurried up thehill and ran down the road to the garden where Mother Bab was gatheringlarkspur seeds. 

"Oh, Mother Bab, I've such good news about Granny Hogendobler and OldAaron!"

"Come in, tell me!"

"I've been to town and stopped to see Granny. You know Old Aaron andtheir boy Nason fell out years ago about something the boy said aboutthe flag and was too stubborn to take back. "

"Yes, I know. "

"It was foolishness on the part of the father, of course, for he shouldhave known boys say things they don't mean. Well, the two kept on actingall these years like strangers. The old man grew bitter. Last year whenthe boys went to Mexico he said that if he had a son instead of ablockhead he'd be sending a boy to do his share down there. It almostkilled him to think of his boy sitting back while others went anddefended the flag. Well, Granny said yesterday she was in the yard andshe heard the gate click. She didn't pay any attention for she knew OldAaron was in the front yard under the arbor. But then she heard a cryand ran to see, and there was Old Aaron with his arms around a bigfellow dressed in a soldier uniform, and when the man turned his head itwas Nason! Granny said it was the greatest day in their lives and paidup for all the unhappy days when Old Aaron was cross and said meanthings about Nason. Nason had just a day to stay, but they made a day ofit. Granny said, 'I-to-goodness, but we had a time! Aaron wanted to killa chicken, for Nason likes chicken so much, but I knew that Aaron was soexcited he'd like as not only cripple the poor thing, so I said I'd killit while they talked. I made stuffing with onions in, like Nason likes, and I had just baked a snitz pie and I tell you we had a good dinner. But I bet them two didn't know what they ate, for they were all the timetalking about the war and bombs and Gettysburg and France till I didn'tknow what they meant. '"

"My, I'm glad for Granny and Old Aaron, " Mother Bab said. 

"And what do you think!" Phœbe went on. "They are changing the name ofPrussian Street, and some are talking of changing the name of the town, but I hope they won't do that. "

"No, it would be strange to have to call it something else after allthese years. "

"I think it's a grand joke, " said Phœbe, "that this little town wasfounded by a German and yet the town is strong American and doing itsbest to down the Potsdam gang. The people of Lancaster County are loyalto Old Glory and I'm glad I belong here. "

She appreciated her goodly heritage, not with any Pharisaical exultationbut with honest gratitude. 

"I have learned many things, Mother Bab, and this is one of the bigthings I've learned lately: to be everlastingly thankful to Providencefor setting me down on a farm where I could spend a childhood filledwith communications with nature. I never before realized what blessingsI've had all the years of my life. Why, I've had chickens to play withand feed, cows and wobbly calves to pet, birds to love and learn about, clear streams to wade in and float daisies on, meadows to play in, hillsto run down while the dust went 'spif' under my bare feet. And I've hadflowers, thousands of wild flowers, to find and carry home or, if toofrail to bear carrying home, like the delicate spring beauty and thebluet, just to look at and admire and turn again to look at as I wentout of the woods. My whole childhood has been a wonderful one but I wastoo blind to see the wonder of it. I see now! But, Mother Bab, I don'tsee, even yet, that I should wear plain clothes. I've been thinkingabout it lately. I do believe, though, that the plain way is a good way. Many people enjoy the simple service of the meeting-house more than theywould enjoy a more complex form of worship. I feel so restful andpeaceful when I'm in a meeting-house, so near to the real things, thethings that count. "

Mother Bab answered only a mild "Yes, " but her heart sang as shethought, "I believe she'll be plain some day, she and David. Perhapsthey'll come together. But I'll not worry about them; I know theirhearts are right. "

CHAPTER XXXV

DAVID'S SHARE

ANOTHER June came with its roses and perfume, but there was no Feast ofRoses in Greenwald that June of 1918. Phœbe regretted the fact, for shefelt that even in a war-racked world, with the multiple duties andanxiety and suffering of many of its people, there should still be timefor a service as beautiful and inspiring as the Feast of Roses. 

But all thoughts of it or similar omissions were crowded into thebackground one day when the news came to Mother Bab that David had beenwounded in France. 

