RAINBOW VALLEY

By L. M. MONTGOMERY

Author of "Anne of Green Gables, " "Anne of the Island, " "Anne'sHouse of Dreams, " "The Story Girl, " "The Watchman, " etc. 

"The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "--LONGFELLOW

TO THE MEMORY OF

GOLDWIN LAPP, ROBERT BROOKESAND MORLEY SHIER

WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICETHAT THE HAPPY VALLEYS OF THEIR HOME LANDMIGHT BE KEPT SACRED FROMTHE RAVAGE OF THE INVADER

CONTENTS

 I. Home Again II. Sheer Gossip III. The Ingleside Children IV. The Manse Children V. The Advent of Mary Vanse VI. Mary Stays at the Manse VII. A Fishy Episode VIII. Miss Cornelia Intervenes IX. Una Intervenes X. The Manse Girls Clean House XI. A Dreadful Discovery XII. An Explanation and a Dare XIII. The House on the Hill XIV. Mrs. Alec Davis Makes a Call XV. More Gossip XVI. Tit for Tat XVII. A Double Victory XVIII. Mary Brings Evil Tidings XIX. Poor Adam! XX. Faith Makes a Friend XXI. The Impossible Word XXII. St. George Knows All About It XXIII. The Good-Conduct Club XXIV. A Charitable Impulse XXV. Another Scandal and Another "Explanation" XXVI. Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of View XXVII. A Sacred Concert XXVIII. A Fast Day XXIX. A Weird Tale XXX. The Ghost on the Dyke XXXI. Carl Does Penance XXXII. Two Stubborn People XXXIII. Carl Is--not--whipped XXXIV. Una Visits the Hill XXXV. "Let the Piper Come"

RAINBOW VALLEY

CHAPTER I. HOME AGAIN

It was a clear, apple-green evening in May, and Four WindsHarbour was mirroring back the clouds of the golden west betweenits softly dark shores. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring, but a sly, jovial wind came piping downthe red harbour road along which Miss Cornelia's comfortable, matronly figure was making its way towards the village of GlenSt. Mary. Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. Marshall Elliott, andhad been Mrs. Marshall Elliott for thirteen years, but even yetmore people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs. Elliott. The old name was dear to her old friends, only one ofthem contemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grimand faithful handmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, neverlost an opportunity of calling her "Mrs. Marshall Elliott, " withthe most killing and pointed emphasis, as if to say "You wantedto be Mrs. And Mrs. You shall be with a vengeance as far as I amconcerned. "

Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr. And Mrs. Blythe, who were just home from Europe. They had been away forthree months, having left in February to attend a famous medicalcongress in London; and certain things, which Miss Cornelia wasanxious to discuss, had taken place in the Glen during theirabsence. For one thing, there was a new family in the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook her head over them severaltimes as she walked briskly along. 

Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, asthey sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm ofthe cat's light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling amongthe twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodilsblowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn. 

Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk, as girlish as a mother of many has anyright to be; and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down theharbour road, were as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream asever. Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, afat, roly-poly little creature of six years, the youngest of theIngleside children. She had curly red hair and hazel eyes thatwere now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkled fashion in whichRilla always went to sleep. 

Shirley, "the little brown boy, " as he was known in the family"Who's Who, " was asleep in Susan's arms. He was brown-haired, brown-eyed and brown-skinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he wasSusan's especial love. After his birth Anne had been very illfor a long time, and Susan "mothered" the baby with a passionatetenderness which none of the other children, dear as they were toher, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe had said that but for herhe would never have lived. 

"I gave him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " Susanwas wont to say. "He is just as much my baby as he is yours. "And, indeed, it was always to Susan that Shirley ran, to bekissed for bumps, and rocked to sleep, and protected fromwell-deserved spankings. Susan had conscientiously spanked allthe other Blythe children when she thought they needed it fortheir souls' good, but she would not spank Shirley nor allow hismother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him and Susan hadbeen stormily indignant. 

"That man would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr. Dear, that he would, "she had declared bitterly; and she would not make the poor doctora pie for weeks. 

She had taken Shirley with her to her brother's home during hisparents' absence, while all the other children had gone toAvonlea, and she had three blessed months of him all to herself. Nevertheless, Susan was very glad to find herself back atIngleside, with all her darlings around her again. Ingleside washer world and in it she reigned supreme. Even Anne seldomquestioned her decisions, much to the disgust of Mrs. RachelLynde of Green Gables, who gloomily told Anne, whenever shevisited Four Winds, that she was letting Susan get to be entirelytoo much of a boss and would live to rue it. 

"Here is Cornelia Bryant coming up the harbour road, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan. "She will be coming up to unload threemonths' gossip on us. "

"I hope so, " said Anne, hugging her knees. "I'm starving forGlen St. Mary gossip, Susan. I hope Miss Cornelia can tell meeverything that has happened while we've been away--EVERYTHING--who has got born, or married, or drunk; who has died, or goneaway, or come, or fought, or lost a cow, or found a beau. It'sso delightful to be home again with all the dear Glen folks, andI want to know all about them. Why, I remember wondering, as Iwalked through Westminster Abbey which of her two especial beauxMillicent Drew would finally marry. Do you know, Susan, I have adreadful suspicion that I love gossip. "

"Well, of course, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " admitted Susan, "every properwoman likes to hear the news. I am rather interested inMillicent Drew's case myself. I never had a beau, much less two, and I do not mind now, for being an old maid does not hurt whenyou get used to it. Millicent's hair always looks to me as ifshe had swept it up with a broom. But the men do not seem tomind that. "

"They see only her pretty, piquant, mocking, little face, Susan. "

"That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. Dear. The Good Book says thatfavour is deceitful and beauty is vain, but I should not haveminded finding that out for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we will all be beautiful when we are angels, butwhat good will it do us then? Speaking of gossip, however, theydo say that poor Mrs. Harrison Miller over harbour tried to hangherself last week. "

"Oh, Susan!"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. Dear. She did not succeed. But Ireally do not blame her for trying, for her husband is a terribleman. But she was very foolish to think of hanging herself andleaving the way clear for him to marry some other woman. If Ihad been in her shoes, Mrs. Dr. Dear, I would have gone to workto worry him so that he would try to hang himself instead of me. Not that I hold with people hanging themselves under anycircumstances, Mrs. Dr. Dear. "

"What is the matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?" said Anneimpatiently. "He is always driving some one to extremes. "

"Well, some people call it religion and some call it cussedness, begging your pardon, Mrs. Dr. Dear, for using such a word. Itseems they cannot make out which it is in Harrison's case. Thereare days when he growls at everybody because he thinks he isfore-ordained to eternal punishment. And then there are dayswhen he says he does not care and goes and gets drunk. My ownopinion is that he is not sound in his intellect, for none ofthat branch of the Millers were. His grandfather went out of hismind. He thought he was surrounded by big black spiders. Theycrawled over him and floated in the air about him. I hope Ishall never go insane, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and I do not think I will, because it is not a habit of the Bakers. But, if an all-wiseProvidence should decree it, I hope it will not take the form ofbig black spiders, for I loathe the animals. As for Mrs. Miller, I do not know whether she really deserves pity or not. There aresome who say she just married Harrison to spite Richard Taylor, which seems to me a very peculiar reason for getting married. But then, of course, _I_ am no judge of things matrimonial, Mrs. Dr. Dear. And there is Cornelia Bryant at the gate, so I willput this blessed brown baby on his bed and get my knitting. "

CHAPTER II. SHEER GOSSIP

"Where are the other children?" asked Miss Cornelia, when thefirst greetings--cordial on her side, rapturous on Anne's, anddignified on Susan's--were over. 

"Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down intheir beloved Rainbow Valley, " said Anne. "They just came homethis afternoon, you know, and they could hardly wait until supperwas over before rushing down to the valley. They love it aboveevery spot on earth. Even the maple grove doesn't rival it intheir affections. "

"I am afraid they love it too well, " said Susan gloomily. "Little Jem said once he would rather go to Rainbow Valley thanto heaven when he died, and that was not a proper remark. "

"I suppose they had a great time in Avonlea?" said Miss Cornelia. 

"Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, inparticular, can do no wrong in her eyes. "

"Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now, " said Miss Cornelia, getting out her knitting, so that she could hold her own withSusan. Miss Cornelia held that the woman whose hands wereemployed always had the advantage over the woman whose hands werenot. 

"Marilla is eighty-five, " said Anne with a sigh. "Her hair issnow-white. But, strange to say, her eyesight is better than itwas when she was sixty. "

"Well, dearie, I'm real glad you're all back. I've been dreadfullonesome. But we haven't been dull in the Glen, believe ME. There hasn't been such an exciting spring in my time, as far aschurch matters go. We've got settled with a minister at last, Anne dearie. "

"The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan, resolved not to let Miss Cornelia tell all the news. 

"Is he nice?" asked Anne interestedly. 

Miss Cornelia sighed and Susan groaned. 

"Yes, he's nice enough if that were all, " said the former. "Heis VERY nice--and very learned--and very spiritual. But, oh Annedearie, he has no common sense!

"How was it you called him, then?"

"Well, there's no doubt he is by far the best preacher we everhad in Glen St. Mary church, " said Miss Cornelia, veering a tackor two. "I suppose it is because he is so moony andabsent-minded that he never got a town call. His trial sermonwas simply wonderful, believe ME. Every one went mad about it--and his looks. "

"He is VERY comely, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and when all is said and done, I DO like to see a well-looking man in the pulpit, " broke inSusan, thinking it was time she asserted herself again. 

"Besides, " said Miss Cornelia, "we were anxious to get settled. And Mr. Meredith was the first candidate we were all agreed on. Somebody had some objection to all the others. There was sometalk of calling Mr. Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, butsomehow people didn't care for his appearance. He was too darkand sleek. "

"He looked exactly like a great black tomcat, that he did, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan. "I never could abide such a man in thepulpit every Sunday. "

"Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge--neitherharm nor good, " resumed Miss Cornelia. "But if he had preachedlike Peter and Paul it would have profited him nothing, for thatwas the day old Caleb Ramsay's sheep strayed into church and gavea loud 'ba-a-a' just as he announced his text. Everybodylaughed, and poor Rogers had no chance after that. Some thoughtwe ought to call Mr. Stewart, because he was so well educated. He could read the New Testament in five languages. "

"But I do not think he was any surer than other men of getting toheaven because of that, " interjected Susan. 

"Most of us didn't like his delivery, " said Miss Cornelia, ignoring Susan. "He talked in grunts, so to speak. And Mr. Arnett couldn't preach AT ALL. And he picked about the worstcandidating text there is in the Bible--'Curse ye Meroz. '"

"Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible andshout very bitterly, 'Curse ye Meroz. ' Poor Meroz got thoroughlycursed that day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan. 

"The minister who is candidating can't be too careful what texthe chooses, " said Miss Cornelia solemnly. "I believe Mr. Piersonwould have got the call if he had picked a different text. Butwhen he announced 'I will lift my eyes to the hills' HE was donefor. Every one grinned, for every one knew that those two Hillgirls from the Harbour Head have been setting their caps forevery single minister who came to the Glen for the last fifteenyears. And Mr. Newman had too large a family. "

"He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow, " said Susan. "'Howmany children have you got?' I asked him. 'Nine boys and asister for each of them, ' he said. 'Eighteen!' said I. 'Dearme, what a family!' And then he laughed and laughed. But I donot know why, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and I am certain that eighteenchildren would be too many for any manse. "

"He had only ten children, Susan, " explained Miss Cornelia, withcontemptuous patience. "And ten good children would not be muchworse for the manse and congregation than the four who are therenow. Though I wouldn't say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I like them--everybody likes them. It's impossible tohelp liking them. They would be real nice little souls if therewas anyone to look after their manners and teach them what isright and proper. For instance, at school the teacher says theyare model children. But at home they simply run wild. "

"What about Mrs. Meredith?" asked Anne. 

"There's NO Mrs. Meredith. That is just the trouble. Mr. Meredith is a widower. His wife died four years ago. If we hadknown that I don't suppose we would have called him, for awidower is even worse in a congregation than a single man. Buthe was heard to speak of his children and we all supposed therewas a mother, too. And when they came there was nobody but oldAunt Martha, as they call her. She's a cousin of Mr. Meredith'smother, I believe, and he took her in to save her from thepoorhouse. She is seventy-five years old, half blind, and verydeaf and very cranky. "

"And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. Dear. "

"The worst possible manager for a manse, " said Miss Corneliabitterly. "Mr. Meredith won't get any other housekeeper becausehe says it would hurt Aunt Martha's feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state of that manse is something terrible. Everything is thick with dust and nothing is ever in its place. And we had painted and papered it all so nice before they came. "

"There are four children, you say?" asked Anne, beginning tomother them already in her heart. 

"Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald's theoldest. He's twelve and they call him Jerry. He's a clever boy. Faith is eleven. She is a regular tomboy but pretty as apicture, I must say. "

"She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for mischief, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan solemnly. "I was at the manse onenight last week and Mrs. James Millison was there, too. She hadbrought them up a dozen eggs and a little pail of milk--a VERYlittle pail, Mrs. Dr. Dear. Faith took them and whisked down thecellar with them. Near the bottom of the stairs she caught hertoe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggs and all. You canimagine the result, Mrs. Dr. Dear. But that child came uplaughing. 'I don't know whether I'm myself or a custard pie, 'she said. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said shewould never take another thing to the manse if it was to bewasted and destroyed in that fashion. "

"Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse, "sniffed Miss Cornelia. "She just took them that night as anexcuse for curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting intoscrapes. She is so heedless and impulsive. "

"Just like me. I'm going to like your Faith, " said Annedecidedly. 

"She is full of spunk--and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. Dear, "admitted Susan. 

"There's something taking about her, " conceded Miss Cornelia. "You never see her but she's laughing, and somehow it alwaysmakes you want to laugh too. She can't even keep a straight facein church. Una is ten--she's a sweet little thing--not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, andhe has a regular mania for collecting toads and bugs and frogsand bringing them into the house. "

"I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying ona chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gaveher a turn, " said Susan, "and I do not wonder, for manse parloursare no places for dead rats. To be sure it may have been the catwho left it, there. HE is as full of the old Nick as he can bestuffed, Mrs. Dr. Dear. A manse cat should at least LOOKrespectable, in my opinion, whatever he really is. But I neversaw such a rakish-looking beast. And he walks along theridgepole of the manse almost every evening at sunset, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and waves his tail, and that is not becoming. "

"The worst of it is, they are NEVER decently dressed, " sighedMiss Cornelia. "And since the snow went they go to schoolbarefooted. Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn't the rightthing for manse children--especially when the Methodistminister's little girl always wears such nice buttoned boots. And I DO wish they wouldn't play in the old Methodist graveyard. "

"It's very tempting, when it's right beside the manse, " saidAnne. "I've always thought graveyards must be delightful placesto play in. "

"Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said loyal Susan, determined to protect Anne from herself. "You have too much goodsense and decorum. "

"Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in thefirst place?" asked Anne. "Their lawn is so small there is noplace for them to play except in the graveyard. "

"It WAS a mistake, " admitted Miss Cornelia. "But they got thelot cheap. And no other manse children ever thought of playingthere. Mr. Meredith shouldn't allow it. But he has always gothis nose buried in a book, when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks about in his study in a day-dream. So far he hasn'tforgotten to be in church on Sundays, but twice he has forgottenabout the prayer-meeting and one of the elders had to go over tothe manse and remind him. And he forgot about Fanny Cooper'swedding. They rang him up on the 'phone and then he rushed rightover, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One wouldn't mindif the Methodists didn't laugh so about it. But there's onecomfort--they can't criticize his sermons. He wakes up when he'sin the pulpit, believe ME. And the Methodist minister can'tpreach at all--so they tell me. _I_ have never heard him, thankgoodness. "

Miss Cornelia's scorn of men had abated somewhat since hermarriage, but her scorn of Methodists remained untinged ofcharity. Susan smiled slyly. 

"They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists andPresbyterians are talking of uniting, " she said. 

"Well, all I hope is that I'll be under the sod if that evercomes to pass, " retorted Miss Cornelia. "I shall never havetruck or trade with Methodists, and Mr. Meredith will find thathe'd better steer clear of them, too. He is entirely toosociable with them, believe ME. Why, he went to the Jacob Drews'silver-wedding supper and got into a nice scrape as a result. "

"What was it?"

"Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast goose--for Jacob Drewnever did or could carve. Well, Mr. Meredith tackled it, and inthe process he knocked it clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese'slap, who was sitting next him. And he just said dreamily. 'Mrs. Reese, will you kindly return me that goose?' Mrs. Reese'returned' it, as meek as Moses, but she must have been furious, for she had on her new silk dress. The worst of it is, she was aMethodist. "

"But I think that is better than if she was a Presbyterian, "interjected Susan. "If she had been a Presbyterian she wouldmostly likely have left the church and we cannot afford to loseour members. And Mrs. Reese is not liked in her own church, because she gives herself such great airs, so that the Methodistswould be rather pleased that Mr. Meredith spoiled her dress. "

"The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and _I_, for one, donot like to see my minister made ridiculous in the eyes of theMethodists, " said Miss Cornelia stiffly. "If he had had a wifeit would not have happened. "

"I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they could haveprevented Mrs. Drew from using up her tough old gander for thewedding-feast, " said Susan stubbornly. 

"They say that was her husband's doing, " said Miss Cornelia. "Jacob Drew is a conceited, stingy, domineering creature. "

"And they do say he and his wife detest each other--which doesnot seem to me the proper way for married folks to get along. But then, of course, I have had no experience along that line, "said Susan, tossing her head. "And _I_ am not one to blameeverything on the men. Mrs. Drew is mean enough herself. Theysay that the only thing she was ever known to give away was acrock of butter made out of cream a rat had fell into. Shecontributed it to a church social. Nobody found out about the ratuntil afterwards. "

"Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have offended so farare Methodists, " said Miss Cornelia. "That Jerry went to theMethodist prayer-meeting one night about a fortnight ago and satbeside old William Marsh who got up as usual and testified withfearful groans. 'Do you feel any better now?" whispered Jerrywhen William sat down. Poor Jerry meant to be sympathetic, butMr. Marsh thought he was impertinent and is furious at him. Ofcourse, Jerry had no business to be in a Methodist prayer-meetingat all. But they go where they like. "

"I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the HarbourHead, " said Susan. "She is a very touchy woman, I understand, but she is very well off and pays the most of any one to thesalary. I have heard that she says the Merediths are the worstbrought up children she ever saw. "

"Every word you say convinces me more and more that the Meredithsbelong to the race that knows Joseph, " said Mistress Annedecidedly. 

"When all is said and done, they DO, " admitted Miss Cornelia. "And that balances everything. Anyway, we've got them now and wemust just do the best we can by them and stick up for them to theMethodists. Well, I suppose I must be getting down harbour. Marshall will soon be home--he went over-harbour to-day--andwanting his super, man-like. I'm sorry I haven't seen the otherchildren. And where's the doctor?"

"Up at the Harbour Head. We've only been home three days and inthat time he has spent three hours in his own bed and eaten twomeals in his own house. "

"Well, everybody who has been sick for the last six weeks hasbeen waiting for him to come home--and I don't blame them. Whenthat over-harbour doctor married the undertaker's daughter atLowbridge people felt suspicious of him. It didn't look well. You and the doctor must come down soon and tell us all about yourtrip. I suppose you've had a splendid time. "

"We had, " agreed Anne. "It was the fulfilment of years ofdreams. The old world is very lovely and very wonderful. But wehave come back very well satisfied with our own land. Canada isthe finest country in the world, Miss Cornelia. "

"Nobody ever doubted that, " said Miss Cornelia, complacently. 

"And old P. E. I. Is the loveliest province in it and Four Windsthe loveliest spot in P. E. I. , " laughed Anne, looking adoringlyout over the sunset splendour of glen and harbour and gulf. Shewaved her hand at it. "I saw nothing more beautiful than that inEurope, Miss Cornelia. Must you go? The children will be sorryto have missed you. "

"They must come and see me soon. Tell them the doughnut jar isalways full. "

"Oh, at supper they were planning a descent on you. They'll gosoon; but they must settle down to school again now. And thetwins are going to take music lessons. "

"Not from the Methodist minister's wife, I hope?" said MissCornelia anxiously. 

"No--from Rosemary West. I was up last evening to arrange itwith her. What a pretty girl she is!"

"Rosemary holds her own well. She isn't as young as she oncewas. "

"I thought her very charming. I've never had any realacquaintance with her, you know. Their house is so out of theway, and I've seldom ever seen her except at church. "

"People always have liked Rosemary West, though they don'tunderstand her, " said Miss Cornelia, quite unconscious of thehigh tribute she was paying to Rosemary's charm. "Ellen hasalways kept her down, so to speak. She has tyrannized over her, and yet she has always indulged her in a good many ways. Rosemary was engaged once, you know--to young Martin Crawford. His ship was wrecked on the Magdalens and all the crew weredrowned. Rosemary was just a child--only seventeen. But she wasnever the same afterwards. She and Ellen have stayed very closeat home since their mother's death. They don't often get totheir own church at Lowbridge and I understand Ellen doesn'tapprove of going too often to a Presbyterian church. To theMethodist she NEVER goes, I'll say that much for her. Thatfamily of Wests have always been strong Episcopalians. Rosemaryand Ellen are pretty well off. Rosemary doesn't really need togive music lessons. She does it because she likes to. They aredistantly related to Leslie, you know. Are the Fords coming tothe harbour this summer?"

"No. They are going on a trip to Japan and will probably be awayfor a year. Owen's new novel is to have a Japanese setting. This will be the first summer that the dear old House of Dreamswill be empty since we left it. "

"I should think Owen Ford might find enough to write about inCanada without dragging his wife and his innocent children off toa heathen country like Japan, " grumbled Miss Cornelia. "_TheLife Book_ was the best book he's ever written and he got thematerial for that right here in Four Winds. "

"Captain Jim gave him the most of that, you know. And hecollected it all over the world. But Owen's books are alldelightful, I think. "

"Oh, they're well enough as far as they go. I make it a point toread every one he writes, though I've always held, Anne dearie, that reading novels is a sinful waste of time. I shall write andtell him my opinion of this Japanese business, believe ME. Doeshe want Kenneth and Persis to be converted into pagans?"

With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cornelia took herdeparture. Susan proceeded to put Rilla in bed and Anne sat onthe veranda steps under the early stars and dreamed herincorrigible dreams and learned all over again for the hundredthhappy time what a moonrise splendour and sheen could be on FourWinds Harbour. 

CHAPTER III. THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN

In daytime the Blythe children liked very well to play in therich, soft greens and glooms of the big maple grove betweenIngleside and the Glen St. Mary pond; but for evening revelsthere was no place like the little valley behind the maple grove. It was a fairy realm of romance to them. Once, looking from theattic windows of Ingleside, through the mist and aftermath of asummer thunderstorm, they had seen the beloved spot arched by aglorious rainbow, one end of which seemed to dip straight down towhere a corner of the pond ran up into the lower end of thevalley. 

"Let us call it Rainbow Valley, " said Walter delightedly, andRainbow Valley thenceforth it was. 

Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be rollicking andboisterous. Here it always went gently. Little, winding, fairypaths ran here and there over spruce roots cushioned with moss. Wild cherry trees, that in blossom time would be misty white, were scattered all over the valley, mingling with the darkspruces. A little brook with amber waters ran through it fromthe Glen village. The houses of the village were comfortably faraway; only at the upper end of the valley was a littletumble-down, deserted cottage, referred to as "the old Baileyhouse. " It had not been occupied for many years, but agrass-grown dyke surrounded it and inside was an ancient gardenwhere the Ingleside children could find violets and daisies andJune lilies still blooming in season. For the rest, the gardenwas overgrown with caraway that swayed and foamed in themoonshine of summer eves like seas of silver. 

To the sought lay the pond and beyond it the ripened distancelost itself in purple woods, save where, on a high hill, asolitary old gray homestead looked down on glen and harbour. There was a certain wild woodsiness and solitude about RainbowValley, in spite of its nearness to the village, which endearedit to the children of Ingleside. 

The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows and the largest ofthese was their favourite stamping ground. Here they wereassembled on this particular evening. There was a grove of youngspruces in this hollow, with a tiny, grassy glade in its heart, opening on the bank of the brook. By the brook grew a silverbirch-tree, a young, incredibly straight thing which Walter hadnamed the "White Lady. " In this glade, too, were the "TreeLovers, " as Walter called a spruce and maple which grew soclosely together that their boughs were inextricably intertwined. Jem had hung an old string of sleigh-bells, given him by the Glenblacksmith, on the Tree Lovers, and every visitant breeze calledout sudden fairy tinkles from it. 

"How nice it is to be back!" said Nan. "After all, none of theAvonlea places are quite as nice as Rainbow Valley. "

But they were very fond of the Avonlea places for all that. Avisit to Green Gables was always considered a great treat. AuntMarilla was very good to them, and so was Mrs. Rachel Lynde, whowas spending the leisure of her old age in knitting cotton-warpquilts against the day when Anne's daughters should need a"setting-out. " There were jolly playmates there, too--"Uncle"Davy's children and "Aunt" Diana's children. They knew all thespots their mother had loved so well in her girlhood at old GreenGables--the long Lover's Lane, that was pink-hedged in wild-rosetime, the always neat yard, with its willows and poplars, theDryad's Bubble, lucent and lovely as of yore, the Lake of ShiningWaters, and Willowmere. The twins had their mother's oldporch-gable room, and Aunt Marilla used to come in at night, whenshe thought they were asleep, to gloat over them. But they allknew she loved Jem the best. 

Jem was at present busily occupied in frying a mess of smalltrout which he had just caught in the pond. His stove consistedof a circle of red stones, with a fire kindled in it, and hisculinary utensils were an old tin can, hammered out flat, and afork with only one tine left. Nevertheless, ripping good mealshad before now been thus prepared. 

Jem was the child of the House of Dreams. All the others hadbeen born at Ingleside. He had curly red hair, like hismother's, and frank hazel eyes, like his father's; he had hismother's fine nose and his father's steady, humorous mouth. Andhe was the only one of the family who had ears nice enough toplease Susan. But he had a standing feud with Susan because shewould not give up calling him Little Jem. It was outrageous, thought thirteen-year-old Jem. Mother had more sense. 

"I'm NOT little any more, Mother, " he had cried indignantly, onhis eighth birthday. "I'm AWFUL big. "

Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again; and she nevercalled him Little Jem again--in his hearing at least. 

He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable little chap. Henever broke a promise. He was not a great talker. His teachersdid not think him brilliant, but he was a good, all-roundstudent. He never took things on faith; he always liked toinvestigate the truth of a statement for himself. Once Susan hadtold him that if he touched his tongue to a frosty latch all theskin would tear off it. Jem had promptly done it, "just to seeif it was so. " He found it was "so, " at the cost of a very soretongue for several days. But Jem did not grudge suffering in theinterests of science. By constant experiment and observation helearned a great deal and his brothers and sisters thought hisextensive knowledge of their little world quite wonderful. Jemalways knew where the first and ripest berries grew, where thefirst pale violets shyly wakened from their winter's sleep, andhow many blue eggs were in a given robin's nest in the maplegrove. He could tell fortunes from daisy petals and suck honeyfrom red clovers, and grub up all sorts of edible roots on thebanks of the pond, while Susan went in daily fear that they wouldall be poisoned. He knew where the finest spruce-gum was to befound, in pale amber knots on the lichened bark, he knew wherethe nuts grew thickest in the beechwoods around the Harbour Head, and where the best trouting places up the brooks were. He couldmimic the call of any wild bird or beast in Four Winds and heknew the haunt of every wild flower from spring to autumn. 

Walter Blythe was sitting under the White Lady, with a volume ofpoems lying beside him, but he was not reading. He was gazingnow at the emerald-misted willows by the pond, and now at a flockof clouds, like little silver sheep, herded by the wind, thatwere drifting over Rainbow Valley, with rapture in his widesplendid eyes. Walter's eyes were very wonderful. All the joyand sorrow and laughter and loyalty and aspiration of manygenerations lying under the sod looked out of their dark graydepths. 

Walter was a "hop out of kin, " as far as looks went. He did notresemble any known relative. He was quite the handsomest of theIngleside children, with straight black hair and finely modelledfeatures. But he had all his mother's vivid imagination andpassionate love of beauty. Frost of winter, invitation ofspring, dream of summer and glamour of autumn, all meant much toWalter. 

In school, where Jem was a chieftain, Walter was not thoughthighly of. He was supposed to be "girly" and milk-soppish, because he never fought and seldom joined in the school sports, preferring to herd by himself in out of the way corners and readbooks--especially "po'try books. " Walter loved the poets andpored over their pages from the time he could first read. Theirmusic was woven into his growing soul--the music of theimmortals. Walter cherished the ambition to be a poet himselfsome day. The thing could be done. A certain Uncle Paul--socalled out of courtesy--who lived now in that mysterious realmcalled "the States, " was Walter's model. Uncle Paul had oncebeen a little school boy in Avonlea and now his poetry was readeverywhere. But the Glen schoolboys did not know of Walter'sdreams and would not have been greatly impressed if they had. Inspite of his lack of physical prowess, however, he commanded acertain unwilling respect because of his power of "talking booktalk. " Nobody in Glen St. Mary school could talk like him. He"sounded like a preacher, " one boy said; and for this reason hewas generally left alone and not persecuted, as most boys werewho were suspected of disliking or fearing fisticuffs. 

The ten year old Ingleside twins violated twin tradition by notlooking in the least alike. Anne, who was always called Nan, wasvery pretty, with velvety nut-brown eyes and silky nut-brownhair. She was a very blithe and dainty little maiden--Blythe byname and blithe by nature, one of her teachers had said. Hercomplexion was quite faultless, much to her mother'ssatisfaction. 

"I'm so glad I have one daughter who can wear pink, " Mrs. Blythewas wont to say jubilantly. 

Diana Blythe, known as Di, was very like her mother, withgray-green eyes that always shone with a peculiar lustre andbrilliancy in the dusk, and red hair. Perhaps this was why shewas her father's favourite. She and Walter were especial chums;Di was the only one to whom he would ever read the verses hewrote himself--the only one who knew that he was secretly hard atwork on an epic, strikingly resembling "Marmion" in some things, if not in others. She kept all his secrets, even from Nan, andtold him all hers. 

"Won't you soon have those fish ready, Jem?" said Nan, sniffingwith her dainty nose. "The smell makes me awfully hungry. "

"They're nearly ready, " said Jem, giving one a dexterous turn. "Get out the bread and the plates, girls. Walter, wake up. "

"How the air shines to-night, " said Walter dreamily. Not that hedespised fried trout either, by any means; but with Walter foodfor the soul always took first place. "The flower angel has beenwalking over the world to-day, calling to the flowers. I can seehis blue wings on that hill by the woods. "

"Any angels' wings I ever saw were white, " said Nan. 

"The flower angel's aren't. They are a pale misty blue, justlike the haze in the valley. Oh, how I wish I could fly. Itmust be glorious. "

"One does fly in dreams sometimes, " said Di. 

"I never dream that I'm flying exactly, " said Walter. "But Ioften dream that I just rise up from the ground and float overthe fences and the trees. It's delightful--and I always think, 'This ISN'T a dream like it's always been before. THIS isreal'--and then I wake up after all, and it's heart-breaking. "

"Hurry up, Nan, " ordered Jem. 

Nan had produced the banquet-board--a board literally as well asfiguratively--from which many a feast, seasoned as no viands wereelsewhere, had been eaten in Rainbow Valley. It was convertedinto a table by propping it on two large, mossy stones. Newspapers served as tablecloth, and broken plates and handlelesscups from Susan's discard furnished the dishes. From a tin boxsecreted at the root of a spruce tree Nan brought forth bread andsalt. The brook gave Adam's ale of unsurpassed crystal. For therest, there was a certain sauce, compounded of fresh air andappetite of youth, which gave to everything a divine flavour. Tosit in Rainbow Valley, steeped in a twilight half gold, halfamethyst, rife with the odours of balsam-fir and woodsy growingthings in their springtime prime, with the pale stars of wildstrawberry blossoms all around you, and with the sough of thewind and tinkle of bells in the shaking tree tops, and eat friedtrout and dry bread, was something which the mighty of earthmight have envied them. 

"Sit in, " invited Nan, as Jem placed his sizzling tin platter oftrout on the table. "It's your turn to say grace, Jem. "

"I've done my part frying the trout, " protested Jem, who hatedsaying grace. "Let Walter say it. He LIKES saying grace. Andcut it short, too, Walt. I'm starving. "

But Walter said no grace, short or long, just then. Aninterruption occurred. 

"Who's coming down from the manse hill?" said Di. 

CHAPTER IV. THE MANSE CHILDREN

Aunt Martha might be, and was, a very poor housekeeper; the Rev. John Knox Meredith might be, and was, a very absent-minded, indulgent man. But it could not be denied that there wassomething very homelike and lovable about the Glen St. Mary mansein spite of its untidiness. Even the critical housewives of theGlen felt it, and were unconsciously mellowed in judgment becauseof it. Perhaps its charm was in part due to accidentalcircumstances--the luxuriant vines clustering over its gray, clap-boarded walls, the friendly acacias and balm-of-gileads thatcrowded about it with the freedom of old acquaintance, and thebeautiful views of harbour and sand-dunes from its front windows. But these things had been there in the reign of Mr. Meredith'spredecessor, when the manse had been the primmest, neatest, anddreariest house in the Glen. So much of the credit must be givento the personality of its new inmates. There was an atmosphereof laughter and comradeship about it; the doors were always open;and inner and outer worlds joined hands. Love was the only lawin Glen St. Mary manse. 

The people of his congregation said that Mr. Meredith spoiled hischildren. Very likely he did. It is certain that he could notbear to scold them. "They have no mother, " he used to say tohimself, with a sigh, when some unusually glaring peccadilloforced itself upon his notice. But he did not know the half oftheir goings-on. He belonged to the sect of dreamers. Thewindows of his study looked out on the graveyard but, as he pacedup and down the room, reflecting deeply on the immortality of thesoul, he was quite unaware that Jerry and Carl were playingleap-frog hilariously over the flat stones in that abode of deadMethodists. Mr. Meredith had occasional acute realizations thathis children were not so well looked after, physically ormorally, as they had been before his wife died, and he had alwaysa dim sub-consciousness that house and meals were very differentunder Aunt Martha's management from what they had been underCecilia's. For the rest, he lived in a world of books andabstractions; and, therefore, although his clothes were seldombrushed, and although the Glen housewives concluded, from theivory-like pallor of his clear-cut features and slender hands, that he never got enough to eat, he was not an unhappy man. 

If ever a graveyard could be called a cheerful place, the oldMethodist graveyard at Glen St. Mary might be so called. The newgraveyard, at the other side of the Methodist church, was a neatand proper and doleful spot; but the old one had been left solong to Nature's kindly and gracious ministries that it hadbecome very pleasant. 

It was surrounded on three sides by a dyke of stones and sod, topped by a gray and uncertain paling. Outside the dyke grew arow of tall fir trees with thick, balsamic boughs. The dyke, which had been built by the first settlers of the Glen, was oldenough to be beautiful, with mosses and green things growing outof its crevices, violets purpling at its base in the early springdays, and asters and golden-rod making an autumnal glory in itscorners. Little ferns clustered companionably between itsstones, and here and there a big bracken grew. 

On the eastern side there was neither fence nor dyke. Thegraveyard there straggled off into a young fir plantation, everpushing nearer to the graves and deepening eastward into a thickwood. The air was always full of the harp-like voices of thesea, and the music of gray old trees, and in the spring morningsthe choruses of birds in the elms around the two churches sang oflife and not of death. The Meredith children loved the oldgraveyard. 

Blue-eyed ivy, "garden-spruce, " and mint ran riot over the sunkengraves. Blueberry bushes grew lavishly in the sandy corner nextto the fir wood. The varying fashions of tombstones for threegenerations were to be found there, from the flat, oblong, redsandstone slabs of old settlers, down through the days of weepingwillows and clasped hands, to the latest monstrosities of tall"monuments" and draped urns. One of the latter, the biggest andugliest in the graveyard, was sacred to the memory of a certainAlec Davis who had been born a Methodist but had taken to himselfa Presbyterian bride of the Douglas clan. She had made him turnPresbyterian and kept him toeing the Presbyterian mark all hislife. But when he died she did not dare to doom him to a lonelygrave in the Presbyterian graveyard over-harbour. His peoplewere all buried in the Methodist cemetery; so Alec Davis wentback to his own in death and his widow consoled herself byerecting a monument which cost more than any of the Methodistscould afford. The Meredith children hated it, without justknowing why, but they loved the old, flat, bench-like stones withthe tall grasses growing rankly about them. They made jollyseats for one thing. They were all sitting on one now. Jerry, tired of leap frog, was playing on a jew's-harp. Carl waslovingly poring over a strange beetle he had found; Una wastrying to make a doll's dress, and Faith, leaning back on herslender brown wrists, was swinging her bare feet in lively timeto the jew's-harp. 

Jerry had his father's black hair and large black eyes, but inhim the latter were flashing instead of dreamy. Faith, who camenext to him, wore her beauty like a rose, careless and glowing. She had golden-brown eyes, golden-brown curls and crimson cheeks. She laughed too much to please her father's congregation and hadshocked old Mrs. Taylor, the disconsolate spouse of severaldeparted husbands, by saucily declaring--in the church-porch atthat--"The world ISN'T a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor. It's aworld of laughter. "

Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her braids ofstraight, dead-black hair betrayed no lawless kinks, and heralmond-shaped, dark-blue eyes had something wistful and sorrowfulin them. Her mouth had a trick of falling open over her tinywhite teeth, and a shy, meditative smile occasionally crept overher small face. She was much more sensitive to public opinionthan Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness that there wassomething askew in their way of living. She longed to put itright, but did not know how. Now and then she dusted thefurniture--but it was so seldom she could find the duster becauseit was never in the same place twice. And when the clothes-brushwas to be found she tried to brush her father's best suit onSaturdays, and once sewed on a missing button with coarse whitethread. When Mr. Meredith went to church next day every femaleeye saw that button and the peace of the Ladies' Aid was upsetfor weeks. 

Carl had the clear, bright, dark-blue eyes, fearless and direct, of his dead mother, and her brown hair with its glints of gold. He knew the secrets of bugs and had a sort of freemasonry withbees and beetles. Una never liked to sit near him because shenever knew what uncanny creature might be secreted about him. Jerry refused to sleep with him because Carl had once taken ayoung garter snake to bed with him; so Carl slept in his old cot, which was so short that he could never stretch out, and hadstrange bed-fellows. Perhaps it was just as well that AuntMartha was half blind when she made that bed. Altogether theywere a jolly, lovable little crew, and Cecilia Meredith's heartmust have ached bitterly when she faced the knowledge that shemust leave them. 

"Where would you like to be buried if you were a Methodist?"asked Faith cheerfully. 

This opened up an interesting field of speculation. 

"There isn't much choice. The place is full, " said Jerry. "I'Dlike that corner near the road, I guess. I could hear the teamsgoing past and the people talking. "

"I'd like that little hollow under the weeping birch, " said Una. "That birch is such a place for birds and they sing like mad inthe mornings. "

"I'd take the Porter lot where there's so many children buried. _I_ like lots of company, " said Faith. "Carl, where'd you?"

"I'd rather not be buried at all, " said Carl, "but if I had to beI'd like the ant-bed. Ants are AWF'LY int'resting. "

"How very good all the people who are buried here must havebeen, " said Una, who had been reading the laudatory old epitaphs. "There doesn't seem to be a single bad person in the wholegraveyard. Methodists must be better than Presbyterians afterall. "

"Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just like they docats, " suggested Carl. "Maybe they don't bother bringing them tothe graveyard at all. "

"Nonsense, " said Faith. "The people that are buried here weren'tany better than other folks, Una. But when anyone is dead youmustn't say anything of him but good or he'll come back and ha'ntyou. Aunt Martha told me that. I asked father if it was trueand he just looked through me and muttered, 'True? True? Whatis truth? What IS truth, O jesting Pilate?' I concluded fromthat it must be true. "

"I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if Ithrew a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone, " said Jerry. 

"Mrs. Davis would, " giggled Faith. "She just watches us inchurch like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face ather nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seenher glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account orI'd have made a face at her, too!"

"They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and shewould never have his father again, even when her husband wasdying, " said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will belike. "

"I liked their looks, " said Faith. The manse children had beenat the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry hadarrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY. "

"They say in school that Walter's a sissy, " said Jerry. 

"I don't believe it, " said Una, who had thought Walter veryhandsome. 

"Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacheroffered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drewtold me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prizebecause of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry tosave his soul, name or no name. "

"I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begingoing to school, " mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. Idon't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones arepoky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins alwayslooked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is thenicest. "

"I liked their mother's looks, " said Una with a little sigh. Unaenvied all children their mothers. She had been only six whenher mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings andmorning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and thesweetest, gayest laugh. 

"They say she isn't like other people, " said Jerry. 

"Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up, " saidFaith. 

"She's taller than Mrs. Elliott. "

"Yes, yes, but it is inside--Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe juststayed a little girl inside. "

"What do I smell?" interrupted Carl, sniffing. 

They all smelled it now. A most delectable odour came floatingup on the still evening air from the direction of the littlewoodsy dell below the manse hill. 

"That makes me hungry, " said Jerry. 

"We had only bread and molasses for supper and cold ditto fordinner, " said Una plaintively. 

Aunt Martha's habit was to boil a large slab of mutton early inthe week and serve it up every day, cold and greasy, as long asit lasted. To this Faith, in a moment of inspiration, had givethe name of "ditto", and by this it was invariably known at themanse. 

"Let's go and see where that smell is coming from, " said Jerry. 

They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn with the abandon ofyoung puppies, climbed a fence, and tore down the mossy slope, guided by the savory lure that ever grew stronger. A few minuteslater they arrived breathlessly in the sanctum sanctorum ofRainbow Valley where the Blythe children were just about to givethanks and eat. 

They halted shyly. Una wished they had not been so precipitate:but Di Blythe was equal to that and any occasion. She steppedforward, with a comrade's smile. 

"I guess I know who you are, " she said. "You belong to themanse, don't you?"

Faith nodded, her face creased by dimples. 

"We smelled your trout cooking and wondered what it was. "

"You must sit down and help us eat them, " said Di. 

"Maybe you haven't more than you want yourselves, " said Jerry, looking hungrily at the tin platter. 

"We've heaps--three apiece, " said Jem. "Sit down. "

No more ceremony was necessary. Down they all sat on mossystones. Merry was that feast and long. Nan and Di wouldprobably have died of horror had they known what Faith and Unaknew perfectly well--that Carl had two young mice in his jacketpocket. But they never knew it, so it never hurt them. Where canfolks get better acquainted than over a meal table? When thelast trout had vanished, the manse children and the Inglesidechildren were sworn friends and allies. They had always knowneach other and always would. The race of Joseph recognized itsown. 

They poured out the history of their little pasts. The mansechildren heard of Avonlea and Green Gables, of Rainbow Valleytraditions, and of the little house by the harbour shore whereJem had been born. The Ingleside children heard of Maywater, where the Merediths had lived before coming to the Glen, of Una'sbeloved, one-eyed doll and Faith's pet rooster. 

Faith was inclined to resent the fact that people laughed at herfor petting a rooster. She liked the Blythes because theyaccepted it without question. 

"A handsome rooster like Adam is just as nice a pet as a dog orcat, _I_ think, " she said. "If he was a canary nobody wouldwonder. And I brought him up from a little, wee, yellow chicken. Mrs. Johnson at Maywater gave him to me. A weasel had killed allhis brothers and sisters. I called him after her husband. Inever liked dolls or cats. Cats are too sneaky and dolls areDEAD. "

"Who lives in that house away up there?" asked Jerry. 

"The Miss Wests--Rosemary and Ellen, " answered Nan. "Di and Iare going to take music lessons from Miss Rosemary this summer. "

Una gazed at the lucky twins with eyes whose longing was toogentle for envy. Oh, if she could only have music lessons! Itwas one of the dreams of her little hidden life. But nobody everthought of such a thing. 

"Miss Rosemary is so sweet and she always dresses so pretty, "said Di. "Her hair is just the colour of new molasses taffy, "she added wistfully--for Di, like her mother before her, was notresigned to her own ruddy tresses. 

"I like Miss Ellen, too, " said Nan. "She always used to give mecandies when she came to church. But Di is afraid of her. "

"Her brows are so black and she has such a great deep voice, "said Di. "Oh, how scared of her Kenneth Ford used to be when hewas little! Mother says the first Sunday Mrs. Ford brought himto church Miss Ellen happened to be there, sitting right behindthem. And the minute Kenneth saw her he just screamed andscreamed until Mrs. Ford had to carry him out. "

"Who is Mrs. Ford?" asked Una wonderingly. 

"Oh, the Fords don't live here. They only come here in thesummer. And they're not coming this summer. They live in thatlittle house 'way, 'way down on the harbour shore where fatherand mother used to lie. I wish you could see Persis Ford. Sheis just like a picture. "

"I've heard of Mrs. Ford, " broke in Faith. "Bertie ShakespeareDrew told me about her. She was married fourteen years to a deadman and then he came to life. "

"Nonsense, " said Nan. "That isn't the way it goes at all. Bertie Shakespeare can never get anything straight. I know thewhole story and I'll tell it to you some time, but not now, forit's too long and it's time for us to go home. Mother doesn'tlike us to be out late these damp evenings. "

Nobody cared whether the manse children were out in the damp ornot. Aunt Martha was already in bed and the minister was stilltoo deeply lost in speculations concerning the immortality of thesoul to remember the mortality of the body. But they went home, too, with visions of good times coming in their heads. 

"I think Rainbow Valley is even nicer than the graveyard, " saidUna. "And I just love those dear Blythes. It's SO nice when youcan love people because so often you CAN'T. Father said in hissermon last Sunday that we should love everybody. But how canwe? How could we love Mrs. Alec Davis?"