The official telegram flashed over the wire and in due time came aletter with more satisfying details. The letter was characteristic ofDavid: "I suppose you heard that the Boche got me, but he didn't get allof me, just one leg. What hurts me most is the fact that I didn't get afew Huns first or do some real thing for the cause before I got knockedout. I know you'll feel better satisfied if I tell you all about it. Several of the other boys and I left the town where we were stationedand went to Paris for a few days. It was our first pleasure trip sincewe came to this side. We gazed upon the things we studied about inschool--Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and so forth. Later we went to arailroad station where refugees were coming in, fleeing from theinvading Huns. I can't ever forget that sight! Women and children theywere, but such women and children! Women who had gone through hell andchildren who had seen more horror in their few years that we can everdream possible. Terror and suffering have lodged shadows in their eyestill one wonders if some of them will ever smile or laugh again. Many ofthem were wounded and in need of medical care. They carried with themtheir sole possessions, all of their belongings they could gather andtake with them as they rushed away from the hordes of the enemysoldiers. We helped to place them into Red Cross vans to be taken to asafe place in the southern part of the country. As we were putting theminto the vans the signal came that an air raid was on. The subways areplaces for refuge during the raids, so we hurried them out of the vansand into subways. They all got in safely but I was a bit too slow. I gotknocked out and my right leg was so badly splintered that I'm better offwithout it. The thing worries me most is that I'll be sent home out ofthe fight before I fairly got into it. "

"Oh, Mother Bab, " Phœbe said sobbingly, "his right leg's gone!"

"It might be worse. But--I wish I could be with him. "

"But isn't it just like him, " said Phœbe proudly, "to write as though itwas carelessness caused the accident, when we know he got others tosafety and never thought of himself. He was just as brave as the boyswho fight. "

"Yes. There is still much to be thankful for. Many mothers will getsadder news than mine. You must write him a long letter. "

It was a long letter, indeed, that the mother dictated to her boy. Whenit was written Phœbe added a little postscript, "David, I'm mighty proudof you!" To this he responded, "Thank you for your pride in me, butdon't you go making a hero of me; I can't live up to that when I gethome. Guess I'll be sent back as soon as my leg is healed. Uncle Sam hasno need of me here since I bungled things and left a leg in Paris. I'llhave to do the rest of my bit on the farm. I wasn't a howling success asa farmer when I had two legs, but perhaps my luck has turned. I'm goingto raise chickens and do my best to make the little farm a paying one. "

"He's the same cheerful David, " thought the girl, "and we'll have tokeep cheerful about it, too. "

But it was no easy matter to continue steadfast in cheerfulness duringthe long days of the summer. Phœbe and Mother Bab shared the anxiety ofmany others as the news came that the armies of the enemy were pushingnearer to Paris, nearer, and nearer, with the Americans and their alliesfighting like demons and contesting every inch of the ground. A fearrose in Phœbe--what if the Germans should reach Paris, what if theyshould win the war! "But it can't be!" she thought. 

Her confidence was not unwarranted. Soon came the turn of the tide andthe German drive was checked. One July day shrieking whistles, frenziedringing of bells, impromptu parades and waving flags, spread the newsthat "America's contemptible little army" was helping to push theGermans back, back!

"It's the beginning of the end for the Germans, " said Phœbe jubilantlyas she ran to Mother Bab with the news. "If they once start runningthey'll sprint pretty lively. We'll have to tell David about theexcitement in town when the whistles blew--but, ach, I forgot! He won'tthink that was much excitement after he's been in _real_ excitement. "

Mother Bab laughed with the girl. "But we'll have lots to tell him whenhe comes back, " she said. "And won't he be glad I can see!"

CHAPTER XXXVI

DAVID'S RETURN

IT was October of 1918 when David Eby alighted from the train atGreenwald and started out the country road to his home. He could notresist the temptation to run into the yard of the gray farmhouse andinto the kitchen where Aunt Maria and Phœbe were working. 

"David!"

"Why, David!"

The cries came gladly from the two women as he bounded over the sill andextended his hand, first to the older woman, then to Phœbe. 

"I just had to stop in here for a minute! Then I must run up the hill tomother. This place looks too good to pass by. How are you? You're bothlooking fine. "

"Ach, we're well, " Aunt Maria had to answer, Phœbe remaining speechless. "But why, David! You got two legs and no crutches! I thought you lost aleg. "

"I did, " he said, smiling, "but Uncle Sam gave me another one. "

"Why, abody'd hardly know it. Ain't, Phœbe, he just limps a little? NowI bet your mom'll be glad to see you--to have you back again, I mean. "

"Yes. I can't wait to get up the hill. I must go now. I'll be downlater, Phœbe, " he added. 

"All right, " she said quietly. 

"Ach, Phœbe, " Aunt Maria exclaimed after he left, "did you hear me? Ialmost give it away that his mom can see. Abody can be awful dumb still!But won't he be glad when he knows that she ain't blind! She can see himagain. Ach, Phœbe, it's lots of nice people in the world, for all. Itmakes abody feel good to know them two are havin' a happy time. "

"I'm so glad for both I could sing. "

"Go on, " said the woman; "I'm glad too, and I believe I could help youto holler. "

As David climbed the hill by the woodland he thought musingly, "Strikesme Phœbe didn't seem extra glad to see me. Perhaps she was justsurprised, perhaps my being crippled changed her. Oh, Phœbe, I want youmore than ever! I wonder--is it some nerve to ask you to marry acripple?"

However, all disquieting thoughts were forgotten as he reached thesummit of the hill and saw his boyhood home. 

He whistled his old greeting whistle. At the sound of it Mother Bab ranto the door. 

"It's David come home!" she cried, her renewed eyes turned to the road, her hands outstretched. 

"I'm back, mommie!" he called before his running feet could take him toher. But as he held her again to his heart there were no words adequatefor the greeting. Their joy was great enough to be inarticulate for awhile. 

"But, Davie, " the mother said after a long silence, "you come running!You have no crutches!"

"Why, mommie!" There was questioning wonder in his voice. "How do youknow? You couldn't see! You are blind!"

"Oh, Davie, not any more! I can see!"

"You can see?" He put a hand at each side of the white-capped head andlooked into her eyes. They were not the dull, half-staring eyes ofblindness but eyes lighted by loving recognition. 

Again words failed him as he swept her into his arms. But he could notlong be silent. "Tell me, " he cried. "I must know! Whatmiracle--who--how--who did it? When?"

"Oh, Davie, you're not changed a bit! Same old question box! But I'lltell you all about it. "

Throughout the story Mother Bab told ran the name of Phœbe. "Phœbeplanned it all, Phœbe made the arrangements with the doctor, Phœbe tookme down to Philadelphia, Phœbe was there when I found I could see"--itwas Phœbe, Phœbe, till the man felt his heart singing the name. 

"Isn't she going on with her music lessons?" he asked. "I was afraidshe'd be in the city when I got back. "

"She's given them up. It ain't like her to begin a thing and get tiredof it so soon. All at once after we came back from Philadelphia she saidshe had enough of music, she was tired of it, and was going to stay athome and be useful. I'm glad she's not going off again, for it getslonesome without her. You stopped to see her on the way up?"

"Yes, just a minute. I'm going down again later. She hardly said twowords to me. "

"You took her by surprise, I guess. Give her a chance and she'll ask youa hundred questions. "

But when he paid the promised visit to Phœbe he was again disappointedby her lack of the old comradely friendliness. She shared his joy atMother Bab's restored sight but when he began to thank her for her partin it she disclaimed all credit and asked questions to lead him from thesubject of the operation. The girl seemed interested in all he said yetthere was a restraint in her manner. For the first time in his lifeDavid was baffled by her attitude. As he climbed the hill again hethought, "Now, what's the matter with Phœbe? Was she or wasn't she gladto see me? I couldn't tell her I love her when she acts like that! AndI'm a cripple, and she's beautiful---- Oh, my mind's in a muddle! Butone thing's clear--I want Phœbe Metz for my wife. "

CHAPTER XXXVII

"A LOVE THAT LIFE COULD NEVER TIRE"

THE next morning Phares Eby called David, "Wait, I want to see you. I--David, " the preacher began gravely, "perhaps I shouldn't tell you, but I really think I ought. Do you know all Phœbe did for your motherwhile you were gone?"