"Oh, father only said that in the pulpit, " said Faith airily. "He has more sense than to really think it outside. "

The Blythe children went up to Ingleside, except Jem, who slippedaway for a few moments on a solitary expedition to a remotecorner of Rainbow Valley. Mayflowers grew there and Jem neverforgot to take his mother a bouquet as long as they lasted. 

CHAPTER V. THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE

"This is just the sort of day you feel as if things mighthappen, " said Faith, responsive to the lure of crystal air andblue hills. She hugged herself with delight and danced ahornpipe on old Hezekiah Pollock's bench tombstone, much to thehorror of two ancient maidens who happened to be driving pastjust as Faith hopped on one foot around the stone, waving theother and her arms in the air. 

"And that, " groaned one ancient maiden, "is our minister'sdaughter. "

"What else could you expect of a widower's family?" groaned theother ancient maiden. And then they both shook their heads. 

It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths were out inthe dew-drenched world with a delightful consciousness of theholiday. They had never had anything to do on a holiday. EvenNan and Di Blythe had certain household tasks for Saturdaymornings, but the daughters of the manse were free to roam fromblushing morn to dewy eve if so it pleased them. It DID pleaseFaith, but Una felt a secret, bitter humiliation because theynever learned to do anything. The other girls in her class atschool could cook and sew and knit; she only was a littleignoramus. 

Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so they went lingeringlythrough the fir grove, picking up Carl on the way, who was on hisknees in the dripping grass studying his darling ants. Beyondthe grove they came out in Mr. Taylor's pasture field, sprinkledover with the white ghosts of dandelions; in a remote corner wasan old tumbledown barn, where Mr. Taylor sometimes stored hissurplus hay crop but which was never used for any other purpose. Thither the Meredith children trooped, and prowled about theground floor for several minutes. 

"What was that?" whispered Una suddenly. 

They all listened. There was a faint but distinct rustle in thehayloft above. The Merediths looked at each other. 

"There's something up there, " breathed Faith. 

"I'm going up to see what it is, " said Jerry resolutely. 

"Oh, don't, " begged Una, catching his arm. 

"I'm going. "

"We'll all go, too, then, " said Faith. 

The whole four climbed the shaky ladder, Jerry and Faith quitedauntless, Una pale from fright, and Carl rather absent-mindedlyspeculating on the possibility of finding a bat up in the loft. He longed to see a bat in daylight. 

When they stepped off the ladder they saw what had made therustle and the sight struck them dumb for a few moments. 

In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled up, looking as ifshe had just wakened from sleep. When she saw them she stood up, rather shakily, as it seemed, and in the bright sunlight thatstreamed through the cobwebbed window behind her, they saw thather thin, sunburned face was very pale under its tan. She hadtwo braids of lank, thick, tow-coloured hair and very oddeyes--"white eyes, " the manse children thought, as she stared atthem half defiantly, half piteously. They were really of so palea blue that they did seem almost white, especially whencontrasted with the narrow black ring that circled the iris. Shewas barefooted and bareheaded, and was clad in a faded, ragged, old plaid dress, much too short and tight for her. As for years, she might have been almost any age, judging from her wizenedlittle face, but her height seemed to be somewhere in theneighbourhood of twelve. 

"Who are you?" asked Jerry. 

The girl looked about her as if seeking a way of escape. Thenshe seemed to give in with a little shiver of despair. 

"I'm Mary Vance, " she said. 

"Where'd you come from?" pursued Jerry. 

Mary, instead of replying, suddenly sat, or fell, down on the hayand began to cry. Instantly Faith had flung herself down besideher and put her arm around the thin, shaking shoulders. 

"You stop bothering her, " she commanded Jerry. Then she huggedthe waif. "Don't cry, dear. Just tell us what's the matter. WE'RE friends. "

"I'm so--so--hungry, " wailed Mary. "I--I hain't had a thing toeat since Thursday morning, 'cept a little water from the brookout there. "

The manse children gazed at each other in horror. Faith sprangup. 

"You come right up to the manse and get something to eat beforeyou say another word. "

Mary shrank. 

"Oh--I can't. What will your pa and ma say? Besides, they'dsend me back. "

"We've no mother, and father won't bother about you. Neitherwill Aunt Martha. Come, I say. " Faith stamped her footimpatiently. Was this queer girl going to insist on starving todeath almost at their very door?

Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could hardly climb downthe ladder, but somehow they got her down and over the field andinto the manse kitchen. Aunt Martha, muddling through herSaturday cooking, took no notice of her. Faith and Una flew tothe pantry and ransacked it for such eatables as itcontained--some "ditto, " bread, butter, milk and a doubtful pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously and uncritically, whilethe manse children stood around and watched her. Jerry noticedthat she had a pretty mouth and very nice, even, white teeth. Faith decided, with secret horror, that Mary had not one stitchon her except that ragged, faded dress. Una was full of purepity, Carl of amused wonder, and all of them of curiosity. 

"Now come out to the graveyard and tell us about yourself, "ordered Faith, when Mary's appetite showed signs of failing her. Mary was now nothing loath. Food had restored her naturalvivacity and unloosed her by no means reluctant tongue. 

"You won't tell your pa or anybody if I tell you?" shestipulated, when she was enthroned on Mr. Pollock's tombstone. Opposite her the manse children lined up on another. Here wasspice and mystery and adventure. Something HAD happened. 

"No, we won't. "

"Cross your hearts?"

"Cross our hearts. "

"Well, I've run away. I was living with Mrs. Wiley over-harbour. Do you know Mrs. Wiley?"

"No. "

"Well, you don't want to know her. She's an awful woman. My, how I hate her! She worked me to death and wouldn't give me halfenough to eat, and she used to larrup me 'most every day. Looka-here. "

Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves, and held up her scrawny armsand thin hands, chapped almost to rawness. They were black withbruises. The manse children shivered. Faith flushed crimsonwith indignation. Una's blue eyes filled with tears. 

"She licked me Wednesday night with a stick, " said Mary, indifferently. "It was 'cause I let the cow kick over a pail ofmilk. How'd I know the darn old cow was going to kick?"

A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners. They would neverdream of using such dubious words, but it was rather titivatingto hear someone else use them--and a girl, at that. Certainlythis Mary Vance was an interesting creature. 

"I don't blame you for running away, " said Faith. 

"Oh, I didn't run away 'cause she licked me. A licking was allin the day's work with me. I was darn well used to it. Nope, I'd meant to run away for a week 'cause I'd found out that Mrs. Wiley was going to rent her farm and go to Lowbridge to live andgive me to a cousin of hers up Charlottetown way. I wasn't goingto stand for THAT. She was a worse sort than Mrs. Wiley even. Mrs. Wiley lent me to her for a month last summer and I'd ratherlive with the devil himself. "

Sensation number two. But Una looked doubtful. 

"So I made up my mind I'd beat it. I had seventy cents saved upthat Mrs. John Crawford give me in the spring for plantingpotatoes for her. Mrs. Wiley didn't know about it. She wasaway visiting her cousin when I planted them. I thought I'dsneak up here to the Glen and buy a ticket to Charlottetown andtry to get work there. I'm a hustler, let me tell you. Thereain't a lazy bone in MY body. So I lit out Thursday morning'fore Mrs. Wiley was up and walked to the Glen--six miles. Andwhen I got to the station I found I'd lost my money. Dunnohow--dunno where. Anyhow, it was gone. I didn't know what todo. If I went back to old Lady Wiley she'd take the hide off me. So I went and hid in that old barn. "

"And what will you do now?" asked Jerry. 

"Dunno. I s'pose I'll have to go back and take my medicine. Nowthat I've got some grub in my stomach I guess I can stand it. "

But there was fear behind the bravado in Mary's eyes. Unasuddenly slipped from the one tombstone to the other and put herarm about Mary. 

"Don't go back. Just stay here with us. "

"Oh, Mrs. Wiley'll hunt me up, " said Mary. "It's likely she's onmy trail before this. I might stay here till she finds me, Is'pose, if your folks don't mind. I was a darn fool ever tothink of skipping out. She'd run a weasel to earth. But I wasso misrebul. "

Mary's voice quivered, but she was ashamed of showing herweakness. 

"I hain't had the life of a dog for these four years, " sheexplained defiantly. 

"You've been four years with Mrs. Wiley?"

"Yip. She took me out of the asylum over in Hopetown when I waseight. "

"That's the same place Mrs. Blythe came from, " exclaimed Faith. 

"I was two years in the asylum. I was put there when I was six. My ma had hung herself and my pa had cut his throat. "

"Holy cats! Why?" said Jerry. 

"Booze, " said Mary laconically. 

"And you've no relations?"

"Not a darn one that I know of. Must have had some once, though. I was called after half a dozen of them. My full name is MaryMartha Lucilla Moore Ball Vance. Can you beat that? Mygrandfather was a rich man. I'll bet he was richer than YOURgrandfather. But pa drunk it all up and ma, she did her part. THEY used to beat me, too. Laws, I've been licked so much I kindof like it. "

Mary tossed her head. She divined that the manse children werepitying her for her many stripes and she did not want pity. Shewanted to be envied. She looked gaily about her. Her strangeeyes, now that the dullness of famine was removed from them, werebrilliant. She would show these youngsters what a personage shewas. 

"I've been sick an awful lot, " she said proudly. "There's notmany kids could have come through what I have. I've had scarletfever and measles and ersipelas and mumps and whooping cough andpewmonia. "

"Were you ever fatally sick?" asked Una. 

"I don't know, " said Mary doubtfully. 

"Of course she wasn't, " scoffed Jerry. "If you're fatally sickyou die. "

"Oh, well, I never died exactly, " said Mary, "but I come blamednear it once. They thought I was dead and they were gettingready to lay me out when I up and come to. "

"What is it like to be half dead?" asked Jerry curiously. 

"Like nothing. I didn't know it for days afterwards. It waswhen I had the pewmonia. Mrs. Wiley wouldn't have thedoctor--said she wasn't going to no such expense for a home girl. Old Aunt Christina MacAllister nursed me with poultices. Shebrung me round. But sometimes I wish I'd just died the otherhalf and done with it. I'd been better off. "

"If you went to heaven I s'pose you would, " said Faith, ratherdoubtfully. 

"Well, what other place is there to go to?" demanded Mary in apuzzled voice. 

"There's hell, you know, " said Una, dropping her voice andhugging Mary to lessen the awfulness of the suggestion. 

"Hell? What's that?"

"Why, it's where the devil lives, " said Jerry. "You've heard ofhim--you spoke about him. "

"Oh, yes, but I didn't know he lived anywhere. I thought he justroamed round. Mr. Wiley used to mention hell when he was alive. He was always telling folks to go there. I thought it was someplace over in New Brunswick where he come from. "

"Hell is an awful place, " said Faith, with the dramatic enjoymentthat is born of telling dreadful things. "Bad people go therewhen they die and burn in fire for ever and ever and ever. "

"Who told you that?" demanded Mary incredulously. 

"It's in the Bible. And Mr. Isaac Crothers at Maywater told us, too, in Sunday School. He was an elder and a pillar in thechurch and knew all about it. But you needn't worry. If you'regood you'll go to heaven and if you're bad I guess you'd rathergo to hell. "

"I wouldn't, " said Mary positively. "No matter how bad I was Iwouldn't want to be burned and burned. _I_ know what it's like. I picked up a red hot poker once by accident. What must you doto be good?"

"You must go to church and Sunday School and read your Bible andpray every night and give to missions, " said Una. 

"It sounds like a large order, " said Mary. "Anything else?"

"You must ask God to forgive the sins you've committed. 

"But I've never com--committed any, " said Mary. "What's a sinany way?"

"Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does. Did you never tell alie?"

"Heaps of 'em, " said Mary. 

"That's a dreadful sin, " said Una solemnly. 

"Do you mean to tell me, " demanded Mary, "that I'd be sent tohell for telling a lie now and then? Why, I HAD to. Mr. Wileywould have broken every bone in my body one time if I hadn't toldhim a lie. Lies have saved me many a whack, I can tell you. "

Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties for her to solve. She shuddered as she thought of being cruelly whipped. Verylikely she would have lied too. She squeezed Mary's littlecalloused hand. 

"Is that the only dress you've got?" asked Faith, whose joyousnature refused to dwell on disagreeable subjects. 

"I just put on this dress because it was no good, " cried Maryflushing. "Mrs. Wiley'd bought my clothes and I wasn't going tobe beholden to her for anything. And I'm honest. If I was goingto run away I wasn't going to take what belong to HER that wasworth anything. When I grow up I'm going to have a blue satingdress. Your own clothes don't look so stylish. I thoughtministers' children were always dressed up. "

It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on somepoints. But there was a queer, wild charm about her whichcaptivated them all. She was taken to Rainbow Valley thatafternoon and introduced to the Blythes as "a friend of ours fromover-harbour who is visiting us. " The Blythes accepted herunquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly respectable now. After dinner--through which Aunt Martha had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had been in a state of semi-unconsciousness whilebrooding his Sunday sermon--Faith had prevailed on Mary to put onone of her dresses, as well as certain other articles ofclothing. With her hair neatly braided Mary passed mustertolerably well. She was an acceptable playmate, for she knewseveral new and exciting games, and her conversation lacked notspice. In fact, some of her expressions made Nan and Di look ather rather askance. They were not quite sure what their motherwould have thought of her, but they knew quite well what Susanwould. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must beall right. 

When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary shouldsleep. 

"We can't put her in the spare room, you know, " said Faithperplexedly to Una. 

"I haven't got anything in my head, " cried Mary in an injuredtone. 

"Oh, I didn't mean THAT, " protested Faith. "The spare room isall torn up. The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tickand made a nest in it. We never found it out till Aunt Marthaput the Rev. Mr. Fisher from Charlottetown there to sleep lastweek. HE soon found it out. Then father had to give him his bedand sleep on the study lounge. Aunt Martha hasn't had time tofix the spare room bed up yet, so she says; so NOBODY can sleepthere, no matter how clean their heads are. And our room is sosmall, and the bed so small you can't sleep with us. "

"I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you'lllend me a quilt, " said Mary philosophically. "It was kind ofchilly last night, but 'cept for that I've had worse beds. "

"Oh, no, no, you mustn't do that, " said Una. "I've thought of aplan, Faith. You know that little trestle bed in the garretroom, with the old mattress on it, that the last minister leftthere? Let's take up the spare room bedclothes and make Mary abed there. You won't mind sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? It's just above our room. "

"Any place'll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleepin my life. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley's. The roof leaked rain in the summer and the snow druv inin winter. My bed was a straw tick on the floor. You won't findme a mite huffy about where _I_ sleep. "

The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gableend partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of thedainty hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which CeciliaMeredith had once so proudly made for her spare-room, and whichstill survived Aunt Martha's uncertain washings. The good nightswere said and silence fell over the manse. Una was just fallingasleep when she heard a sound in the room just above that madeher sit up suddenly. 

"Listen, Faith--Mary's crying, " she whispered. Faith repliednot, being already asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made herway in her little white gown down the hall and up the garretstairs. The creaking floor gave ample notice of her coming, andwhen she reached the corner room all was moonlit silence and thetrestle bed showed only a hump in the middle. 

"Mary, " whispered Una. 

There was no response. 

Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. "Mary, Iknow you are crying. I heard you. Are you lonesome?"

Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing. 

"Let me in beside you. I'm cold, " said Una shivering in thechilly air, for the little garret window was open and the keenbreath of the north shore at night blew in. 

Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside her. 

"NOW you won't be lonesome. We shouldn't have left you herealone the first night. "

"I wasn't lonesome, " sniffed Mary. 

"What were you crying for then?"

"Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone. Ithought of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley--and of being lickedfor running away--and--and--and of going to hell for tellinglies. It all worried me something scandalous. "

"Oh, Mary, " said poor Una in distress. "I don't believe God willsend you to hell for telling lies when you didn't know it waswrong. He COULDN'T. Why, He's kind and good. Of course, youmustn't tell any more now that you know it's wrong. "

"If I can't tell lies what's to become of me?" said Mary with asob. "YOU don't understand. You don't know anything about it. You've got a home and a kind father--though it does seem to methat he isn't more'n about half there. But anyway he doesn'tlick you, and you get enough to eat such as it is--though thatold aunt of yours doesn't know ANYTHING about cooking. Why, thisis the first day I ever remember of feeling 'sif I'd enough toeat. I've been knocked about all of my life, 'cept for the twoyears I was at the asylum. They didn't lick me there and itwasn't too bad, though the matron was cross. She always lookedready to bite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holyterror, that's what SHE is, and I'm just scared stiff when Ithink of going back to her. "

"Perhaps you won't have to. Perhaps we'll be able to think of away out. Let's both ask God to keep you from having to go backto Mrs. Wiley. You say your prayers, don't you Mary?"

"Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme 'fore I get into bed, "said Mary indifferently. "I never thought of asking for anythingin particular though. Nobody in this world ever botheredthemselves about me so I didn't s'pose God would. He MIGHT takemore trouble for you, seeing you're a minister's daughter. "

"He'd take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I'm sure, "said Una. "It doesn't matter whose child you are. You just askHim--and I will, too. "

"All right, " agreed Mary. "It won't do any harm if it doesn't domuch good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you wouldn'tthink God would want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won't cry anymore about it. This is a big sight better'n last night down inthat old barn, with the mice running about. Look at the FourWinds light. Ain't it pretty?"

"This is the only window we can see it from, " said Una. "I loveto watch it. "

"Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley loft and it wasthe only comfort I had. When I was all sore from being lickedI'd watch it and forget about the places that hurt. I'd think ofthe ships sailing away and away from it and wish I was on one ofthem sailing far away too--away from everything. On winternights when it didn't shine, I just felt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to me when I'm just astranger?"

"Because it's right to be. The bible tells us to be kind toeverybody. "

"Does it? Well, I guess most folks don't mind it much then. Inever remember of any one being kind to me before--true's youlive I don't. Say, Una, ain't them shadows on the walls pretty?They look just like a flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like all you folks and them Blythe boys and Di, but Idon't like that Nan. She's a proud one. "

"Oh, no, Mary, she isn't a bit proud, " said Una eagerly. "Not asingle bit. "

"Don't tell me. Any one that holds her head like that IS proud. I don't like her. "

"WE all like her very much. "

"Oh, I s'pose you like her better'n me?" said Mary jealously. "Do you?"

"Why, Mary--we've known her for weeks and we've only known you afew hours, " stammered Una. 

"So you do like her better then?" said Mary in a rage. "Allright! Like her all you want to. _I_ don't care. _I_ can getalong without you. "

She flung herself over against the wall of the garret with aslam. 

"Oh, Mary, " said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary'suncompromising back, "don't talk like that. I DO like you everso much. And you make me feel so bad. "

No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmedaround again and engulfed Una in a bear's hug. 

"Hush up, " she ordered. "Don't go crying over what I said. Iwas as mean as the devil to talk that way. I orter to be skinnedalive--and you all so good to me. I should think you WOULD likeany one better'n me. I deserve every licking I ever got. Hush, now. If you cry any more I'll go and walk right down to theharbour in this night-dress and drown myself. "

This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tearswere wiped away by Mary with the lace frill of the spare-roompillow and forgiver and forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch the shadows of the vine leaves on themoonlit wall until they fell asleep. 

And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor withrapt face and shining eyes, thinking out his message of themorrow, and knew not that under his own roof there was a littleforlorn soul, stumbling in darkness and ignorance, beset byterror and compassed about with difficulties too great for it tograpple in its unequal struggle with a big indifferent world. 

CHAPTER VI. MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE

The manse children took Mary Vance to church with them the nextday. At first Mary objected to the idea. 

"Didn't you go to church over-harbour?" asked Una. 

"You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church much, but I wentevery Sunday I could get off. I was mighty thankful to go tosome place where I could sit down for a spell. But I can't go tochurch in this old ragged dress. "

This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the loan of hersecond best dress. 

"It's faded a little and two of the buttons are off, but I guessit'll do. "

"I'll sew the buttons on in a jiffy, " said Mary. 

"Not on Sunday, " said Una, shocked. 

"Sure. The better the day the better the deed. You just gimme aneedle and thread and look the other way if you're squeamish. "

Faith's school boots, and an old black velvet cap that had oncebeen Cecilia Meredith's, completed Mary's costume, and to churchshe went. Her behaviour was quite conventional, and though somewondered who the shabby little girl with the manse children wasshe did not attract much attention. She listened to the sermonwith outward decorum and joined lustily in the singing. She had, it appeared, a clear, strong voice and a good ear. 

"His blood can make the VIOLETS clean, " carolled Mary blithely. Mrs. Jimmy Milgrave, whose pew was just in front of the mansepew, turned suddenly and looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere superfluity of naughtiness, stuck out her tongueat Mrs. Milgrave, much to Una's horror. 

"I couldn't help it, " she declared after church. "What'd shewant to stare at me like that for? Such manners! I'm GLAD stuckmy tongue out at her. I wish I'd stuck it farther out. Say, Isaw Rob MacAllister from over-harbour there. Wonder if he'lltell Mrs. Wiley on me. "

No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few day the childrenforgot to look for her. Mary was apparently a fixture at themanse. But she refused to go to school with the others. 

"Nope. I've finished my education, " she said, when Faith urgedher to go. "I went to school four winters since I come to Mrs. Wiley's and I've had all I want of THAT. I'm sick and tired ofbeing everlastingly jawed at 'cause I didn't get my home-lessonsdone. I'D no time to do home-lessons. "

"Our teacher won't jaw you. He is awfully nice, " said Faith. 

"Well, I ain't going. I can read and write and cipher up tofractions. That's all I want. You fellows go and I'll stayhome. You needn't be scared I'll steal anything. I swear I'mhonest. "

Mary employed herself while the others were at school in cleaningup the manse. In a few days it was a different place. Floorswere swept, furniture dusted, everything straightened out. Shemended the spare-room bed-tick, she sewed on missing buttons, shepatched clothes neatly, she even invaded the study with broom anddustpan and ordered Mr. Meredith out while she put it to rights. But there was one department with which Aunt Martha refused tolet her interfere. Aunt Martha might be deaf and half blind andvery childish, but she was resolved to keep the commissariat inher own hands, in spite of all Mary's wiles and stratagems. 

"I can tell you if old Martha'd let ME cook you'd have somedecent meals, " she told the manse children indignantly. "There'dbe no more 'ditto'--and no more lumpy porridge and blue milkeither. What DOES she do with all the cream?"

"She gives it to the cat. He's hers, you know, " said Faith. 

"I'd like to CAT her, "exclaimed Mary bitterly. "I've no use forcats anyhow. They belong to the old Nick. You can tell that bytheir eyes. Well, if old Martha won't, she won't, I s'pose. Butit gits on my nerves to see good vittles spoiled. "

When school came out they always went to Rainbow Valley. Maryrefused to play in the graveyard. She declared she was afraid ofghosts. 

"There's no such thing as ghosts, " declared Jem Blythe. 

"Oh, ain't there?"

"Did you ever see any?"

"Hundreds of 'em, " said Mary promptly. 

"What are they like?" said Carl. 