"Why, yes. Mother told me. Phœbe was lovely to her. She's been great!Writing her letters and doing ever so many kind things for her. "

"I know--but--I guess you don't know all she did. That story about agreat doctor operating for charity didn't quite please me. I thought aslong as it was in the family I'd pay him for what he did. So I wrote tohim and his secretary wrote back that the bill had been paid by a checksigned by Phœbe Metz--the bill had been five hundred dollars. I guessthat explains her giving up the music lessons. What a girl she is tomake such a sacrifice! She don't know that I know, but I felt I ought totell you. "

"Five hundred dollars! Phœbe did that for us--she paid it? Oh, Phares, I'm glad you told me! I'm going to find her right away and thank her!You're a brick for telling me!"

The preacher smiled as David turned and ran down the hill, but preachersare only human--he felt a pang of pain as he went back to his work inthe field while David went to find Phœbe. 

David forgot for the time that he was crippled as he ran limping overthe road. Dressed in his working clothes, his head bare to the Octobersunlight, he hurried to the gray farmhouse. 

"Phœbe here?" he asked Aunt Maria. 

"What's wrong? Anything the matter at your house?" she asked. 

"No. Nothing's wrong. Where's Phœbe?"

"Ach, over at the quarry again for weeds or something like she bringshome all the time. "

"All right. " He turned to the gate. "I'll find her. "

He half ran up the sheltered road to the old stone quarry. 

"Phœbe, " he cried when he caught sight of her as she stooped to gathergoldenrod that fringed the woods. 

"Why, David, what's the matter?" she asked as she stood erect and facedhim. 

"You angel!" he cried, taking her hands in his and spilling thegoldenrod over the ground. "You angel!" he said again, and the fullgratitude of his heart shone from his eyes. "You bought Mother Bab'ssight! You gave up the music lessons that she might see!"

"How d'you know?" she challenged. 

"Oh, I know!" He told her briefly. "That's all true, isn't it?"

"Yes, " she admitted. "I can't lie out of it now, I guess. Though I'velied like a trooper about it already. But you needn't get excited aboutit. Mother Bab's earned more than that from me!"

"Oh, Phœbe!" The man could hardly refrain from taking her in his arms. "You're an angel! To sacrifice all that for us--it's the most unselfishthing I've ever heard of! You gave her sight so she could see me. I cameright down to bless you and to thank you. "

Other words sought utterance but he fought them back. Phœbe must haveread his heart, for she looked up suddenly and asked, "And you came allthe way down here just to say thank you! There's nothing else----"

Then, half-ashamed and startled at her forwardness, her gaze dropped. 

But the words had worked their magic. "There _is_ something else!" Davidcried, exulting. "I can't wait any longer to tell you! I love you!"

He held out his arms and as she smiled into his face his arms enfoldedher and he knew that she loved him. But he wanted to hear the sweetwords from her lips. "Is it so?" he asked. "You do care for me, you'llmarry me?"

"Oh, Davie, did you think I could live the rest of my life without you?Did you think I could love you any less because you're crippled?"

He flushed. "It seemed like working on your sympathy to ask you. "

"And if you hadn't asked me, Davie, " she began. 

"Yes, go on. If I hadn't asked you----"

"_I_ should have asked _you_!"

They both laughed at that, but a moment later were serious as he said, "Just the same, Phœbe, it seems presumptuous for a maimed man to ask agirl like you to marry him. You are beautiful and you have a wonderfulvoice--and you've done such wonderful things for Mother Bab and me. Youhave sacrificed so much----"

"Stop, David!" she cried, her voice ominously tearful. "David, don'thurt me like that! Do you love me?"

"I do. " His words had all the solemnity of a marriage vow. 

"You know I love you?"

"I do. "

"Then, David, can't you see that we love each other not only inprosperity but in misfortunes as well?"

"What a big heart you have, dear, what a woman's heart! I have twowonderful women in my life, Mother Bab and you. "

Phœbe felt the delicacy and magnitude of the tribute. "I'm happy, Davie, " she said softly. "I feel so safe with you--no doubts, no fears. "

"Just love, " he added. 

"Just love, " she repeated. 

"Then, Phœbe"--how she loved the name from his lips--"you'll marry me?"He said it as though he could not quite believe his good fortune. "Thenyou _will_ marry me?"

"Yes, if you want. "

"If I want! Oh, Phœbe, Phœbe, I have always wanted it!"

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=Bab: a Sub-Deb. = By Mary Roberts Rinehart. 

=Barrier, The. = By Rex Beach. 

=Barbarians. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Bargain True, The. = By Nalbro Bartley. 

=Bar 20. = By Clarence E. Mulford. 

=Bar 20 Days. = By Clarence E. Mulford. 

=Bars of Iron, The. = By Ethel M. Dell. 

=Beasts of Tarzan, The. = By Edgar Rice Burroughs. 

=Beloved Traitor, The. = By Frank L. Packard. 

=Beltane the Smith. = By Jeffery Farnol. 

=Betrayal, The. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=Beyond the Frontier. = By Randall Parrish. 

=Big Timber. = By Bertrand W. Sinclair. 

=Black Is White. = By George Barr McCutcheon. 

=Blind Man's Eyes, The. = By Wm. MacHarg and Edwin Balmer. 

=Bob, Son of Battle. = By Alfred Ollivant. 

=Boston Blackie. = By Jack Boyle. 

=Boy with Wings, The. = By Berta Ruck. 

=Brandon of the Engineers. = By Harold Bindloss. 

=Broad Highway, The. = By Jeffery Farnol. 

=Brown Study, The. = By Grace S. Richmond. 

=Bruce of the Circle A. = By Harold Titus. 

=Buck Peters, Ranchman. = By Clarence E. Mulford. 

=Business of Life, The. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Cabbages and Kings. = By O. Henry. 

=Cabin Fever. = By B. M. Bower. 

=Calling of Dan Matthews, The. = By Harold Bell Wright. 

=Cape Cod Stories. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Cap'n Abe, Storekeeper. = By James A. Cooper. 

=Cap'n Dan's Daughter. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Cap'n Eri. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Cap'n Jonah's Fortune. = By James A. Cooper. 

=Cap'n Warren's Wards. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Chain of Evidence, A. = By Carolyn Wells. 

=Chief Legatee, The. = By Anna Katharine Green. 

=Cinderella Jane. = By Marjorie B. Cooke. 

=Cinema Murder, The. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=City of Masks, The. = By George Barr McCutcheon. 

=Cleek of Scotland Yard. = By T. W. Hanshew. 

=Cleek, The Man of Forty Faces. = By Thomas W. Hanshew. 

=Cleek's Government Cases. = By Thomas W. Hanshew. 

=Clipped Wings. = By Rupert Hughes. 

=Clue, The. = By Carolyn Wells. 

=Clutch of Circumstance, The. = By Marjorie Benton Cooke. 

=Coast of Adventure, The. = By Harold Bindloss. 

=Coming of Cassidy, The. = By Clarence E. Mulford. 

=Coming of the Law, The. = By Chas. A. Seltzer. 

=Conquest of Canaan, The. = By Booth Tarkington. 

=Conspirators, The. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Court of Inquiry, A. = By Grace S. Richmond. 

=Cow Puncher, The. = By Robert J. C. Stead. 

=Crimson Gardenia, The, and Other Tales of Adventure. = By Rex Beach. 

=Cross Currents. = By Author of "Pollyanna. "

=Cry in the Wilderness, A. = By Mary E. Waller. 

=Danger, And Other Stories. = By A. Conan Doyle. 

=Dark Hollow, The. = By Anna Katharine Green. 

=Dark Star, The. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Daughter Pays, The. = By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 

=Day of Days, The. = By Louis Joseph Vance. 

=Depot Master, The. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Desired Woman, The. = By Will N. Harben. 