"Awful-looking. Dressed all in white with skellington hands andheads, " said Mary. 

"What did you do?" asked Una. 

"Run like the devil, " said Mary. Then she caught Walter's eyesand blushed. Mary was a good deal in awe of Walter. Shedeclared to the manse girls that his eyes made her nervous. 

"I think of all the lies I've ever told when I look into them, "she said, "and I wish I hadn't. "

Jem was Mary's favourite. When he took her to the attic atIngleside and showed her the museum of curios that Captain JimBoyd had bequeathed to him she was immensely pleased andflattered. She also won Carl's heart entirely by her interest inhis beetles and ants. It could not be denied that Mary got onrather better with the boys than with the girls. She quarrelledbitterly with Nan Blythe the second day. 

"Your mother is a witch, " she told Nan scornfully. "Red-hairedwomen are always witches. " Then she and Faith fell out about therooster. Mary said its tail was too short. Faith angrilyretorted that she guessed God know what length to make arooster's tail. They did not "speak" for a day over this. Marytreated Una's hairless, one-eyed doll with consideration; butwhen Una showed her other prized treasure--a picture of an angelcarrying a baby, presumably to heaven, Mary declared that itlooked too much like a ghost for her. Una crept away to her roomand cried over this, but Mary hunted her out, hugged herrepentantly and implored forgiveness. No one could keep up aquarrel long with Mary--not even Nan, who was rather prone tohold grudges and never quite forgave the insult to her mother. Mary was jolly. She could and did tell the most thrilling ghoststories. Rainbow Valley seances were undeniably more excitingafter Mary came. She learned to play on the jew's-harp and sooneclipsed Jerry. 

"Never struck anything yet I couldn't do if I put my mind to it, "she declared. Mary seldom lost a chance of tooting her own horn. She taught them how to make "blow-bags" out of the thick leavesof the "live-forever" that flourished in the old Bailey garden, she initiated them into the toothsome qualities of the "sours"that grew in the niches of the graveyard dyke, and she could makethe most wonderful shadow pictures on the walls with her long, flexible fingers. And when they all went picking gum in RainbowValley Mary always got "the biggest chew" and bragged about it. There were times when they hated her and times when they lovedher. But at all times they found her interesting. So theysubmitted quite meekly to her bossing, and by the end of afortnight had come to feel that she must always have been withthem. 

"It's the queerest thing that Mrs. Wiley hain't been after me, "said Mary. "I can't understand it. "

"Maybe she isn't going to bother about you at all, " said Una. "Then you can just go on staying here. "

"This house ain't hardly big enough for me and old Martha, " saidMary darkly. "It's a very fine thing to have enough to eat--I'veoften wondered what it would be like--but I'm p'ticler about mycooking. And Mrs. Wiley'll be here yet. SHE'S got a rod inpickle for me all right. I don't think about it so much indaytime but say, girls, up there in that garret at night I git tothinking and thinking of it, till I just almost wish she'd comeand have it over with. I dunno's one real good whipping would bemuch worse'n all the dozen I've lived through in my mind eversince I run away. Were any of you ever licked?"

"No, of course not, " said Faith indignantly. "Father would neverdo such a thing. "

"You don't know you're alive, " said Mary with a sigh half ofenvy, half of superiority. "You don't know what I've comethrough. And I s'pose the Blythes were never licked either?"

"No-o-o, I guess not. But I THINK they were sometimes spankedwhen they were small. "

"A spanking doesn't amount to anything, " said Marycontemptuously. "If my folks had just spanked me I'd havethought they were petting me. Well, it ain't a fair world. Iwouldn't mind taking my share of wallopings but I've had a darnsight too many. "

"It isn't right to say that word, Mary, " said Una reproachfully. "You promised me you wouldn't say it. "

"G'way, " responded Mary. "If you knew some of the words I COULDsay if I liked you wouldn't make such a fuss over darn. And youknow very well I hain't ever told any lies since I come here. "

"What about all those ghosts you said you saw?" asked Faith. 

Mary blushed. 

"That was diff'runt, " she said defiantly. "I knew you wouldn'tbelieve them yarns and I didn't intend you to. And I really didsee something queer one night when I was passing the over-harbourgraveyard, true's you live. I dunno whether 'twas a ghost orSandy Crawford's old white nag, but it looked blamed queer and Itell you I scooted at the rate of no man's business. "

CHAPTER VII. A FISHY EPISODE

Rilla Blythe walked proudly, and perhaps a little primly, throughthe main "street" of the Glen and up the manse hill, carefullycarrying a small basketful of early strawberries, which Susan hadcoaxed into lusciousness in one of the sunny nooks of Ingleside. Susan had charged Rilla to give the basket to nobody except AuntMartha or Mr. Meredith, and Rilla, very proud of being entrustedwith such an errand, was resolved to carry out her instructionsto the letter. 

Susan had dressed her daintily in a white, starched, andembroidered dress, with sash of blue and beaded slippers. Herlong ruddy curls were sleek and round, and Susan had let her puton her best hat, out of compliment to the manse. It was asomewhat elaborate affair, wherein Susan's taste had had more tosay than Anne's, and Rilla's small soul gloried in its splendoursof silk and lace and flowers. She was very conscious of her hat, and I am afraid she strutted up the manse hill. The strut, orthe hat, or both, got on the nerves of Mary Vance, who wasswinging on the lawn gate. Mary's temper was somewhat ruffledjust then, into the bargain. Aunt Martha had refused to let herpeel the potatoes and had ordered her out of the kitchen. 

"Yah! You'll bring the potatoes to the table with strips of skinhanging to them and half boiled as usual! My, but it'll be niceto go to your funeral, " shrieked Mary. She went out of thekitchen, giving the door such a bang that even Aunt Martha heardit, and Mr. Meredith in his study felt the vibration and thoughtabsently that there must have been a slight earthquake shock. Then he went on with his sermon. 

Mary slipped from the gate and confronted the spick-and-spandamsel of Ingleside. 

"What you got there?" she demanded, trying to take the basket. 

Rilla resisted. "It'th for Mithter Meredith, " she lisped. 

"Give it to me. I'LL give it to him, " said Mary. 

"No. Thuthan thaid that I wathn't to give it to anybody butMithter Mer'dith or Aunt Martha, " insisted Rilla. 

Mary eyed her sourly. 

"You think you're something, don't you, all dressed up like adoll! Look at me. My dress is all rags and _I_ don't care! I'drather be ragged than a doll baby. Go home and tell them to putyou in a glass case. Look at me--look at me--look at me!"

Mary executed a wild dance around the dismayed and bewilderedRilla, flirting her ragged skirt and vociferating "Look atme--look at me" until poor Rilla was dizzy. But as the lattertried to edge away towards the gate Mary pounced on her again. 

"You give me that basket, " she ordered with a grimace. Mary waspast mistress in the art of "making faces. " She could give hercountenance a most grotesque and unearthly appearance out ofwhich her strange, brilliant, white eyes gleamed with weirdeffect. 

"I won't, " gasped Rilla, frightened but staunch. "You let me go, Mary Vanth. "

Mary let go for a minute and looked around here. Just inside thegate was a small "flake, " on which a half a dozen large codfishwere drying. One of Mr. Meredith's parishioners had presentedhim with them one day, perhaps in lieu of the subscription he wassupposed to pay to the stipend and never did. Mr. Meredith hadthanked him and then forgotten all about the fish, which wouldhave promptly spoiled had not the indefatigable Mary preparedthem for drying and rigged up the "flake" herself on which to drythem. 

Mary had a diabolical inspiration. She flew to the "flake" andseized the largest fish there--a huge, flat thing, nearly as bigas herself. With a whoop she swooped down on the terrifiedRilla, brandishing her weird missile. Rilla's courage gave way. To be lambasted with a dried codfish was such an unheard-of thingthat Rilla could not face it. With a shriek she dropped herbasket and fled. The beautiful berries, which Susan had sotenderly selected for the minister, rolled in a rosy torrent overthe dusty road and were trodden on by the flying feet of pursuerand pursued. The basket and contents were no longer in Mary'smind. She thought only of the delight of giving Rilla Blythe thescare of her life. She would teach HER to come giving herselfairs because of her fine clothes. 

Rilla flew down the hill and along the street. Terror lent wingsto her feet, and she just managed to keep ahead of Mary, who wassomewhat hampered by her own laughter, but who had breath enoughto give occasional blood-curdling whoops as she ran, flourishingher codfish in the air. Through the Glen street they swept, while everybody ran to the windows and gates to see them. Maryfelt she was making a tremendous sensation and enjoyed it. Rilla, blind with terror and spent of breath, felt that she couldrun no longer. In another instant that terrible girl would be onher with the codfish. At this point the poor mite stumbled andfell into the mud-puddle at the end of the street just as MissCornelia came out of Carter Flagg's store. 

Miss Cornelia took the whole situation in at a glance. So didMary. The latter stopped short in her mad career and before MissCornelia could speak she had whirled around and was running up asfast as she had run down. Miss Cornelia's lips tightenedominously, but she knew it was no use to think of chasing her. So she picked up poor, sobbing, dishevelled Rilla instead andtook her home. Rilla was heart-broken. Her dress and slippersand hat were ruined and her six year old pride had receivedterrible bruises. 

Susan, white with indignation, heard Miss Cornelia's story ofMary Vance's exploit. 

"Oh, the hussy--oh, the littly hussy!" she said, as she carriedRilla away for purification and comfort. 

"This thing has gone far enough, Anne dearie, " said Miss Corneliaresolutely. "Something must be done. WHO is this creature whois staying at the manse and where does she come from?"

"I understood she was a little girl from over-harbour who wasvisiting at the manse, " answered Anne, who saw the comical sideof the codfish chase and secretly thought Rilla was rather vainand needed a lesson or two. 

"I know all the over-harbour families who come to our church andthat imp doesn't belong to any of them, " retorted Miss Cornelia. "She is almost in rags and when she goes to church she wearsFaith Meredith's old clothes. There's some mystery here, and I'mgoing to investigate it, since it seems nobody else will. Ibelieve she was at the bottom of their goings-on in Warren Mead'sspruce bush the other day. Did you hear of their frightening hismother into a fit?"

"No. I knew Gilbert had been called to see her, but I did nothear what the trouble was. "

"Well, you know she has a weak heart. And one day last week, when she was all alone on the veranda, she heard the most awfulshrieks of 'murder' and 'help' coming from the bush--positivelyfrightful sounds, Anne dearie. Her heart gave out at once. Warren heard them himself at the barn, and went straight to thebush to investigate, and there he found all the manse childrensitting on a fallen tree and screaming 'murder' at the top oftheir lungs. They told him they were only in fun and didn'tthink anyone would hear them. They were just playing Indianambush. Warren went back to the house and found his poor motherunconscious on the veranda. "

Susan, who had returned, sniffed contemptuously. 

"I think she was very far from being unconscious, Mrs. MarshallElliott, and that you may tie to. I have been hearing of AmeliaWarren's weak heart for forty years. She had it when she wastwenty. She enjoys making a fuss and having the doctor, and anyexcuse will do. "

"I don't think Gilbert thought her attack very serious, " saidAnne. 

"Oh, that may very well be, " said Miss Cornelia. "But the matterhas made an awful lot of talk and the Meads being Methodistsmakes it that much worse. What is going to become of thosechildren? Sometimes I can't sleep at nights for thinking aboutthem, Anne dearie. I really do question if they get enough toeat, even, for their father is so lost in dreams that he doesn'toften remember he has a stomach, and that lazy old woman doesn'tbother cooking what she ought. They are just running wild andnow that school is closing they'll be worse than ever. "

"They do have jolly times, " said Anne, laughing over therecollections of some Rainbow Valley happenings that had come toher ears. "And they are all brave and frank and loyal andtruthful. "

"That's a true word, Anne dearie, and when you come to think ofall the trouble in the church those two tattling, deceitfulyoungsters of the last minister's made, I'm inclined to overlooka good deal in the Merediths. "

"When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. Dear, they are very nicechildren, " said Susan. "They have got plenty of original sin inthem and that I will admit, but maybe it is just as well, for ifthey had not they might spoil from over-sweetness. Only I dothink it is not proper for them to play in a graveyard and that Iwill maintain. "

"But they really play quite quietly there, " excused Anne. "Theydon't run and yell as they do elsewhere. Such howls as drift uphere from Rainbow Valley sometimes! Though I fancy my own smallfry bear a valiant part in them. They had a sham battle therelast night and had to 'roar' themselves, because they had noartillery to do it, so Jem says. Jem is passing through thestage where all boys hanker to be soldiers. "

"Well, thank goodness, he'll never be a soldier, " said MissCornelia. "I never approved of our boys going to that SouthAfrican fracas. But it's over, and not likely anything of thekind will ever happen again. I think the world is getting moresensible. As for the Merediths, I've said many a time and I sayit again, if Mr. Meredith had a wife all would be well. "

"He called twice at the Kirks' last week, so I am told, " saidSusan. 

"Well, " said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully, "as a rule, I don'tapprove of a minister marrying in his congregation. It generallyspoils him. But in this case it would do no harm, for every onelikes Elizabeth Kirk and nobody else is hankering for the job ofstepmothering those youngsters. Even the Hill girls balk atthat. They haven't been found laying traps for Mr. Meredith. Elizabeth would make him a good wife if he only thought so. Butthe trouble is, she really is homely and, Anne dearie, Mr. Meredith, abstracted as he is, has an eye for a good-lookingwoman, man-like. He isn't SO other-worldly when it comes tothat, believe ME. "

"Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but they do say thatpeople have nearly frozen to death in her mother's spare-room bedbefore now, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan darkly. "If I felt I hadany right to express an opinion concerning such a solemn matteras a minister's marriage I would say that I think Elizabeth'scousin Sarah, over-harbour, would make Mr. Meredith a betterwife. "

"Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist, " said Miss Cornelia, much as ifSusan had suggested a Hottentot as a manse bride. 

"She would likely turn Presbyterian if she married Mr. Meredith, "retorted Susan. 

Miss Cornelia shook her head. Evidently with her it was, once aMethodist, always a Methodist. 

"Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question, " she saidpositively. "And so is Emmeline Drew--though the Drews are alltrying to make the match. They are literally throwing poorEmmeline at his head, and he hasn't the least idea of it. "

"Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow, " said Susan. "Sheis the kind of woman, Mrs. Dr. Dear, who would put a hot-waterbottle in your bed on a dog-night and then have her feelings hurtbecause you were not grateful. And her mother was a very poorhousekeeper. Did you ever hear the story of her dishcloth? Shelost her dishcloth one day. But the next day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. Dear, she found it, in the goose at thedinner-table, mixed up with the stuffing. Do you think a womanlike that would do for a minister's mother-in-law? I do not. But no doubt I would be better employed in mending little Jem'strousers than in talking gossip about my neighbours. He torethem something scandalous last night in Rainbow Valley. "

"Where is Walter?" asked Anne. 

"He is up to no good, I fear, Mrs. Dr. Dear. He is in the atticwriting something in an exercise book. And he has not done aswell in arithmetic this term as he should, so the teacher tellsme. Too well I know the reason why. He has been writing sillyrhymes when he should have been doing his sums. I am afraid thatboy is going to be a poet, Mrs. Dr. Dear. "

"He is a poet now, Susan. "

"Well, you take it real calm, Mrs. Dr. Dear. I suppose it is thebest way, when a person has the strength. I had an uncle whobegan by being a poet and ended up by being a tramp. Our familywere dreadfully ashamed of him. "

"You don't seem to think very highly of poets, Susan, " said Anne, laughing. 

"Who does, Mrs. Dr. Dear?" asked Susan in genuine astonishment. 

"What about Milton and Shakespeare? And the poets of the Bible?"

"They tell me Milton could not get along with his wife, andShakespeare was no more than respectable by times. As for theBible, of course things were different in those sacred days--although I never had a high opinion of King David, say what youwill. I never knew any good to come of writing poetry, and Ihope and pray that blessed boy will outgrow the tendency. If hedoes not--we must see what emulsion of cod-liver oil will do. "

CHAPTER VIII. MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES

Miss Cornelia descended upon the manse the next day andcross-questioned Mary, who, being a young person of considerablediscernment and astuteness, told her story simple and truthfully, with an entire absence of complaint or bravado. Miss Corneliawas more favourably impressed than she had expected to be, butdeemed it her duty to be severe. 

"Do you think, " she said sternly, "that you showed your gratitudeto this family, who have been far too kind to you, by insultingand chasing one of their little friends as you did yesterday?"

"Say, it was rotten mean of me, " admitted Mary easily. "I dunnowhat possessed me. That old codfish seemed to come in so blamedhandy. But I was awful sorry--I cried last night after I went tobed about it, honest I did. You ask Una if I didn't. I wouldn'ttell her what for 'cause I was ashamed of it, and then she cried, too, because she was afraid someone had hurt my feelings. Laws, _I_ ain't got any feelings to hurt worth speaking of. Whatworries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain't been hunting for me. Itain't like her. "

Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but she merelyadmonished Mary sharply not to take any further liberties withthe minister's codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside. 

"If the child's story is true the matter ought to be lookedinto, " she said. "I know something about that Wiley woman, believe ME. Marshall used to be well acquainted with her when helived over-harbour. I heard him say something last summer abouther and a home child she had--likely this very Mary-creature. Hesaid some one told him she was working the child to death and nothalf feeding and clothing it. You know, Anne dearie, it hasalways been my habit neither to make nor meddle with thoseover-harbour folks. But I shall send Marshall over to-morrow tofind out the rights of this if he can. And THEN I'll speak tothe minister. Mind you, Anne dearie, the Merediths found thisgirl literally starving in James Taylor's old hay barn. She hadbeen there all night, cold and hungry and alone. And us sleepingwarm in our beds after good suppers. "

"The poor little thing, " said Anne, picturing one of her own dearbabies, cold and hungry and alone in such circumstances. "If shehas been ill-used, Miss Cornelia, she mustn't be taken back tosuch a place. _I_ was an orphan once in a very similarsituation. "

"We'll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks, " said MissCornelia. "Anyway, she can't be left at the manse. Dear knowswhat those poor children might learn from her. I understand thatshe has been known to swear. But just think of her being theretwo whole weeks and Mr Meredith never waking up to it! Whatbusiness has a man like that to have a family? Why, Anne dearie, he ought to be a monk. "

Two evenings later Miss Cornelia was back at Ingleside. 

"It's the most amazing thing!" she said. "Mrs. Wiley was founddead in her bed the very morning after this Mary-creature ranaway. She has had a bad heart for years and the doctor hadwarned her it might happen at any time. She had sent away herhired man and there was nobody in the house. Some neighboursfound her the next day. They missed the child, it seems, butsupposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her to her cousin near Charlottetownas she had said she was going to do. The cousin didn't come tothe funeral and so nobody ever knew that Mary wasn't with her. The people Marshall talked to told him some things about the wayMrs. Wiley used this Mary that made his blood boil, so hedeclares. You know, it puts Marshall in a regular fury to hearof a child being ill-used. They said she whipped her mercilesslyfor every little fault or mistake. Some folks talked of writingto the asylum authorities but everybody's business is nobody'sbusiness and it was never done. "

"I am sorry that Wiley person is dead, " said Susan fiercely. "Ishould like to go over-harbour and give her a piece of my mind. Starving and beating a child, Mrs. Dr. Dear! As you know, I holdwith lawful spanking, but I go no further. And what is to becomeof this poor child now, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?"

"I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown, " said MissCornelia. "I think every one hereabouts who wants a home childhas one. I'll see Mr. Meredith to-morrow and tell him my opinionof the whole affair. "

"And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan, after MissCornelia had gone. "She would stick at nothing, not even atshingling the church spire if she took it into her head. But Icannot understand how even Cornelia Bryant can talk to a ministeras she does. You would think he was just any common person. "

When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled herself from thehammock where she had been studying her lessons and slipped awayto Rainbow Valley. The others were already there. Jem and Jerrywere playing quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the Glenblacksmith. Carl was stalking ants on a sunny hillock. Walter, lying on his stomach among the fern, was reading aloud to Maryand Di and Faith and Una from a wonderful book of myths whereinwere fascinating accounts of Prester John and the Wandering Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir, the worm that splitrocks and opened the way to golden treasure, of Fortunate Islesand swan-maidens. It was a great shock to Walter to learn thatWilliam Tell and Gelert were myths also; and the story of BishopHatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best of all heloved the stories of the Pied Piper and the San Greal. He readthem thrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled inthe summer wind and the coolness of the evening shadows creptacross the valley. 

"Say, ain't them in'resting lies?" said Mary admiringly whenWalter had closed the book. 

"They aren't lies, " said Di indignantly. 

"You don't mean they're true?" asked Mary incredulously. 

"No--not exactly. They're like those ghost-stories of yours. They weren't true--but you didn't expect us to believe them, sothey weren't lies. "

"That yarn about the divining rod is no lie, anyhow, " said Mary. "Old Jake Crawford over-harbour can work it. They send for himfrom everywhere when they want to dig a well. And I believe Iknow the Wandering Jew. "

"Oh, Mary, " said Una, awe-struck. 

"I do--true's you're alive. There was an old man at Mrs. Wiley'sone day last fall. He looked old enough to be ANYTHING. She wasasking him about cedar posts, if he thought they'd last well. And he said, 'Last well? They'll last a thousand years. I know, for I've tried them twice. ' Now, if he was two thousand yearsold who was he but your Wandering Jew?"

"I don't believe the Wandering Jew would associate with a personlike Mrs. Wiley, " said Faith decidedly. 

"I love the Pied Piper story, " said Di, "and so does mother. Ialways feel so sorry for the poor little lame boy who couldn'tkeep up with the others and got shut out of the mountain. Hemust have been so disappointed. I think all the rest of his lifehe'd be wondering what wonderful thing he had missed and wishinghe could have got in with the others. "

"But how glad his mother must have been, " said Una softly. "Ithink she had been sorry all her life that he was lame. Perhapsshe even used to cry about it. But she would never be sorryagain--never. She would be glad he was lame because that was whyshe hadn't lost him. "

"Some day, " said Walter dreamily, looking afar into the sky, "thePied Piper will come over the hill up there and down RainbowValley, piping merrily and sweetly. And I will followhim--follow him down to the shore--down to the sea--away from youall. I don't think I'll want to go--Jem will want to go--it willbe such an adventure--but I won't. Only I'll HAVE to--the musicwill call and call and call me until I MUST follow. "

"We'll all go, " cried Di, catching fire at the flame of Walter'sfancy, and half-believing she could see the mocking, retreatingfigure of the mystic piper in the far, dim end of the valley. 

"No. You'll sit here and wait, " said Walter, his great, splendideyes full of strange glamour. "You'll wait for us to come back. And we may not come--for we cannot come as long as the Piperplays. He may pipe us round the world. And still you'll sithere and wait--and WAIT. "

"Oh, dry up, " said Mary, shivering. "Don't look like that, Walter Blythe. You give me the creeps. Do you want to set mebawling? I could just see that horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys following him, and us girls sitting here waiting allalone. I dunno why it is--I never was one of the blubberingkind--but as soon as you start your spieling I always want tocry. "

Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this power of hisover his companions--to play on their feelings, waken theirfears, thrill their souls. It satisfied some dramatic instinctin him. But under his triumph was a queer little chill of somemysterious dread. The Pied Piper had seemed very real to him--asif the fluttering veil that hid the future had for a moment beenblown aside in the starlit dusk of Rainbow Valley and some dimglimpse of coming years granted to him. 

Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the doings inant-land, brought them all back to the realm of facts. 

"Ants ARE darned in'resting, " exclaimed Mary, glad to escape theshadowy Piper's thrall. "Carl and me watched that bed in thegraveyard all Saturday afternoon. I never thought there was somuch in bugs. Say, but they're quarrelsome little cusses--someof 'em like to start a fight 'thout any reason, far's we couldsee. And some of 'em are cowards. They got so scared they justdoubled theirselves up into a ball and let the other fellows bang'em. They wouldn't put up a fight at all. Some of 'em are lazyand won't work. We watched 'em shirking. And there was one antdied of grief 'cause another ant got killed--wouldn't work--wouldn't eat--just died--it did, honest to Go--oodness. "

A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew that Mary had notstarted out to say "goodness. " Faith and Di exchanged glancesthat would have done credit to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter andCarl looked uncomfortable and Una's lip trembled. 

Mary squirmed uncomfortably. 

"That slipped out 'fore I thought--it did, honest to--I mean, true's you live, and I swallowed half of it. You folks over hereare mighty squeamish seems to me. Wish you could have heard theWileys when they had a fight. "

"Ladies don't say such things, " said Faith, very primly for her. 

"It isn't right, " whispered Una. 

"I ain't a lady, " said Mary. "What chance've I ever had of beinga lady? But I won't say that again if I can help it. I promiseyou. "

"Besides, " said Una, "you can't expect God to answer your prayersif you take His name in vain, Mary. "

"I don't expect Him to answer 'em anyhow, " said Mary of littlefaith. "I've been asking Him for a week to clear up this Wileyaffair and He hasn't done a thing. I'm going to give up. "

At this juncture Nan arrived breathless. 

"Oh, Mary, I've news for you. Mrs. Elliott has been over-harbourand what do you think she found out? Mrs. Wiley is dead--she wasfound dead in bed the morning after you ran away. So you'llnever have to go back to her. "

"Dead!" said Mary stupefied. Then she shivered. 

"Do you s'pose my praying had anything to do with that?" shecried imploringly to Una. "If it had I'll never pray again aslong as I live. Why, she may come back and ha'nt me. "

"No, no, Mary, " said Una comfortingly, "it hadn't. Why, Mrs. Wiley died long before you ever began to pray about it at all. "

"That's so, " said Mary recovering from her panic. "But I tellyou it gave me a start. I wouldn't like to think I'd prayedanybody to death. I never thought of such a thing as her dyingwhen I was praying. She didn't seem much like the dying kind. Did Mrs. Elliott say anything about me?"

"She said you would likely have to go back to the asylum. "

"I thought as much, " said Mary drearily. "And then they'll giveme out again--likely to some one just like Mrs. Wiley. Well, Is'pose I can stand it. I'm tough. "

"I'm going to pray that you won't have to go back, " whisperedUna, as she and Mary walked home to the manse. 

"You can do as you like, " said Mary decidedly, "but I vow _I_won't. I'm good and scared of this praying business. See what'scome of it. If Mrs. Wiley HAD died after I started praying itwould have been my doings. "

"Oh, no, it wouldn't, " said Una. "I wish I could explain thingsbetter--father could, I know, if you'd talk to him, Mary. "

"Catch me! I don't know what to make of your father, that's thelong and short of it. He goes by me and never sees me in broaddaylight. I ain't proud--but I ain't a door-mat, neither!"

"Oh, Mary, it's just father's way. Most of the time he neversees us, either. He is thinking deeply, that is all. And I AMgoing to pray that God will keep you in Four Winds--because Ilike you, Mary. "

"All right. Only don't let me hear of any more people dying onaccount of it, " said Mary. "I'd like to stay in Four Winds fine. I like it and I like the harbour and the light house--and you andthe Blythes. You're the only friends I ever had and I'd hate toleave you. "

CHAPTER IX. UNA INTERVENES

Miss Cornelia had an interview with Mr. Meredith which provedsomething of a shock to that abstracted gentleman. She pointedout to him, none too respectfully, his dereliction of duty inallowing a waif like Mary Vance to come into his family andassociate with his children without knowing or learning anythingabout her. 

"I don't say there is much harm done, of course, " she concluded. "This Mary-creature isn't what you might call bad, when all issaid and done. I've been questioning your children and theBlythes, and from what I can make out there's nothing much to besaid against the child except that she's slangy and doesn't usevery refined language. But think what might have happened ifshe'd been like some of those home children we know of. You knowyourself what that poor little creature the Jim Flaggs' had, taught and told the Flagg children. "

Mr. Meredith did know and was honestly shocked over his owncarelessness in the matter. 

"But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?" he asked helplessly. "Wecan't turn the poor child out. She must be cared for. "

"Of course. We'd better write to the Hopetown authorities atonce. Meanwhile, I suppose she might as well stay here for a fewmore days till we hear from them. But keep your eyes and earsopen, Mr. Meredith. "

Susan would have died of horror on the spot if she had heard MissCornelia so admonishing a minister. But Miss Cornelia departedin a warm glow of satisfaction over duty done, and that night Mr. Meredith asked Mary to come into his study with him. Maryobeyed, looking literally ghastly with fright. But she got thesurprise of her poor, battered little life. This man, of whomshe had stood so terribly in awe, was the kindest, gentlest soulshe had ever met. Before she knew what happened Mary foundherself pouring all her troubles into his ear and receiving inreturn such sympathy and tender understanding as it had neveroccurred to her to imagine. Mary left the study with her faceand eyes so softened that Una hardly knew her. 

"Your father's all right, when he does wake up, " she said with asniff that just escaped being a sob. "It's a pity he doesn'twake up oftener. He said I wasn't to blame for Mrs. Wiley dying, but that I must try to think of her good points and not of herbad ones. I dunno what good points she had, unless it waskeeping her house clean and making first-class butter. I know I'most wore my arms out scrubbing her old kitchen floor with theknots in it. But anything your father says goes with me afterthis. "

Mary proved a rather dull companion in the following days, however. She confided to Una that the more she thought of goingback to the asylum the more she hated it. Una racked her smallbrains for some way of averting it, but it was Nan Blythe whocame to the rescue with a somewhat startling suggestion. 

"Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She has a great big houseand Mr. Elliott is always wanting her to have help. It would bejust a splendid place for Mary. Only she'd have to behaveherself. "

"Oh, Nan, do you think Mrs. Elliott would take her?"

"It wouldn't do any harm if you asked her, " said Nan. At firstUna did not think she could. She was so shy that to ask a favourof anybody was agony to her. And she was very much in awe of thebustling, energetic Mrs. Elliott. She liked her very much andalways enjoyed a visit to her house; but to go and ask her toadopt Mary Vance seemed such a height of presumption that Una'stimid spirit quailed. 

When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr. Meredith to send Maryto them without delay Mary cried herself to sleep in the manseattic that night and Una found a desperate courage. The nextevening she slipped away from the manse to the harbour road. Fardown in Rainbow Valley she heard joyous laughter but her way laynot there. She was terribly pale and terribly in earnest--somuch so that she took no notice of the people she met--and oldMrs. Stanley Flagg was quite huffed and said Una Meredith wouldbe as absentminded as her father when she grew up. 

Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen and Four WindsPoint, in a house whose original glaring green hue had melloweddown to an agreeable greenish gray. Marshall Elliott had plantedtrees about it and set out a rose garden and a spruce hedge. Itwas quite a different place from what it had been in years agone. The manse children and the Ingleside children liked to go there. It was a beautiful walk down the old harbour road, and there wasalways a well-filled cooky jar at the end. 

The misty sea was lapping softly far down on the sands. Threebig boats were skimming down the harbour like great whitesea-birds. A schooner was coming up the channel. The world ofFour Winds was steeped in glowing colour, and subtle music, andstrange glamour, and everybody should have been happy in it. Butwhen Una turned in at Miss Cornelia's gate her very legs hadalmost refused to carry her. 

Miss Cornelia was alone on the veranda. Una had hoped Mr. Elliott would be there. He was so big and hearty and twinklythat there would be encouragement in his presence. She sat onthe little stool Miss Cornelia brought out and tried to eat thedoughnut Miss Cornelia gave her. It stuck in her throat, but sheswallowed desperately lest Miss Cornelia be offended. She couldnot talk; she was still pale; and her big, dark-blue eyes lookedso piteous that Miss Cornelia concluded the child was in sometrouble. 

"What's on your mind, dearie?" she asked. "There's something, that's plain to be seen. "

Una swallowed the last twist of doughnut with a desperate gulp. 

"Mrs. Elliott, won't you take Mary Vance?" she saidbeseechingly. 

Miss Cornelia stared blankly. 

"Me! Take Mary Vance! Do you mean keep her?"

"Yes--keep her--adopt her, " said Una eagerly, gaining courage nowthat the ice was broken. "Oh, Mrs. Elliott, PLEASE do. Shedoesn't want to go back to the asylum--she cries every nightabout it. She's so afraid of being sent to another hard place. And she's SO smart--there isn't anything she can't do. I knowyou wouldn't be sorry if you took her. "

"I never thought of such a thing, " said Miss Cornelia ratherhelplessly. 

"WON'T you think of it?" implored Una. 

"But, dearie, I don't want help. I'm quite able to do all thework here. And I never thought I'd like to have a home girl if Idid need help. "

The light went out of Una's eyes. Her lips trembled. She satdown on her stool again, a pathetic little figure ofdisappointment, and began to cry. 

"Don't--dearie--don't, " exclaimed Miss Cornelia in distress. Shecould never bear to hurt a child. "I don't say I WON'T takeher--but the idea is so new it has just kerflummuxed me. I mustthink it over. "

"Mary is SO smart, " said Una again. 

"Humph! So I've heard. I've heard she swears, too. Is thattrue?"

"I've never heard her swear EXACTLY, " faltered Una uncomfortably. "But I'm afraid she COULD. "

"I believe you! Does she always tell the truth?"

"I think she does, except when she's afraid of a whipping. "

"And yet you want me to take her!"

"SOME ONE has to take her, " sobbed Una. "SOME ONE has to lookafter her, Mrs. Elliott. "

"That's true. Perhaps it IS my duty to do it, " said MissCornelia with a sigh. "Well, I'll have to talk it over with Mr. Elliott. So don't say anything about it just yet. Take anotherdoughnut, dearie. "

Una took it and ate it with a better appetite. 

"I'm very fond of doughnuts, " she confessed "Aunt Martha nevermakes any. But Miss Susan at Ingleside does, and sometimes shelets us have a plateful in Rainbow Valley. Do you know what I dowhen I'm hungry for doughnuts and can't get any, Mrs. Elliott?"

"No, dearie. What?"

"I get out mother's old cook book and read the doughnutrecipe--and the other recipes. They sound SO nice. I always dothat when I'm hungry--especially after we've had ditto fordinner. THEN I read the fried chicken and the roast gooserecipes. Mother could make all those nice things. "

"Those manse children will starve to death yet if Mr. Meredithdoesn't get married, " Miss Cornelia told her husband indignantlyafter Una had gone. "And he won't--and what's to be done? AndSHALL we take this Mary-creature, Marshall?"

"Yes, take her, " said Marshall laconically. 

"Just like a man, " said his wife, despairingly. " 'Take her'--asif that was all. There are a hundred things to be considered, believe ME. "

"Take her--and we'll consider them afterwards, Cornelia, " saidher husband. 

In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and went up to announce herdecision to the Ingleside people first. 

"Splendid!" said Anne delightedly. "I've been hoping you woulddo that very thing, Miss Cornelia. I want that poor child to geta good home. I was a homeless little orphan just like her once. "

"I don't think this Mary-creature is or ever will be much likeyou, " retorted Miss Cornelia gloomily. "She's a cat of anothercolour. But she's also a human being with an immortal soul tosave. I've got a shorter catechism and a small tooth comb andI'm going to do my duty by her, now that I've set my hand to theplough, believe me. "

Mary received the news with chastened satisfaction. 

"It's better luck than I expected, " she said. 

"You'll have to mind your p's and q's with Mrs. Elliott, " saidNan. 

"Well, I can do that, " flashed Mary. "I know how to behave whenI want to just as well as you, Nan Blythe. "

"You mustn't use bad words, you know, Mary, " said Una anxiously. 

"I s'pose she'd die of horror if I did, " grinned Mary, her whiteeyes shining with unholy glee over the idea. "But you needn'tworry, Una. Butter won't melt in my mouth after this. I'll beall prunes and prisms. "

"Nor tell lies, " added Faith. 

"Not even to get off from a whipping?" pleaded Mary. 

"Mrs. Elliott will NEVER whip you--NEVER, " exclaimed Di. 

"Won't she?" said Mary skeptically. "If I ever find myself in aplace where I ain't licked I'll think it's heaven all right. Nofear of me telling lies then. I ain't fond of telling 'em--I'druther not, if it comes to that. "

The day before Mary's departure from the manse they had a picnicin her honour in Rainbow Valley, and that evening all the mansechildren gave her something from their scanty store of treasuredthings for a keepsake. Carl gave her his Noah's ark and Jerryhis second best jew's-harp. Faith gave her a little hairbrushwith a mirror in the back of it, which Mary had always consideredvery wonderful. Una hesitated between an old beaded purse and agay picture of Daniel in the lion's den, and finally offered Maryher choice. Mary really hankered after the beaded purse, but sheknew Una loved it, so she said, "Give me Daniel. I'd rusher have it 'cause I'm partial to lions. Only I wish they'd et Daniel up. It would have been moreexciting. "

At bedtime Mary coaxed Una to sleep with her. 

"It's for the last time, " she said, "and it's raining tonight, and I hate sleeping up there alone when it's raining on accountof that graveyard. I don't mind it on fine nights, but a nightlike this I can't see anything but the rain pouring down on themold white stones, and the wind round the window sounds as if themdead people were trying to get in and crying 'cause theycouldn't. "

"I like rainy nights, " said Una, when they were cuddled downtogether in the little attic room, "and so do the Blythe girls. "

"I don't mind 'em when I'm not handy to graveyards, " said Mary. "If I was alone here I'd cry my eyes out I'd be so lonesome. Ifeel awful bad to be leaving you all. "

"Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rainbow Valleyquite often I'm sure, " said Una. "And you WILL be a good girl, won't you, Mary?"

"Oh, I'll try, " sighed Mary. "But it won't be as easy for me tobe good--inside, I mean, as well as outside--as it is for you. You hadn't such scalawags of relations as I had. "

"But your people must have had some good qualities as well as badones, " argued Una. "You must live up to them and never mindtheir bad ones. "

"I don't believe they had any good qualities, " said Marygloomily. "I never heard of any. My grandfather had money, butthey say he was a rascal. No, I'll just have to start out on myown hook and do the best I can. "

"And God will help you, you know, Mary, if you ask Him. "

"I don't know about that. "

"Oh, Mary. You know we asked God to get a home for you and Hedid. "

"I don't see what He had to do with it, " retorted Mary. "It wasyou put it into Mrs. Elliott's head. "

"But God put it into her HEART to take you. All my putting itinto her HEAD wouldn't have done any good if He hadn't. "

"Well, there may be something in that, " admitted Mary. "Mindyou, I haven't got anything against God, Una. I'm willing togive Him a chance. But, honest, I think He's an awful lot likeyour father--just absent-minded and never taking any notice of abody most of the time, but sometimes waking up all of a suddentand being awful good and kind and sensible. "

"Oh, Mary, no!" exclaimed horrified Una. "God isn't a bit likefather--I mean He's a thousand times better and kinder. "

"If He's as good as your father He'll do for me, " said Mary. "When your father was talking to me I felt as if I never could bebad any more. "

"I wish you'd talk to father about Him, " sighed Una. "He canexplain it all so much better than I can. "

"Why, so I will, next time he wakes up, " promised Mary. "Thatnight he talked to me in the study he showed me real clear thatmy praying didn't kill Mrs. Wiley. My mind's been easy since, but I'm real cautious about praying. I guess the old rhyme isthe safest. Say, Una, it seems to me if one has to pray toanybody it'd be better to pray to the devil than to God. God'sgood, anyhow so you say, so He won't do you any harm, but fromall I can make out the devil needs to be pacified. I think thesensible way would be to say to HIM, 'Good devil, please don'ttempt me. Just leave me alone, please. ' Now, don't you?"

"Oh, no, no, Mary. I'm sure it couldn't be right to pray to thedevil. And it wouldn't do any good because he's bad. It mightaggravate him and he'd be worse than ever. "

"Well, as to this God-matter, " said Mary stubbornly, "since youand I can't settle it, there ain't no use in talking more aboutit until we've a chanct to find out the rights of it. I'll dothe best I can alone till then. "

"If mother was alive she could tell us everything, " said Una witha sigh. 

"I wisht she was alive, " said Mary. "I don't know what's goingto become of you youngsters when I'm gone. Anyhow, DO try andkeep the house a little tidy. The way people talks about it isscandalous. And the first thing you know your father will begetting married again and then your noses will be out of joint. "

Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying again hadnever presented itself to her before. She did not like it andshe lay silent under the chill of it. 

"Stepmothers are AWFUL creatures, " Mary went on. "I could makeyour blood run cold if I was to tell you all I know about 'em. The Wilson kids across the road from Wiley's had a stepmother. She was just as bad to 'em as Mrs. Wiley was to me. It'll beawful if you get a stepmother. "

"I'm sure we won't, " said Una tremulously. "Father won't marryanybody else. "

"He'll be hounded into it, I expect, " said Mary darkly. "All theold maids in the settlement are after him. There's no being upto them. And the worst of stepmothers is, they always set yourfather against you. He'd never care anything about you again. He'd always take her part and her children's part. You see, she'd make him believe you were all bad. "

"I wish you hadn't told me this, Mary, " cried Una. "It makes mefeel so unhappy. "

"I only wanted to warn you, " said Mary, rather repentantly. "Ofcourse, your father's so absent-minded he mightn't happen tothink of getting married again. But it's better to be prepared. "

Long after Mary slept serenely little Una lay awake, her eyessmarting with tears. On, how dreadful it would be if her fathershould marry somebody who would make him hate her and Jerry andFaith and Carl! She couldn't bear it--she couldn't!

Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind Miss Cornelia hadfeared into the manse children's minds. Yet she had certainlycontrived to do a little mischief with the best of intentions. But she slept dreamlessly, while Una lay awake and the rain felland the wind wailed around the old gray manse. And the Rev. JohnMeredith forgot to go to bed at all because he was absorbed inreading a life of St. Augustine. It was gray dawn when hefinished it and went upstairs, wrestling with the problems of twothousand years ago. The door of the girls' room was open and hesaw Faith lying asleep, rosy and beautiful. He wondered whereUna was. Perhaps she had gone over to "stay all night" with theBlythe girls. She did this occasionally, deeming it a greattreat. John Meredith sighed. He felt that Una's whereaboutsought not to be a mystery to him. Cecelia would have lookedafter her better than that. 

If only Cecelia were still with him! How pretty and gay she hadbeen! How the old manse up at Maywater had echoed to her songs!And she had gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter and musicand leaving silence--so suddenly that he had never quite got overhis feeling of amazement. How could SHE, the beautiful andvivid, have died?

The idea of a second marriage had never presented itselfseriously to John Meredith. He had loved his wife so deeply thathe believed he could never care for any woman again. He had avague idea that before very long Faith would be old enough totake her mother's place. Until then, he must do the best hecould alone. He sighed and went to his room, where the bed wasstill unmade. Aunt Martha had forgotten it, and Mary had notdared to make it because Aunt Martha had forbidden her to meddlewith anything in the minister's room. But Mr. Meredith did notnotice that it was unmade. His last thoughts were of St. Augustine. 

CHAPTER X. THE MANSE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE

"Ugh, " said Faith, sitting up in bed with a shiver. "It'sraining. I do hate a rainy Sunday. Sunday is dull enough evenwhen it's fine. "

"We oughtn't to find Sunday dull, " said Una sleepily, trying topull her drowsy wits together with an uneasy conviction that theyhad overslept. 

"But we DO, you know, " said Faith candidly. "Mary Vance saysmost Sundays are so dull she could hang herself. "

"We ought to like Sunday better than Mary Vance, " said Unaremorsefully. "We're the minister's children. "

"I wish we were a blacksmith's children, " protested Faithangrily, hunting for her stockings. "THEN people wouldn't expectus to be better than other children. JUST look at the holes inmy heels. Mary darned them all up before she went away, butthey're as bad as ever now. Una, get up. I can't get thebreakfast alone. Oh, dear. I wish father and Jerry were home. You wouldn't think we'd miss father much--we don't see much ofhim when he is home. And yet EVERYTHING seems gone. I must runin and see how Aunt Martha is. "

"Is she any better?" asked Una, when Faith returned. 

"No, she isn't. She's groaning with the misery still. Maybe weought to tell Dr. Blythe. But she says not--she never had adoctor in her life and she isn't going to begin now. She saysdoctors just live by poisoning people. Do you suppose they do?"

"No, of course not, " said Una indignantly. "I'm sure Dr. Blythewouldn't poison anybody. "

"Well, we'll have to rub Aunt Martha's back again afterbreakfast. We'd better not make the flannels as hot as we didyesterday. "

Faith giggled over the remembrance. They had nearly scalded theskin off poor Aunt Martha's back. Una sighed. Mary Vance wouldhave known just what the precise temperature of flannels for amisery back should be. Mary knew everything. They knew nothing. And how could they learn, save by bitter experience for which, inthis instance, unfortunate Aunt Martha had paid?

The preceding Monday Mr. Meredith had left for Nova Scotia tospend his short vacation, taking Jerry with him. On WednesdayAunt Martha was suddenly seized with a recurring and mysteriousailment which she always called "the misery, " and which wastolerably certain to attack her at the most inconvenient times. She could not rise from her bed, any movement causing agony. Adoctor she flatly refused to have. Faith and Una cooked themeals and waited on her. The less said about the meals thebetter--yet they were not much worse than Aunt Martha's had been. There were many women in the village who would have been glad tocome and help, but Aunt Martha refused to let her plight beknown. 

"You must worry on till I kin git around, " she groaned. "Thankgoodness, John isn't here. There's a plenty o' cold biled meatand bread and you kin try your hand at making porridge. "

The girls had tried their hand, but so far without much success. The first day it had been too thin. The next day so thick thatyou could cut it in slices. And both days it had been burned. 

"I hate porridge, " said Faith viciously. "When I have a house ofmy own I'm NEVER going to have a single bit of porridge in it. "

"What'll your children do then?" asked Una. "Children have tohave porridge or they won't grow. Everybody says so. "

"They'll have to get along without it or stay runts, " retortedFaith stubbornly. "Here, Una, you stir it while I set the table. If I leave it for a minute the horrid stuff will burn. It's halfpast nine. We'll be late for Sunday School. "

"I haven't seen anyone going past yet, " said Una. "There won'tlikely be many out. Just see how it's pouring. And when there'sno preaching the folks won't come from a distance to bring thechildren. "

"Go and call Carl, " said Faith. 

Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced by getting wet inthe Rainbow Valley marsh the previous evening while pursuingdragon-flies. He had come home with dripping stockings and bootsand had sat out the evening in them. He could not eat anybreakfast and Faith made him go back to bed again. She and Unaleft the table as it was and went to Sunday School. There was noone in the school room when they got there and no one came. Theywaited until eleven and then went home. 

"There doesn't seem to be anybody at the Methodist Sunday Schooleither, " said Una. 

"I'm GLAD, " said Faith. "I'd hate to think the Methodists werebetter at going to Sunday School on rainy Sundays than thePresbyterians. But there's no preaching in their Church to-day, either, so likely their Sunday School is in the afternoon. "

Una washed the dishes, doing them quite nicely, for so much hadshe learned from Mary Vance. Faith swept the floor after afashion and peeled the potatoes for dinner, cutting her finger inthe process. 

"I wish we had something for dinner besides ditto, " sighed Una. "I'm so tired of it. The Blythe children don't know what dittois. And we NEVER have any pudding. Nan says Susan would faintif they had no pudding on Sundays. Why aren't we like otherpeople, Faith?"

"I don't want to be like other people, " laughed Faith, tying upher bleeding finger. "I like being myself. It's moreinteresting. Jessie Drew is as good a housekeeper as her mother, but would you want to be as stupid as she is?"

"But our house isn't right. Mary Vance says so. She says peopletalk about it being so untidy. "

Faith had an inspiration. 

"We'll clean it all up, " she cried. "We'll go right to workto-morrow. It's a real good chance when Aunt Martha is laid upand can't interfere with us. We'll have it all lovely and cleanwhen father comes home, just like it was when Mary went away. ANY ONE can sweep and dust and wash windows. People won't beable to talk about us any more. Jem Blythe says it's only oldcats that talk, but their talk hurts just as much as anybody's. "

"I hope it will be fine to-morrow, " said Una, fired withenthusiasm. "Oh, Faith, it will be splendid to be all cleaned upand like other people. "

"I hope Aunt Martha's misery will last over to-morrow, " saidFaith. "If it doesn't we won't get a single thing done. "

Faith's amiable wish was fulfilled. The next day found AuntMartha still unable to rise. Carl, too, was still sick andeasily prevailed on to stay in bed. Neither Faith nor Una hadany idea how sick the boy really was; a watchful mother wouldhave had a doctor without delay; but there was no mother, andpoor little Carl, with his sore throat and aching head andcrimson cheeks, rolled himself up in his twisted bedclothes andsuffered alone, somewhat comforted by the companionship of asmall green lizard in the pocket of his ragged nighty. 

The world was full of summer sunshine after the rain. It was apeerless day for house-cleaning and Faith and Una went gaily towork. 

"We'll clean the dining-room and the parlour, " said Faith. "Itwouldn't do to meddle with the study, and it doesn't matter muchabout the upstairs. The first thing is to take everything out. "

Accordingly, everything was taken out. The furniture was piledon the veranda and lawn and the Methodist graveyard fence wasgaily draped with rugs. An orgy of sweeping followed, with anattempt at dusting on Una's part, while Faith washed the windowsof the dining-room, breaking one pane and cracking two in theprocess. Una surveyed the streaked result dubiously. 

"They don't look right, somehow, " she said. "Mrs. Elliott's andSusan's windows just shine and sparkle. "

"Never mind. They let the sunshine through just as well, " saidFaith cheerfully. "They MUST be clean after all the soap andwater I've used, and that's the main thing. Now, it's pasteleven, so I'll wipe up this mess on the floor and we'll gooutside. You dust the furniture and I'll shake the rugs. I'mgoing to do it in the graveyard. I don't want to send dustflying all over the lawn. 

Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on Hezekiah Pollock'stombstone, flapping and shaking rugs, was real fun. To be sure, Elder Abraham Clow and his wife, driving past in their capaciousdouble-seated buggy, seemed to gaze at her in grim disapproval. 

"Isn't that a terrible sight?" said Elder Abraham solemnly. 

"I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my owneyes, " said Mrs. Elder Abraham, more solemnly still. 

Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow party. It did notworry her that the elder and his wife did not return hergreeting. Everybody knew that Elder Abraham had never been knownto smile since he had been appointed Superintendent of the SundaySchool fourteen years previously. But it hurt her that Minnieand Adella Clow did not wave back. Faith liked Minnie andAdella. Next to the Blythes, they were her best friends inschool and she always helped Adella with her sums. This wasgratitude for you. Her friends cut her because she was shakingrugs in an old graveyard where, as Mary Vance said, not a livingsoul had been buried for years. Faith flounced around to theveranda, where she found Una grieved in spirit because the Clowgirls had not waved to her, either. 

"I suppose they're mad over something, " said Faith. "Perhapsthey're jealous because we play so much in Rainbow Valley withthe Blythes. Well, just wait till school opens and Adella wantsme to show her how to do her sums! We'll get square then. Comeon, let's put the things back in. I'm tired to death and I don'tbelieve the rooms will look much better than before we started--though I shook out pecks of dust in the graveyard. I HATEhouse-cleaning. "

It was two o'clock before the tired girls finished the two rooms. They got a dreary bite in the kitchen and intended to wash thedishes at once. But Faith happened to pick up a new story-bookDi Blythe had lent her and was lost to the world until sunset. Una took a cup of rank tea up to Carl but found him asleep; soshe curled herself up on Jerry's bed and went to sleep too. Meanwhile, a weird story flew through Glen St. Mary and folksasked each other seriously what was to be done with those manseyoungsters. 

"That is past laughing at, believe ME, " said Miss Cornelia to herhusband, with a heavy sigh. "I couldn't believe it at first. Miranda Drew brought the story home from the Methodist SundaySchool this afternoon and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. ElderAbraham says she and the Elder saw it with their own eyes. "

"Saw what?" asked Marshall. 

"Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from Sunday School thismorning and CLEANED HOUSE, " said Miss Cornelia, in accents ofdespair. "When Elder Abraham went home from the church--he hadstayed behind to straighten out the library books--he saw themshaking rugs in the Methodist graveyard. I can never look aMethodist in the face again. Just think what a scandal it willmake!"

A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more scandalous as itspread, until the over-harbour people heard that the mansechildren had not only cleaned house and put out a washing onSunday, but had wound up with an afternoon picnic in thegraveyard while the Methodist Sunday School was going on. Theonly household which remained in blissful ignorance of theterrible thing was the manse itself; on what Faith and Una fondlybelieved to be Tuesday it rained again; for the next three daysit rained; nobody came near the manse; the manse folk wentnowhere; they might have waded through the misty Rainbow Valleyup to Ingleside, but all the Blythe family, save Susan and thedoctor, were away on a visit to Avonlea. 

"This is the last of our bread, " said Faith, "and the ditto isdone. If Aunt Martha doesn't get better soon WHAT will we do?"

"We can buy some bread in the village and there's the codfishMary dried, " said Una. "But we don't know how to cook it. "

"Oh, that's easy, " laughed Faith. "You just boil it. "

Boil it they did; but as it did not occur to them to soak itbeforehand it was too salty to eat. That night they were veryhungry; but by the following day their troubles were over. Sunshine returned to the world; Carl was well and Aunt Martha'smisery left her as suddenly as it had come; the butcher called atthe manse and chased famine away. To crown all, the Blythesreturned home, and that evening they and the manse children andMary Vance kept sunset tryst once more in Rainbow Valley, wherethe daisies were floating upon the grass like spirits of the dewand the bells on the Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in thescented twilight. 

CHAPTER XI. A DREADFUL DISCOVERY

"Well, you kids have gone and done it now, " was Mary's greeting, as she joined them in the Valley. Miss Cornelia was up atIngleside, holding agonized conclave with Anne and Susan, andMary hoped that the session might be a long one, for it was allof two weeks since she had been allowed to revel with her chumsin the dear valley of rainbows. 

"Done what?" demanded everybody but Walter, who was day-dreamingas usual. 

"It's you manse young ones, I mean, " said Mary. "It was justawful of you. _I_ wouldn't have done such a thing for the world, and _I_ weren't brought up in a manse--weren't brought upANYWHERE--just COME up. "

"What have WE done?" asked Faith blankly. 

"Done! You'd BETTER ask! The talk is something terrible. Iexpect it's ruined your father in this congregation. He'll neverbe able to live it down, poor man! Everybody blames him for it, and that isn't fair. But nothing IS fair in this world. Youought to be ashamed of yourselves. "

"What HAVE we done?" asked Una again, despairingly. Faith saidnothing, but her eyes flashed golden-brown scorn at Mary. 

"Oh, don't pretend innocence, " said Mary, witheringly. "Everybody knows what you have done. "

"_I_ don't, " interjected Jem Blythe indignantly. "Don't let mecatch you making Una cry, Mary Vance. What are you talkingabout?"

"I s'pose you don't know, since you're just back from up west, "said Mary, somewhat subdued. Jem could always manage her. "Buteverybody else knows, you'd better believe. "

"Knows what?"

"That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday School last Sundayand CLEANED HOUSE. "

"We didn't, " cried Faith and Una, in passionate denial. 

Mary looked haughtily at them. 

"I didn't suppose you'd deny it, after the way you've combed MEdown for lying, " she said. "What's the good of saying youdidn't? Everybody knows you DID. Elder Clow and his wife sawyou. Some people say it will break up the church, but _I_ don'tgo that far. You ARE nice ones. "

Nan Blythe stood up and put her arms around the dazed Faith andUna. 

"They were nice enough to take you in and feed you and clothe youwhen you were starving in Mr. Taylor's barn, Mary Vance, " shesaid. "You are VERY grateful, I must say. "

"I AM grateful, " retorted Mary. "You'd know it if you'd heard mestanding up for Mr. Meredith through thick and thin. I'veblistered my tongue talking for him this week. I've said againand again that he isn't to blame if his young ones did cleanhouse on Sunday. He was away--and they knew better. "

"But we didn't, " protested Una. "It was MONDAY we cleaned house. Wasn't it, Faith?"

"Of course it was, " said Faith, with flashing eyes. "We went toSunday School in spite of the rain--and no one came--not evenElder Abraham, for all his talk about fair-weather Christians. "

"It was Saturday it rained, " said Mary. "Sunday was as fine assilk. I wasn't at Sunday School because I had toothache, butevery one else was and they saw all your stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham and Mrs. Elder Abraham saw you shaking rugs inthe graveyard. "

Una sat down among the daisies and began to cry. 

"Look here, " said Jem resolutely, "this thing must be cleared up. SOMEBODY has made a mistake. Sunday WAS fine, Faith. How couldyou have thought Saturday was Sunday?"

"Prayer-meeting was Thursday night, " cried Faith, "and Adam flewinto the soup-pot on Friday when Aunt Martha's cat chased him, and spoiled our dinner; and Saturday there was a snake in thecellar and Carl caught it with a forked stick and carried it out, and Sunday it rained. So there!"

"Prayer-meeting was Wednesday night, " said Mary. "Elder Baxterwas to lead and he couldn't go Thursday night and it was changedto Wednesday. You were just a day out, Faith Meredith, and youDID work on Sunday. "

Suddenly Faith burst into a peal of laughter. 

"I suppose we did. What a joke!"

"It isn't much of a joke for your father, " said Mary sourly. 

"It'll be all right when people find out it was just a mistake, "said Faith carelessly. "We'll explain. "

"You can explain till you're black in the face, " said Mary, "buta lie like that'll travel faster'n further than you ever will. I'VE seen more of the world than you and _I_ know. Besides, there are plenty of folks won't believe it was a mistake. "

"They will if I tell them, " said Faith. 

"You can't tell everybody, " said Mary. "No, I tell you you'vedisgraced your father. "

Una's evening was spoiled by this dire reflection, but Faithrefused to be made uncomfortable. Besides, she had a plan thatwould put everything right. So she put the past with its mistakebehind her and gave herself over to enjoyment of the present. Jem went away to fish and Walter came out of his reverie andproceeded to describe the woods of heaven. Mary pricked up herears and listened respectfully. Despite her awe of Walter sherevelled in his "book talk. " It always gave her a delightfulsensation. Walter had been reading his Coleridge that day, andhe pictured a heaven where

 "There were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree, And there were forests ancient as the hills Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. "

"I didn't know there was any woods in heaven, " said Mary, with along breath. "I thought it was all streets--and streets--ANDstreets. "

"Of course there are woods, " said Nan. "Mother can't livewithout trees and I can't, so what would be the use of going toheaven if there weren't any trees?"

"There are cities, too, " said the young dreamer, "splendidcities--coloured just like the sunset, with sapphire towers andrainbow domes. They are built of gold and diamonds--wholestreets of diamonds, flashing like the sun. In the squares thereare crystal fountains kissed by the light, and everywhere theasphodel blooms--the flower of heaven. "

"Fancy!" said Mary. "I saw the main street in Charlottetown onceand I thought it was real grand, but I s'pose it's nothing toheaven. Well, it all sounds gorgeous the way you tell it, butwon't it be kind of dull, too?"

"Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the angels' backs areturned, " said Faith comfortably. 

"Heaven is ALL fun, " declared Di. 

"The Bible doesn't say so, " cried Mary, who had read so much ofthe Bible on Sunday afternoons under Miss Cornelia's eye that shenow considered herself quite an authority on it. 

"Mother says the Bible language is figurative, " said Nan. 

"Does that mean that it isn't true?" asked Mary hopefully. 

"No--not exactly--but I think it means that heaven will be justlike what you'd like it to be. "

"I'd like it to be just like Rainbow Valley, " said Mary, "withall you kids to gas and play with. THAT'S good enough for me. Anyhow, we can't go to heaven till we're dead and maybe not then, so what's the use of worrying? Here's Jem with a string of troutand it's my turn to fry them. "

"We ought to know more about heaven than Walter does when we'rethe minister's family, " said Una, as they walked home that night. 

"We KNOW just as much, but Walter can IMAGINE, " said Faith. "Mrs. Elliott says he gets it from his mother. "

"I do wish we hadn't made that mistake about Sunday, " sighed Una. 

"Don't worry over that. I've thought of a great plan to explainso that everybody will know, " said Faith. "Just wait tillto-morrow night. "

CHAPTER XII. AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE

The Rev. Dr. Cooper preached in Glen St. Mary the next eveningand the Presbyterian Church was crowded with people from near andfar. The Reverend Doctor was reputed to be a very eloquentspeaker; and, bearing in mind the old dictum that a ministershould take his best clothes to the city and his best sermons tothe country, he delivered a very scholarly and impressivediscourse. But when the folks went home that night it was not ofDr. Cooper's sermon they talked. They had completely forgottenall about it. 

Dr. Cooper had concluded with a fervent appeal, had wiped theperspiration from his massive brow, had said "Let us pray" as hewas famed for saying it, and had duly prayed. There was a slightpause. In Glen St. Mary church the old fashion of taking thecollection after the sermon instead of before still held--mainlybecause the Methodists had adopted the new fashion first, andMiss Cornelia and Elder Clow would not hear of following whereMethodists had led. Charles Baxter and Thomas Douglas, whoseduty it was to pass the plates, were on the point of rising totheir feet. The organist had got out the music of her anthem andthe choir had cleared its throat. Suddenly Faith Meredith rosein the manse pew, walked up to the pulpit platform, and faced theamazed audience. 

Miss Cornelia half rose in her seat and then sat down again. Herpew was far back and it occurred to her that whatever Faith meantto do or say would be half done or said before she could reachher. There was no use making the exhibition worse than it had tobe. With an anguished glance at Mrs. Dr. Blythe, and another atDeacon Warren of the Methodist Church, Miss Cornelia resignedherself to another scandal. 

"If the child was only dressed decently itself, " she groaned inspirit. 

Faith, having spilled ink on her good dress, had serenely put onan old one of faded pink print. A caticornered rent in the skirthad been darned with scarlet tracing cotton and the hem had beenlet down, showing a bright strip of unfaded pink around theskirt. But Faith was not thinking of her clothes at all. Shewas feeling suddenly nervous. What had seemed easy inimagination was rather hard in reality. Confronted by all thosestaring questioning eyes Faith's courage almost failed her. Thelights were so bright, the silence so awesome. She thought shecould not speak after all. But she MUST--her father MUST becleared of suspicion. Only--the words would NOT come. 

Una's little pearl-pure face gleamed up at her beseechingly fromthe manse pew. The Blythe children were lost in amazement. Backunder the gallery Faith saw the sweet graciousness of MissRosemary West's smile and the amusement of Miss Ellen's. Butnone of these helped her. It was Bertie Shakespeare Drew whosaved the situation. Bertie Shakespeare sat in the front seat ofthe gallery and he made a derisive face at Faith. Faith promptlymade a dreadful one back at him, and, in her anger over beinggrimaced at by Bertie Shakespeare, forgot her stage fright. Shefound her voice and spoke out clearly and bravely. 

"I want to explain something, " she said, "and I want to do it nowbecause everybody will hear it that heard the other. People aresaying that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned houseinstead of going to Sunday School. Well, we did--but we didn'tmean to. We got mixed up in the days of the week. It was allElder Baxter's fault"--sensation in Baxter's pew--"because hewent and changed the prayer-meeting to Wednesday night and thenwe thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought Saturdaywas Sunday. Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha, sothey couldn't put us right. We went to Sunday School in all thatrain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we thought we'd cleanhouse on Monday and stop old cats from talking about how dirtythe manse was"--general sensation all over the church--"and wedid. I shook the rugs in the Methodist graveyard because it wassuch a convenient place and not because I meant to bedisrespectful of the dead. It isn't the dead folks who have madethe fuss over this--it's the living folks. And it isn't rightfor any of you to blame my father for this, because he was awayand didn't know, and anyhow we thought it was Monday. He's justthe best father that ever lived in the world and we love him withall our hearts. "

Faith's bravado ebbed out in a sob. She ran down the steps andflashed out of the side door of the church. There the friendlystarlit, summer night comforted her and the ache went out of hereyes and throat. She felt very happy. The dreadful explanationwas over and everybody knew now that her father wasn't to blameand that she and Una were not so wicked as to have cleaned houseknowingly on Sunday. 

Inside the church people gazed blankly at each other, but ThomasDouglas rose and walked up the aisle with a set face. HIS dutywas clear; the collection must be taken if the skies fell. Takenit was; the choir sang the anthem, with a dismal conviction thatit fell terribly flat, and Dr. Cooper gave out the concludinghymn and pronounced the benediction with considerably lessunction than usual. The Reverend Doctor had a sense of humourand Faith's performance tickled him. Besides, John Meredith waswell known in Presbyterian circles. 

Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon, but before hiscoming Faith contrived to scandalize Glen St. Mary again. In thereaction from Sunday evening's intensity and strain she wasespecially full of what Miss Cornelia would have called"devilment" on Monday. This led her to dare Walter Blythe toride through Main Street on a pig, while she rode another one. 

The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals, supposed tobelong to Bertie Shakespeare Drew's father, which had beenhaunting the roadside by the manse for a couple of weeks. Walterdid not want to ride a pig through Glen St. Mary, but whateverFaith Meredith dared him to do must be done. They tore down thehill and through the village, Faith bent double with laughterover her terrified courser, Walter crimson with shame. They torepast the minister himself, just coming home from the station; he, being a little less dreamy and abstracted than usual--owing tohaving had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia who alwayswakened him up temporarily--noticed them, and thought he reallymust speak to Faith about it and tell her that such conduct wasnot seemly. But he had forgotten the trifling incident by thetime he reached home. They passed Mrs. Alec Davis, who shriekedin horror, and they passed Miss Rosemary West who laughed andsighed. Finally, just before the pigs swooped into BertieShakespeare Drew's back yard, never to emerge therefrom again, sogreat had been the shock to their nerves--Faith and Walter jumpedoff, as Dr. And Mrs. Blythe drove swiftly by. 

"So that is how you bring up your boys, " said Gilbert with mockseverity. 

"Perhaps I do spoil them a little, " said Anne contritely, "but, oh, Gilbert, when I think of my own childhood before I came toGreen Gables I haven't the heart to be very strict. How hungryfor love and fun I was--an unloved little drudge with never achance to play! They do have such good times with the mansechildren. "

"What about the poor pigs?" asked Gilbert. 

Anne tried to look sober and failed. 

"Do you really think it hurt them?" she said. "I don't thinkanything could hurt those animals. They've been the plague ofthe neighbourhood this summer and the Drews WON'T shut them up. But I'll talk to Walter--if I can keep from laughing when I doit. "

Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening to relieve herfeelings over Sunday night. To her surprise she found that Annedid not view Faith's performance in quite the same light as shedid. 

"I thought there was something brave and pathetic in her gettingup there before that churchful of people, to confess, " she said. "You could see she was frightened to death--yet she was bound toclear her father. I loved her for it. "

"Oh, of course, the poor child meant well, " sighed Miss Cornelia, "but just the same it was a terrible thing to do, and is makingmore talk than the house-cleaning on Sunday. THAT had begun todie away, and this has started it all up again. Rosemary West islike you--she said last night as she left the church that it wasa plucky thing for Faith to do, but it made her feel sorry forthe child, too. Miss Ellen thought it all a good joke, and saidshe hadn't had as much fun in church for years. Of course THEYdon't care--they are Episcopalians. But we Presbyterians feelit. And there were so many hotel people there that night andscores of Methodists. Mrs. Leander Crawford cried, she felt sobad. And Mrs. Alec Davis said the little hussy ought to bespanked. "

"Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in church, " said Susancontemptuously. "She cries over every affecting thing theminister says. But you do not often see her name on asubscription list, Mrs. Dr. Dear. Tears come cheaper. She triedto talk to me one day about Aunt Martha being such a dirtyhousekeeper; and I wanted to say, 'Every one knows that YOU havebeen seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen wash-pan, Mrs. LeanderCrawford!' But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. Dear, because I havetoo much respect for myself to condescend to argue with the likesof her. But I could tell worse things than THAT of Mrs. LeanderCrawford, if I was disposed to gossip. And as for Mrs. AlecDavis, if she had said that to me, Mrs. Dr. Dear, do you knowwhat I would have said? I would have said, 'I have no doubt youwould like to spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, but you will never havethe chance to spank a minister's daughter either in this world orin that which is to come. '"

"If poor Faith had only been decently dressed, " lamented MissCornelia again, "it wouldn't have been quite that bad. But thatdress looked dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform. "

"It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan. "They AREclean children. They may be very heedless and reckless, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and I am not saying they are not, but they NEVER forget towash behind their ears. "

"The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sunday, " persistedMiss Cornelia. "She will grow up just as careless andimpractical as her father, believe ME. I suppose Carl would haveknown better if he hadn't been sick. I don't know what was wrongwith him, but I think it very likely he had been eating thoseblueberries that grew in the graveyard. No wonder they made himsick. If I was a Methodist I'd try to keep my graveyard cleanedup at least. "

"I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours that grow onthe dyke, " said Susan hopefully. "I do not think ANY minister'sson would eat blueberries that grew on the graves of dead people. You know it would not be so bad, Mrs. Dr. Dear, to eat thingsthat grew on the dyke. "

"The worst of last night's performance was the face Faith mademade at somebody in the congregation before she started in, " saidMiss Cornelia. "Elder Clow declares she made it at him. And DIDyou hear that she was seen riding on a pig to-day?"