=Destroying Angel, The. = By Louis Jos. Vance. 

=Devil's Own, The. = By Randall Parrish. 

=Double Traitor, The. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=Empty Pockets. = By Rupert Hughes. 

=Eyes of the Blind, The. = By Arthur Somers Roche. 

=Eye of Dread, The. = By Payne Erskine. 

=Eyes of the World, The. = By Harold Bell Wright. 

=Extricating Obadiah. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Felix O'Day. = By F. Hopkinson Smith. 

=54-40 or Fight. = By Emerson Hough. 

=Fighting Chance, The. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Fighting Shepherdess, The. = By Caroline Lockhart. 

=Financier, The. = By Theodore Dreiser. 

=Flame, The. = By Olive Wadsley. 

=Flamsted Quarries. = By Mary E. Wallar. 

=Forfeit, The. = By Ridgwell Cullum. 

=Four Million, The. = By O. Henry. 

=Fruitful Vine, The. = By Robert Hichens. 

=Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. = By Frank L. Packard. 

=Girl of the Blue Ridge, A. = By Payne Erskine. 

=Girl from Keller's, The. = By Harold Bindloss. 

=Girl Philippa, The. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Girls at His Billet, The. = By Berta Ruck. 

=God's Country and the Woman. = By James Oliver Curwood. 

=Going Some. = By Rex Beach. 

=Golden Slipper, The. = By Anna Katharine Green. 

=Golden Woman, The. = By Ridgwell Cullum. 

=Greater Love Hath No Man. = By Frank L. Packard. 

=Greyfriars Bobby. = By Eleanor Atkinson. 

=Gun Brand, The. = By James B. Hendryx. 

=Halcyone. = By Elinor Glyn. 

=Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. = By Sax Rohmer. 

=Havoc. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=Heart of the Desert, The. = By Honoré Willsie. 

=Heart of the Hills, The. = By John Fox, Jr. 

=Heart of the Sunset. = By Rex Beach. 

=Heart of Thunder Mountain, The. = By Edfrid A. Bingham. 

=Her Weight in Gold. = By Geo. B. McCutcheon. 

=Hidden Children, The. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Hidden Spring, The. = By Clarence B. Kelland. 

=Hillman, The. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=Hills of Refuge, The. = By Will N. Harben. 

=His Official Fiancee. = By Berta Ruck. 

=Honor of the Big Snows. = By James Oliver Curwood. 

=Hopalong Cassidy. = By Clarence E. Mulford. 

=Hound from the North, The. = By Ridgwell Cullum. 

=House of the Whispering Pines, The. = By Anna Katharine Green. 

=Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. = By S. Weir Mitchell, M. D. 

=I Conquered. = By Harold Titus. 

=Illustrious Prince, The. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=In Another Girl's Shoes. = By Berta Ruck. 

=Indifference of Juliet, The. = By Grace S. Richmond. 

=Infelice. = By Augusta Evans Wilson. 

=Initials Only. = By Anna Katharine Green. 

=Inner Law, The. = By Will N. Harben. 

=Innocent. = By Marie Corelli. 

=Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. = By Sax Rohmer. 

=In the Brooding Wild. = By Ridgwell Cullum. 

=Intriguers, The. = By Harold Bindloss. 

=Iron Trail, The. = By Rex Beach. 

=Iron Woman, The. = By Margaret Deland. 

=I Spy. = By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. 

=Japonette. = By Robert W. Chambers. 

=Jean of the Lazy A. = By B. M. Bower. 

=Jeanne of the Marshes. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

=Jennie Gerhardt. = By Theodore Dreiser. 

=Judgment House, The. = By Gilbert Parker. 

=Keeper of the Door, The. = By Ethel M. Dell. 

=Keith of the Border. = By Randall Parrish. 

=Kent Knowles: Quahaug. = By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

=Kingdom of the Blind, The. = By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Page 17, word "have" added to the text (mom would have lived)

Page 171, word "the" added to the text (in the bank)

Page 181, "esctatic" changed to "ecstatic" (ecstatic trill of)

Page 315, word "the" added to the text (mentioned the operation)