"I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave him a little--a VERYlittle--scolding about it. He did not say much, but he gave methe impression that it had been his idea and that Faith was notto blame. "

"I do not not believe THAT, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " cried Susan, up inarms. "That is just Walter's way--to take the blame on himself. But you know as well as I do, Mrs. Dr. Dear, that that blessedchild would never have thought of riding on a pig, even if hedoes write poetry. "

"Oh, there's no doubt the notion was hatched in Faith Meredith'sbrain, " said Miss Cornelia. "And I don't say that I'm sorry thatAmos Drew's old pigs did get their come-uppance for once. Butthe minister's daughter!"

"AND the doctor's son!" said Anne, mimicking Miss Cornelia'stone. Then she laughed. "Dear Miss Cornelia, they're onlylittle children. And you KNOW they've never yet done anythingbad--they're just heedless and impulsive--as I was myself once. They'll grow sedate and sober--as I've done. "

Miss Cornelia laughed, too. 

"There are times, Anne dearie, when I know by your eyes that YOURsoberness is put on like a garment and you're really aching to dosomething wild and young again. Well, I feel encouraged. Somehow, a talk with you always does have that effect on me. Now, when I go to see Barbara Samson, it's just the opposite. She makes me feel that everything's wrong and always will be. But of course living all your life with a man like Joe Samsonwouldn't be exactly cheering. "

"It is a very strange thing to think that she married Joe Samsonafter all her chances, " remarked Susan. "She was much soughtafter when she was a girl. She used to boast to me that she hadtwenty-one beaus and Mr. Pethick. "

"What was Mr. Pethick?"

"Well, he was a sort of hanger-on, Mrs. Dr. Dear, but you couldnot exactly call him a beau. He did not really have anyintentions. Twenty-one beaus--and me that never had one! ButBarbara went through the woods and picked up the crooked stickafter all. And yet they say her husband can make better bakingpowder biscuits than she can, and she always gets him to makethem when company comes to tea. "

"Which reminds ME that I have company coming to tea to-morrow andI must go home and set my bread, " said Miss Cornelia. "Mary saidshe could set it and no doubt she could. But while I live andmove and have my being _I_ set my own bread, believe me. "

"How is Mary getting on?" asked Anne. 

"I've no fault to find with Mary, " said Miss Cornelia rathergloomily. "She's getting some flesh on her bones and she's cleanand respectful--though there's more in her than _I_ can fathom. She's a sly puss. If you dug for a thousand years you couldn'tget to the bottom of that child's mind, believe ME! As for work, I never saw anything like her. She EATS it up. Mrs. Wiley mayhave been cruel to her, but folks needn't say she made Mary work. Mary's a born worker. Sometimes I wonder which will wear outfirst--her legs or her tongue. I don't have enough to do to keepme out of mischief these days. I'll be real glad when schoolopens, for then I'll have something to do again. Mary doesn'twant to go to school, but I put my foot down and said that go shemust. I shall NOT have the Methodists saying that I kept her outof school while I lolled in idleness. "

CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

There was a little unfailing spring, always icy cold and crystalpure, in a certain birch-screened hollow of Rainbow Valley in thelower corner near the marsh. Not a great many people knew of itsexistence. The manse and Ingleside children knew, of course, asthey knew everything else about the magic valley. Occasionallythey went there to get a drink, and it figured in many of theirplays as a fountain of old romance. Anne knew of it and loved itbecause it somehow reminded her of the beloved Dryad's Bubble atGreen Gables. Rosemary West knew of it; it was her fountain ofromance, too. Eighteen years ago she had sat behind it onespring twilight and heard young Martin Crawford stammer out aconfession of fervent, boyish love. She had whispered her ownsecret in return, and they had kissed and promised by the wildwood spring. They had never stood together by it again--Martinhad sailed on his fatal voyage soon after; but to Rosemary Westit was always a sacred spot, hallowed by that immortal hour ofyouth and love. Whenever she passed near it she turned aside tohold a secret tryst with an old dream--a dream from which thepain had long gone, leaving only its unforgettable sweetness. 

The spring was a hidden thing. You might have passed within tenfeet of it and never have suspected its existence. Twogenerations past a huge old pine had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left of the tree but its crumbling trunk out of whichthe ferns grew thickly, making a green roof and a lacy screen forthe water. A maple-tree grew beside it with a curiously gnarledand twisted trunk, creeping along the ground for a little waybefore shooting up into the air, and so forming a quaint seat;and September had flung a scarf of pale smoke-blue asters aroundthe hollow. 

John Meredith, taking the cross-lots road through Rainbow Valleyon his way home from some pastoral visitations around the Harbourhead one evening, turned aside to drink of the little spring. Walter Blythe had shown it to him one afternoon only a few daysbefore, and they had had a long talk together on the maple seat. John Meredith, under all his shyness and aloofness, had the heartof a boy. He had been called Jack in his youth, though nobody inGlen St. Mary would ever have believed it. Walter and he hadtaken to each other and had talked unreservedly. Mr. Meredithfound his way into some sealed and sacred chambers of the lad'ssoul wherein not even Di had ever looked. They were to be chumsfrom that friendly hour and Walter knew that he would never befrightened of the minister again. 

"I never believed before that it was possible to get reallyacquainted with a minister, " he told his mother that night. 

John Meredith drank from his slender white hand, whose grip ofsteel always surprised people who were unacquainted with it, andthen sat down on the maple seat. He was in no hurry to go home;this was a beautiful spot and he was mentally weary after a roundof rather uninspiring conversations with many good and stupidpeople. The moon was rising. Rainbow Valley was wind-hauntedand star-sentinelled only where he was, but afar from the upperend came the gay notes of children's laughter and voices. 

The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight, the glimmerof the little spring, the soft croon of the brook, the waveringgrace of the brackens all wove a white magic round John Meredith. He forgot congregational worries and spiritual problems; theyears slipped away from him; he was a young divinity studentagain and the roses of June were blooming red and fragrant on thedark, queenly head of his Cecilia. He sat there and dreamed likeany boy. And it was at this propitious moment that Rosemary Weststepped aside from the by-path and stood beside him in thatdangerous, spell-weaving place. John Meredith stood up as shecame in and saw her--REALLY saw her--for the first time. 

He had met her in his church once or twice and shaken hands withher abstractedly as he did with anyone he happened to encounteron his way down the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, forthe Wests were Episcopalians, with church affinities inLowbridge, and no occasion for calling upon them had ever arisen. Before to-night, if anyone had asked John Meredith what RosemaryWest looked like he would not have had the slightest notion. Buthe was never to forget her, as she appeared to him in the glamourof kind moonlight by the spring. 

She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who had alwaysbeen his ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia had been small anddark and vivacious--Rosemary West was tall and fair and placid, yet John Meredith thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman. 

She was bareheaded and her golden hair--hair of a warm gold, "molasses taffy" colour as Di Blythe had said--was pinned insleek, close coils over her head; she had large, tranquil, blueeyes that always seemed full of friendliness, a high whiteforehead and a finely shaped face. 

Rosemary West was always called a "sweet woman. " She was sosweet that even her high-bred, stately air had never gained forher the reputation of being "stuck-up, " which it would inevitablyhave done in the case of anyone else in Glen St. Mary. Life hadtaught her to be brave, to be patient, to love, to forgive. Shehad watched the ship on which her lover went sailing out of FourWinds Harbour into the sunset. But, though she watched long, shehad never seen it coming sailing back. That vigil had takengirlhood from her eyes, yet she kept her youth to a marvellousdegree. Perhaps this was because she always seemed to preservethat attitude of delighted surprise towards life which most of usleave behind in childhood--an attitude which not only madeRosemary herself seem young, but flung a pleasing illusion ofyouth over the consciousness of every one who talked to her. 

John Meredith was startled by her loveliness and Rosemary wasstartled by his presence. She had never thought she would findanyone by that remote spring, least of all the recluse of GlenSt. Mary manse. She almost dropped the heavy armful of books shewas carrying home from the Glen lending library, and then, tocover her confusion, she told one of those small fibs which eventhe best of women do tell at times. 

"I--I came for a drink, " she said, stammering a little, in answerto Mr. Meredith's grave "good evening, Miss West. " She felt thatshe was an unpardonable goose and she longed to shake herself. But John Meredith was not a vain man and he knew she would likelyhave been as much startled had she met old Elder Clow in thatunexpected fashion. Her confusion put him at ease and he forgotto be shy; besides, even the shyest of men can sometimes be quiteaudacious in moonlight. 

"Let me get you a cup, " he said smiling. There was a cup nearby, if he had only known it, a cracked, handleless blue cupsecreted under the maple by the Rainbow Valley children; but hedid not know it, so he stepped out to one of the birch-trees andstripped a bit of its white skin away. Deftly he fashioned thisinto a three-cornered cup, filled it from the spring, and handedit to Rosemary. 

Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish herself for herfib, for she was not in the least thirsty, and to drink a fairlylarge cupful of water when you are not thirsty is somewhat of anordeal. Yet the memory of that draught was to be very pleasantto Rosemary. In after years it seemed to her that there wassomething sacramental about it. Perhaps this was because of whatthe minister did when she handed him back the cup. He stoopedagain and filled it and drank of it himself. It was only byaccident that he put his lips just where Rosemary had put hers, and Rosemary knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curioussignificance for her. They two had drunk of the same cup. Sheremembered idly that an old aunt of hers used to say that whentwo people did this their after-lives would be linked in somefashion, whether for good or ill. 

John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He did not know what todo with it. The logical thing would have been to toss it away, but somehow he was disinclined to do this. Rosemary held out herhand for it. 

"Will you let me have it?" she said. "You made it so knackily. I never saw anyone make a birch cup so since my little brotherused to make them long ago--before he died. "

"I learned how to make them when _I_ was a boy, camping out onesummer. An old hunter taught me, " said Mr. Meredith. "Let mecarry your books, Miss West. "

Rosemary was startled into another fib and said oh, they were notheavy. But the minister took them from her with quite amasterful air and they walked away together. It was the firsttime Rosemary had stood by the valley spring without thinking ofMartin Crawford. The mystic tryst had been broken. 

The little by-path wound around the marsh and then struck up thelong wooded hill on the top of which Rosemary lived. Beyond, through the trees, they could see the moonlight shining acrossthe level summer fields. But the little path was shadowy andnarrow. Trees crowded over it, and trees are never quite asfriendly to human beings after nightfall as they are in daylight. They wrap themselves away from us. They whisper and plotfurtively. If they reach out a hand to us it has a hostile, tentative touch. People walking amid trees after night alwaysdraw closer together instinctively and involuntarily, making analliance, physical and mental, against certain alien powersaround them. Rosemary's dress brushed against John Meredith asthey walked. Not even an absent-minded minister, who was afterall a young man still, though he firmly believed he had outlivedromance, could be insensible to the charm of the night and thepath and the companion. 

It is never quite safe to think we have done with life. When weimagine we have finished our story fate has a trick of turningthe page and showing us yet another chapter. These two peopleeach thought their hearts belonged irrevocably to the past; butthey both found their walk up that hill very pleasant. Rosemarythought the Glen minister was by no means as shy and tongue-tiedas he had been represented. He seemed to find no difficulty intalking easily and freely. Glen housewives would have beenamazed had they heard him. But then so many Glen housewivestalked only gossip and the price of eggs, and John Meredith wasnot interested in either. He talked to Rosemary of books andmusic and wide-world doings and something of his own history, andfound that she could understand and respond. Rosemary, itappeared, possessed a book which Mr. Meredith had not read andwished to read. She offered to lend it to him and when theyreached the old homestead on the hill he went in to get it. 

The house itself was an old-fashioned gray one, hung with vines, through which the light in the sitting-room winked in friendlyfashion. It looked down the Glen, over the harbour, silvered inthe moonlight, to the sand-dunes and the moaning ocean. Theywalked in through a garden that always seemed to smell of roses, even when no roses were in bloom. There was a sisterhood oflilies at the gate and a ribbon of asters on either side of thebroad walk, and a lacery of fir trees on the hill's edge beyondthe house. 

"You have the whole world at your doorstep here, " said JohnMeredith, with a long breath. "What a view--what an outlook! Attimes I feel stifled down there in the Glen. You can breathe uphere. "

"It is calm to-night, " said Rosemary laughing. "If there were awind it would blow your breath away. We get 'a' the airts thewind can blow' up here. This place should be called Four Windsinstead of the Harbour. "

"I like wind, " he said. "A day when there is no wind seems to meDEAD. A windy day wakes me up. " He gave a conscious laugh. "Ona calm day I fall into day dreams. No doubt you know myreputation, Miss West. If I cut you dead the next time we meetdon't put it down to bad manners. Please understand that it isonly abstraction and forgive me--and speak to me. "

They found Ellen West in the sitting room when they went in. Shelaid her glasses down on the book she had been reading and lookedat them in amazement tinctured with something else. But sheshook hands amiably with Mr. Meredith and he sat down and talkedto her, while Rosemary hunted out his book. 

Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary, and so differentfrom her that it was hard to believe they were sisters. She wasdark and massive, with black hair, thick, black eyebrows and eyesof the clear, slaty blue of the gulf water in a north wind. Shehad a rather stern, forbidding look, but she was in reality veryjolly, with a hearty, gurgling laugh and a deep, mellow, pleasantvoice with a suggestion of masculinity about it. She had onceremarked to Rosemary that she would really like to have a talkwith that Presbyterian minister at the Glen, to see if he couldfind a word to say to a woman when he was cornered. She had herchance now and she tackled him on world politics. Miss Ellen, who was a great reader, had been devouring a book on the Kaiserof Germany, and she demanded Mr. Meredith's opinion of him. 

"A dangerous man, " was his answer. 

"I believe you!" Miss Ellen nodded. "Mark my words, Mr. Meredith, that man is going to fight somebody yet. He's ACHINGto. He is going to set the world on fire. "

"If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate a great war Ihardly think so, " said Mr. Meredith. "The day has gone by forthat sort of thing. "

"Bless you, it hasn't, " rumbled Ellen. "The day never goes byfor men and nations to make asses of themselves and take to thefists. The millenniun isn't THAT near, Mr. Meredith, and YOUdon't think it is any more than I do. As for this Kaiser, markmy words, he is going to make a heap of trouble"--and Miss Ellenprodded her book emphatically with her long finger. "Yes, if heisn't nipped in the bud he's going to make trouble. WE'LL liveto see it--you and I will live to see it, Mr. Meredith. And whois going to nip him? England should, but she won't. WHO isgoing to nip him? Tell me that, Mr. Meredith. "

Mr. Meredith couldn't tell her, but they plunged into adiscussion of German militarism that lasted long after Rosemaryhad found the book. Rosemary said nothing, but sat in a littlerocker behind Ellen and stroked an important black catmeditatively. John Meredith hunted big game in Europe withEllen, but he looked oftener at Rosemary than at Ellen, and Ellennoticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the door with him andcome back Ellen rose and looked at her accusingly. 

"Rosemary West, that man has a notion of courting you. "

Rosemary quivered. Ellen's speech was like a blow to her. Itrubbed all the bloom off the pleasant evening. But she would notlet Ellen see how it hurt her. 

"Nonsense, " she said, and laughed, a little too carelessly. "Yousee a beau for me in every bush, Ellen. Why he told me all abouthis wife to-night--how much she was to him--how empty her deathhad left the world. "

"Well, that may be HIS way of courting, " retorted Ellen. "Menhave all kinds of ways, I understand. But don't forget yourpromise, Rosemary. "

"There is no need of my either forgetting or remembering it, "said Rosemary, a little wearily. "YOU forget that I'm an oldmaid, Ellen. It is only your sisterly delusion that I am stillyoung and blooming and dangerous. Mr. Meredith merely wants tobe a friend--if he wants that much itself. He'll forget us bothlong before he gets back to the manse. "

"I've no objection to your being friends with him, " concededEllen, "but it musn't go beyond friendship, remember. I'm alwayssuspicious of widowers. They are not given to romantic ideasabout friendship. They're apt to mean business. As for thisPresbyterian man, what do they call him shy for? He's not a bitshy, though he may be absent-minded--so absent-minded that heforgot to say goodnight to ME when you started to go to the doorwith him. He's got brains, too. There's so few men round herethat can talk sense to a body. I've enjoyed the evening. Iwouldn't mind seeing more of him. But no philandering, Rosemary, mind you--no philandering. "

Rosemary was quite used to being warned by Ellen fromphilandering if she so much as talked five minutes to anymarriageable man under eighty or over eighteen. She had alwayslaughed at the warning with unfeigned amusement. This time itdid not amuse her--it irritated her a little. Who wanted tophilander?

"Don't be such a goose, Ellen, " she said with unaccustomedshortness as she took her lamp. She went upstairs without sayinggoodnight. 

Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked at the black cat. 

"What is she so cross about, St. George?" she asked. "When youhowl you're hit, I've always heard, George. But she promised, Saint--she promised, and we Wests always keep our word. So itwon't matter if he does want to philander, George. She promised. I won't worry. "

Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a long while looking outof the window across the moonlit garden to the distant, shiningharbour. She felt vaguely upset and unsettled. She was suddenlytired of outworn dreams. And in the garden the petals of thelast red rose were scattered by a sudden little wind. Summer wasover--it was autumn. 

CHAPTER XIV. MRS. ALEC DAVIS MAKES A CALL

John Meredith walked slowly home. At first he thought a littleabout Rosemary, but by the time he reached Rainbow Valley he hadforgotten all about her and was meditating on a point regardingGerman theology which Ellen had raised. He passed throughRainbow Valley and knew it not. The charm of Rainbow Valley hadno potency against German theology. When he reached the manse hewent to his study and took down a bulky volume in order to seewhich had been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed in itsmazes until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation and pursuedit like a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly lost to theworld, his parish and his family. He read day and night; heforgot to go to his meals when Una was not there to drag him tothem; he never thought about Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall, over-harbour, was very ill and sent for him, but themessage lay unheeded on his desk and gathered dust. Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave him. A young couple came tothe manse to be married and Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, incarpet slippers and faded dressing gown, married them. To besure, he began by reading the funeral service to them and gotalong as far as "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" before hevaguely suspected that something was wrong. 

"Dear me, " he said absently, "that is strange--very strange. "

The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who was not in the least nervous, giggled. 

"Please, sir, I think you're burying us instead of marrying us, "he said. 

"Excuse me, " said Mr. Meredith, as it it did not matter much. Heturned up the marriage service and got through with it, but thebride never felt quite properly married for the rest of her life. 

He forgot his prayer-meeting again--but that did not matter, forit was a wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgottenhis Sunday service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. AuntMartha came in on Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Daviswas in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in Glen St. Mary church whom hepositively detested. Unfortunately, she was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith againstoffending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldlymatter as his stipend; but the managers were more practical. Also, they were astute. Without mentioning money, they contrivedto instil into Mr. Meredith's mind a conviction that he shouldnot offend Mrs. Davis. Otherwise, he would likely haveforgotten all about her as soon as Aunt Martha had gone out. Asit was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling of annoyance andwent across the hall to the parlour. 

Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an airof scornful disapproval. 

What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that Faith and Una had taken them downthe day before to use as court trains in one of their plays andhad forgotten to put them up again, but she could not haveaccused those windows more fiercely if she had known. The blindswere cracked and torn. The pictures on the walls were crooked;the rugs were awry; the vases were full of faded flowers; thedust lay in heaps--literally in heaps. 

"What are we coming to?" Mrs. Davis asked herself, and thenprimmed up her unbeautiful mouth. 

Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banistersas she came through the hall. They did not see her and continuedwhooping and sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it onpurpose. Faith's pet rooster ambled through the hall, stood inthe parlour doorway and looked at her. Not liking her looks, hedid not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave a scornful sniff. A prettymanse, indeed, where roosters paraded the halls and stared peopleout of countenance. 

"Shoo, there, " commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her flounced, changeable-silk parasol at him. 

Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. Davis had wrung thenecks of so many roosters with her own fair hands in the courseof her fifty years that an air of the executioner seemed to hangaround her. Adam scuttled through the hall as the minister camein. 

Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his darkhair still fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But helooked the gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silkdress and beplumed bonnet, and kid gloves and gold chain lookedthe vulgar, coarse-souled woman she was. Each felt theantagonisn of the other's personality. Mr. Meredith shrank, butMrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. She had come to themanse to propose a certain thing to the minister and she meant tolose no time in proposing it. She was going to do him a favour--a great favour--and the sooner he was made aware of it thebetter. She had been thinking about it all summer and had cometo a decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davisthought. When she decided a thing it WAS decided. Nobody elsehad any say in the matter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made her mind up to marry Alec Davis she had marriedhim and that was the end to it. Alec had never known how ithappened, but what odds? So in this case--Mrs. Davis hadarranged everything to her own satisfaction. Now it onlyremained to inform Mr. Meredith. 

"Will you please shut that door?" said Mrs. Davis, unprimming hermouth slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity. "I havesomething important to say, and I can't say it with that racketin the hall. "

Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly aware of her yet. His mind was stillwrestling with Ewald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed thisdetachment and it annoyed her. 

"I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith, " she said aggressively, "that I have decided to adopt Una. "

"To--adopt--Una!" Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, notunderstanding in the least. 

"Yes. I've been thinking it over for some time. I have oftenthought of adopting a child, since my husband's death. But itseemed so hard to get a suitable one. It is very few children Iwould want to take into MY home. I wouldn't think of taking ahome child--some outcast of the slums in all probability. Andthere is hardly ever any other child to be got. One of thefishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left sixyoungsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gavethem to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash likethat. Their grandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were allboys and I wanted a girl--a quiet, obedient girl that I couldtrain up to be a lady. Una will suit me exactly. She would be anice little thing if she was properly looked after--so differentfrom Faith. I would never dream of adopting Faith. But I'lltake Una and I'll give her a good home, and up-bringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself I'll leave her all my moneywhen I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of itin any case, I'm determined on that. It was the idea ofaggravating them that set me to thinking of adopting a child asmuch as anything in the first place. Una shall be well dressedand educated and trained, Mr. Meredith, and I shall give hermusic and painting lessons and treat her as if she was my own. "

Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was afaint flush in his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his finedark eyes. Was this woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness ofmoney oozed out of her at every pore, actually asking him to giveher Una--his dear little wistful Una with Cecilia's own dark-blueeyes--the child whom the dying mother had clasped to her heartafter the other children had been led weeping from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of death had shutbetween them. She had looked over the little dark head to herhusband. 

"Take good care of her, John, " she had entreated. "She is sosmall--and sensitive. The others can fight their way--but theworld will hurt HER. Oh, John, I don't know what you and she aregoing to do. You both need me so much. But keep her close toyou--keep her close to you. "

These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettableones for him alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis hadcoolly announced her intention of taking from him. He sat upstraight and looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressinggown and the frayed slippers there was something about him thatmade Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old reverence for "thecloth" in which she had been brought up. After all, there WAS acertain divinity hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one. 

"I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis, " said Mr. Meredith with a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy, "but Icannot give you my child. "

Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing. 

"Why, Mr. Meredith, " she said in astonishment. "You must becr--you can't mean it. You must think it over--think of all theadvantages I can give her. "

"There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirelyout of the question. All the worldly advantages it is in yourpower to bestow on her could not compensate for the loss of afather's love and care. I thank you again--but it is not to bethought of. "

Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habitto control. Her broad red face turned purple and her voicetrembled. 

"I thought you'd be only too glad to let me have her, " shesneered. 

"Why did you think that?" asked Mr. Meredith quietly. 

"Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any ofyour children, " retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. "You neglectthem scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fedand dressed properly, and they're not trained at all. They haveno more manners than a pack of wild Indians. You never think ofdoing your duty as a father. You let a stray child come hereamong them for a fortnight and never took any notice of her--achild that swore like a trooper I'm told. YOU wouldn't havecared if they'd caught small-pox from her. And Faith made anexhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making thatspeech! And she rid a pig down the street--under your very eyesI understand. The way they act is past belief and you never lifta finger to stop them or try to teach them anything. And nowwhen I offer one of them a good home and good prospects yourefuse it and insult me. A pretty father you, to talk of lovingand caring for your children!"

"That will do, woman!" said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and lookedat Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her quail. "That will do, " herepeated. "I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have saidtoo much. It may be that I have been remiss in some respects inmy duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind me of it insuch terms as you have used. Let us say good afternoon. "

Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as goodafternoon, but she took her departure. As she swept past theminister a large, plump toad, which Carl had secreted under thelounge, hopped out almost under her feet. Mrs. Davis gave ashriek and in trying to avoid treading on the awful thing, losther balance and her parasol. She did not exactly fall, but shestaggered and reeled across the room in a very undignifiedfashion and brought up against the door with a thud that jarredher from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic orparalytic seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously. 

"Don't you dare to touch me, " she almost shouted. "This is somemore of your children's doings, I suppose. This is no fit placefor a decent woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'llnever darken the doors of your manse or your church again. "

Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough andgave it to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry andCarl had given up banister sliding and were sitting on the edgeof the veranda with Faith. Unfortunately, all three were singingat the tops of their healthy young voices "There'll be a hot timein the old town to-night. " Mrs. Davis believed the song wasmeant for her and her only. She stopped and shook her parasol atthem. 

"Your father is a fool, " she said, "and you are three youngvarmints that ought to be whipped within an inch of your lives. "

"He isn't, " cried Faith. "We're not, " cried the boys. But Mrs. Davis was gone. 

"Goodness, isn't she mad!" said Jerry. "And what is a 'varmint'anyhow?"

John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a few minutes;then he went back to his study and sat down. But he did notreturn to his German theology. He was too grievously disturbedfor that. Mrs. Davis had wakened him up with a vengeance. WAShe such a remiss, careless father as she had accused him ofbeing? HAD he so scandalously neglected the bodily and spiritualwelfare of the four little motherless creatures dependent on him?WERE his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davis haddeclared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask forUna in the full and confident belief that he would hand the childover to her as unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over astrayed, unwelcome kitten. And, if so, what then?

John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down thedusty, disordered room. What could he do? He loved his childrenas deeply as any father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of her ilk, to disturb his conviction, that theyloved him devotedly. But WAS he fit to have charge of them? Heknew--none better--his weaknesses and limitations. What wasneeded was a good woman's presence and influence and commonsense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he able to getsuch a housekeeper it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. Shebelieved she could still do all that was meet and necessary. Hecould not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been sokind to him and his. How devoted she had been to Cecilia! AndCecilia had asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. Tobe sure, he suddenly remembered that Aunt Martha had once hintedthat he ought to marry again. He felt she would not resent awife as she would a housekeeper. But that was out of thequestion. He did not wish to marry--he did not and could notcare for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly occurred tohim that he would go over to Ingleside and talk over hisdifficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the fewwomen he never felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always sosympathetic and refreshing. It might be that she could suggestsome solution of his problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt that he needed a little decent human companionshipafter his dose of Mrs. Davis--something to take the taste of herout of his soul. 

He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly thanusual. It occurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked athis children; they were rosy and healthy looking enough--exceptUna, and she had never been very strong even when her mother wasalive. They were all laughing and talking--certainly they seemedhappy. Carl was especially happy because he had two mostbeautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate. Their voiceswere pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they wereconsiderate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis hadsaid their behaviour was the talk of the congregation. 

As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythedrove past on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister'sface fell. Mrs. Blythe was going away--there was no use in goingto Ingleside. And he craved a little companionship more thanever. As he gazed rather hopelessly over the landscape thesunset light struck on a window of the old West homestead on thehill. It flared out rosily like a beacon of good hope. Hesuddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought that hewould relish some of Ellen's pungent conversation. He thought itwould be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm, heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir PhilipSidney's say?--"continual comfort in a face"--that just suitedher. And he needed comfort. Why not go and call? He rememberedthat Ellen had asked him to drop in sometimes and there wasRosemary's book to take back--he ought to take it back before heforgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that there were a great manybooks in his library which he had borrowed at sundry times and indivers places and had forgotten to take back. It was surely hisduty to guard against that in this case. He went back into hisstudy, got the book, and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley. 

CHAPTER XV. MORE GOSSIP

On the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the over-harbour sectionhad been buried Miss Cornelia and Mary Vance came up toIngleside. There were several things concerning which MissCornelia wished to unburden her soul. The funeral had to be alltalked over, of course. Susan and Miss Cornelia thrashed thisout between them; Anne took no part or delight in such goulishconversations. She sat a little apart and watched the autumnalflame of dahlias in the garden, and the dreaming, glamorousharbour of the September sunset. Mary Vance sat beside her, knitting meekly. Mary's heart was down in the Rainbow Valley, whence came sweet, distance-softened sounds of children'slaughter, but her fingers were under Miss Cornelia's eye. Shehad to knit so many rounds of her stocking before she might go tothe valley. Mary knit and held her tongue, but used her ears. 

"I never saw a nicer looking corpse, " said Miss Corneliajudicially. "Myra Murray was always a pretty woman--she was aCorey from Lowbridge and the Coreys were noted for their goodlooks. "

"I said to the corpse as I passed it, 'poor woman. I hope youare as happy as you look. '" sighed Susan. "She had not changedmuch. That dress she wore was the black satin she got for herdaughter's wedding fourteen years ago. Her Aunt told her then tokeep it for her funeral, but Myra laughed and said, 'I may wearit to my funeral, Aunty, but I will have a good time out of itfirst. ' And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not a woman toattend her own funeral before she died. Many a time afterwardswhen I saw her enjoying herself out in company I thought tomyself, 'You are a handsome woman, Myra Murray, and that dressbecomes you, but it will likely be your shroud at last. ' And yousee my words have come true, Mrs. Marshall Elliott. "

Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying herself hugely. Afuneral was really a delightful subject of conversation. 

"I always liked to meet Myra, " said Miss Cornelia. "She wasalways so gay and cheerful--she made you feel better just by herhandshake. Myra always made the best of things. "

"That is true, " asserted Susan. "Her sister-in-law told me thatwhen the doctor told her at last that he could do nothing for herand she would never rise from that bed again, Myra said quitecheerfully, 'Well, if that is so, I'm thankful the preserving isall done, and I will not have to face the fall house-cleaning. Ialways liked house-cleaning in spring, ' she says, 'but I alwayshated it in the fall. I will get clear of it this year, thankgoodness. ' There are people who would call that levity, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and I think her sister-in-law was a littleashamed of it. She said perhaps her sickness had made Myra alittle light-headed. But I said, 'No, Mrs. Murray, do not worryover it. It was just Myra's way of looking at the bright side. '"

"Her sister Luella was just the opposite, " said Miss Cornelia. "There was no bright side for Luella--there was just black andshades of gray. For years she used always to be declaring shewas going to die in a week or so. 'I won't be here to burden youlong, ' she would tell her family with a groan. And if any ofthem ventured to talk about their little future plans she'd groanalso and say, 'Ah, _I_ won't be here then. ' When I went to seeher I always agreed with her and it made her so mad that she wasalways quite a lot better for several days afterwards. She hasbetter health now but no more cheerfulness. Myra was sodifferent. She was always doing or saying something to make someone feel good. Perhaps the men they married had something to dowith it. Luella's man was a Tartar, believe ME, while Jim Murraywas decent, as men go. He looked heart-broken to-day. It isn'toften I feel sorry for a man at his wife's funeral, but I didfeel for Jim Murray. "

"No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife like Myra againin a hurry, " said Susan. "Maybe he will not try, since hischildren are all grown up and Mirabel is able to keep house. Butthere is no predicting what a widower may or may not do and I, for one, will not try. "

"We'll miss Myra terrible in church, " said Miss Cornelia. "Shewas such a worker. Nothing ever stumped HER. If she couldn'tget over a difficulty she'd get around it, and if she couldn'tget around it she'd pretend it wasn't there--and generally itwasn't. 'I'll keep a stiff upper lip to my journey's end, ' saidshe to me once. Well, she has ended her journey. "

"Do you think so?" asked Anne suddenly, coming back fromdreamland. "I can't picture HER journey as being ended. Can YOUthink of her sitting down and folding her hands--that eager, asking spirit of hers, with its fine adventurous outlook? No, Ithink in death she just opened a gate and went through--on--on--to new, shining adventures. "

"Maybe--maybe, " assented Miss Cornelia. "Do you know, Annedearie, I never was much taken with this everlasting restdoctrine myself--though I hope it isn't heresy to say so. I wantto bustle round in heaven the same as here. And I hope there'llbe a celestial substitute for pies and doughnuts--something thathas to be MADE. Of course, one does get awful tired attimes--and the older you are the tireder you get. But the verytiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you'dthink--except, perhaps, a lazy man. "

"When I meet Myra Murray again, " said Anne, "I want to see hercoming towards me, brisk and laughing, just as she always didhere. "

"Oh, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " said Susan, in a shocked tone, "you surelydo not think that Myra will be laughing in the world to come?"

"Why not, Susan? Do you think we will be crying there?"

"No, no, Mrs. Dr. Dear, do not misunderstand me. I do not thinkwe shall be either crying or laughing. "

"What then?"

"Well, " said Susan, driven to it. "it is my opinion, Mrs. Dr. Dear, that we shall just look solemn and holy. "

"And do you really think, Susan, " said Anne, looking solemnenough, "that either Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holyall the time--ALL the time, Susan?"

"Well, " admitted Susan reluctantly, "I might go so far as to saythat you both would have to smile now and again, but I can neveradmit that there will be laughing in heaven. The idea seemsreally irreverent, Mrs. Dr. Dear. "

"Well, to come back to earth, " said Miss Cornelia, "who can weget to take Myra's class in Sunday School? Julia Clow has beenteaching it since Myra took ill, but she's going to town for thewinter and we'll have to get somebody else. "

"I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it, " said Anne. "TheJamiesons have come to church very regularly since they moved tothe Glen from Lowbridge. "

"New brooms!" said Miss Cornelia dubiously. "Wait till they'vegone regularly for a year. "

"You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " saidSusan solemnly. "She died once and when they were measuring herfor her coffin, after laying her out just beautiful, did she notgo and come back to life! Now, Mrs. Dr. Dear, you know youCANNOT depend on a woman like that. "

"She might turn Methodist at any moment, " said Miss Cornelia. "They tell me they went to the Methodist Church at Lowbridgequite as often as to the Presbyterian. I haven't caught them atit here yet, but I would not approve of taking Mrs. Jamieson intothe Sunday School. Yet we must not offend them. We are losingtoo many people, by death or bad temper. Mrs. Alec Davis hasleft the church, no one knows why. She told the managers thatshe would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith's salary. Ofcourse, most people say that the children offended her, butsomehow I don't think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I couldget out of her was that Mrs. Davis had come, seemingly in highgood humour, to see her father, and had left in an awful rage, calling them all 'varmints!'"

"Varmints, indeed!" said Susan furiously. "Does Mrs. Alec Davisforget that her uncle on her mother's side was suspected ofpoisoning his wife? Not that it was ever proved, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and it does not do to believe all you hear. But if _I_ had anuncle whose wife died without any satisfactory reason, _I_ wouldnot go about the country calling innocent children varmints. "

"The point is, " said Miss Cornelia, "that Mrs. Davis paid a largesubscription, and how its loss is going to be made up is aproblem. And if she turns the other Douglases against Mr. Meredith, as she will certainly try to do, he will just have togo. "

"I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well liked by the rest ofthe clan, " said Susan. "It is not likely she will be able toinfluence them. "

"But those Douglases all hang together so. If you touch one, youtouch all. We can't do without them, so much is certain. Theypay half the salary. They are not mean, whatever else may besaid of them. Norman Douglas used to give a hundred a year longago before he left. "

"What did he leave for?" asked Anne. 

"He declared a member of the session cheated him in a cow deal. He hasn't come to church for twenty years. His wife used to comeregular while she was alive, poor thing, but he never would lether pay anything, except one red cent every Sunday. She feltdreadfully humiliated. I don't know that he was any too good ahusband to her, though she was never heard to complain. But shealways had a cowed look. Norman Douglas didn't get the woman hewanted thirty years ago and the Douglases never liked to put upwith second best. "

"Who was the woman he did want. "

"Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I believe, but theywent about together for two years. And then they just brokeoff--nobody ever know why. Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went and married Hester Reese before his temper hadtime to cool--married her just to spite Ellen, I haven't a doubt. So like a man! Hester was a nice little thing, but she never hadmuch spirit and he broke what little she had. She was too meekfor Norman. He needed a woman who could stand up to him. Ellenwould have kept him in fine order and he would have liked her allthe better for it. He despised Hester, that is the truth, justbecause she always gave in to him. I used to hear him say many atime, long ago when he was a young fellow 'Give me a spunkywoman--spunk for me every time. ' And then he went and married agirl who couldn't say boo to a goose--man-like. That family ofReeses were just vegetables. They went through the motions ofliving, but they didn't LIVE. "

"Russell Reese used his first wife's wedding-ring to marry hissecond, " said Susan reminiscently. "That was TOO economical inmy opinion, Mrs. Dr. Dear. And his brother John has his owntombstone put up in the over-harbour graveyard, with everythingon it but the date of death, and he goes and looks at it everySunday. Most folks would not consider that much fun, but it isplain he does. People do have such different ideas of enjoyment. As for Norman Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When the lastminister asked him why he never went to church he said "Too manyugly women there, parson--too many ugly women!" I should like togo to such a man, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and say to him solemnly, 'Thereis a hell!'"

"Oh, Norman doesn't believe there is such a place, " said MissCornelia. "I hope he'll find out his mistake when he comes todie. There, Mary, you've knit your three inches and you can goand play with the children for half an hour. "

Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rainbow Valley with aheart as light as her heels, and in the course of conversationtold Faith Meredith all about Mrs. Alec Davis. 

"And Mrs. Elliott says that she'll turn all the Douglases againstyour father and then he'll have to leave the Glen because hissalary won't be paid, " concluded Mary. "_I_ don't know what isto be done, honest to goodness. If only old Norman Douglas wouldcome back to church and pay, it wouldn't be so bad. But hewon't--and the Douglases will leave--and you all will have togo. "

Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that night. Thethought of leaving the Glen was unbearable. Nowhere else in theworld were there such chums as the Blythes. Her little heart hadbeen wrung when they had left Maywater--she had shed many bittertears when she parted with Maywater chums and the old manse therewhere her mother had lived and died. She could not contemplatecalmly the thought of such another and harder wrench. SheCOULDN'T leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valley and thatdelicious graveyard. 

"It's awful to be minister's family, " groaned Faith into herpillow. "Just as soon as you get fond of a place you are torn upby the roots. I'll never, never, NEVER marry a minister, nomatter how nice he is. "

Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vine-hungwindow. The night was very still, the silence broken only byUna's soft breathing. Faith felt terribly alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary lying under the starry blue meadowsof the autumn night. Over the valley a light shone from thegirls' room at Ingleside, and another from Walter's room. Faithwondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Then she sighed, with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan and Di. They had amother and a settled home--THEY were not at the mercy of peoplewho got angry without any reason and called you a varmint. Awaybeyond the Glen, amid fields that were very quiet with sleep, another light was burning. Faith knew it shone in the housewhere Norman Douglas lived. He was reputed to sit up all hoursof the night reading. Mary had said if he could only be inducedto return to the church all would be well. And why not? Faithlooked at a big, low star hanging over the tall, pointed spruceat the gate of the Methodist Church and had an inspiration. Sheknew what ought to be done and she, Faith Meredith, would do it. She would make everything right. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned from the lonely, dark world and cuddled down besideUna. 

CHAPTER XVI. TIT FOR TAT

With Faith, to decide was to act. She lost no time in carryingout the idea. As soon as she came home from school the next dayshe left the manse and made her way down the Glen. Walter Blythejoined her as she passed the post office. 

"I'm going to Mrs. Elliott's on an errand for mother, " he said. "Where are you going, Faith?"

"I am going somewhere on church business, " said Faith loftily. She did not volunteer any further information and Walter feltrather snubbed. They walked on in silence for a little while. It was a warm, windy evening with a sweet, resinous air. Beyondthe sand dunes were gray seas, soft and beautiful. The Glenbrook bore down a freight of gold and crimson leaves, like fairyshallops. In Mr. James Reese's buckwheat stubble-land, with itsbeautiful tones of red and brown, a crow parliament was beingheld, whereat solemn deliberations regarding the welfare ofcrowland were in progress. Faith cruelly broke up the augustassembly by climbing up on the fence and hurling a broken rail atit. Instantly the air was filled with flapping black wings andindignant caws. 

"Why did you do that?" said Walter reproachfully. "They werehaving such a good time. "

"Oh, I hate crows, " said Faith airily. "The are so black and slyI feel sure they're hypocrites. They steal little birds' eggsout of their nests, you know. I saw one do it on our lawn lastspring. Walter, what makes you so pale to-day? Did you have thetoothache again last night?"

Walter shivered. 

"Yes--a raging one. I couldn't sleep a wink--so I just paced upand down the floor and imagined I was an early Christian martyrbeing tortured at the command of Nero. That helped ever so muchfor a while--and then I got so bad I couldn't imagine anything. "

"Did you cry?" asked Faith anxiously. 

"No--but I lay down on the floor and groaned, " admitted Walter. "Then the girls came in and Nan put cayenne pepper in it--andthat made it worse--Di made me hold a swallow of cold water in mymouth--and I couldn't stand it, so they called Susan. Susan saidit served me right for sitting up in the cold garret yesterdaywriting poetry trash. But she started up the kitchen fire andgot me a hot-water bottle and it stopped the toothache. As soonas I felt better I told Susan my poetry wasn't trash and shewasn't any judge. And she said no, thank goodness she was notand she did not know anything about poetry except that it wasmostly a lot of lies. Now you know, Faith, that isn't so. Thatis one reason why I like writing poetry--you can say so manythings in it that are true in poetry but wouldn't be true inprose. I told Susan so, but she said to stop my jawing and go tosleep before the water got cold, or she'd leave me to see ifrhyming would cure toothache, and she hoped it would be a lessonto me. "

"Why don't you go to the dentist at Lowbridge and get the toothout?"

Walter shivered again. 

"They want me to--but I can't. It would hurt so. "

"Are you afraid of a little pain?" asked Faith contemptuously. 

Walter flushed. 

"It would be a BIG pain. I hate being hurt. Father said hewouldn't insist on my going--he'd wait until I'd made up my ownmind to go. "

"It wouldn't hurt as long as the toothache, " argued Faith, "You've had five spells of toothache. If you'd just go and haveit out there'd be no more bad nights. _I_ had a tooth out once. I yelled for a moment, but it was all over then--only thebleeding. "

"The bleeding is worst of all--it's so ugly, " cried Walter. "Itjust made me sick when Jem cut his foot last summer. Susan saidI looked more like fainting than Jem did. But I couldn't hear tosee Jem hurt, either. Somebody is always getting hurt, Faith--and it's awful. I just can't BEAR to see things hurt. It makesme just want to run--and run--and run--till I can't hear or seethem. "

"There's no use making a fuss over anyone getting hurt, " saidFaith, tossing her curls. "Of course, if you've hurt yourselfvery bad, you have to yell--and blood IS messy--and I don't likeseeing other people hurt, either. But I don't want to run--Iwant to go to work and help them. Your father HAS to hurt peoplelots of times to cure them. What would they do if HE ran away?"

"I didn't say I WOULD run. I said I WANTED to run. That's adifferent thing. I want to help people, too. But oh, I wishthere weren't any ugly, dreadful things in the world. I wisheverything was glad and beautiful. "

"Well, don't let's think of what isn't, " said Faith. "After all, there's lots of fun in being alive. You wouldn't have toothacheif you were dead, but still, wouldn't you lots rather be alivethan dead? I would, a hundred times. Oh, here's Dan Reese. He's been down to the harbour for fish. "

"I hate Dan Reese, " said Walter. 

"So do I. All us girls do. I'm just going to walk past andnever take the least notice of him. You watch me!"

Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her chin out and anexpression of scorn that bit into his soul. He turned andshouted after her. 

"Pig-girl! Pig-girl!! Pig-girl!!!" in a crescendo of insult. 

Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But her lip trembledslightly with a sense of outrage. She knew she was no match forDan Reese when it came to an exchange of epithets. She wishedJem Blythe had been with her instead of Walter. If Dan Reese haddared to call her a pig-girl in Jem's hearing, Jem would havewiped up the dust with him. But it never occurred to Faith toexpect Walter to do it, or blame him for not doing it. Walter, she knew, never fought other boys. Neither did Charlie Clow ofthe north road. The strange part was that, while she despisedCharlie for a coward, it never occurred to her to disdain Walter. It was simply that he seemed to her an inhabitant of a world ofhis own, where different traditions prevailed. Faith would assoon have expected a starry-eyed young angel to pummel dirty, freckled Dan Reese for her as Walter Blythe. She would not haveblamed the angel and she did not blame Walter Blythe. But shewished that sturdy Jem or Jerry had been there and Dan's insultcontinued to rankle in her soul. 

Walter was pale no longer. He had flushed crimson and hisbeautiful eyes were clouded with shame and anger. He knew thathe ought to have avenged Faith. Jem would have sailed right inand made Dan eat his words with bitter sauce. Ritchie Warrenwould have overwhelmed Dan with worse "names" than Dan had calledFaith. But Walter could not--simply could not--"call names. " Heknew he would get the worst of it. He could never conceive orutter the vulgar, ribald insults of which Dan Reese had unlimitedcommand. And as for the trial by fist, Walter couldn't fight. He hated the idea. It was rough and painful--and, worst of all, it was ugly. He never could understand Jem's exultation in anoccasional conflict. But he wished he COULD fight Dan Reese. Hewas horribly ashamed because Faith Meredith had been insulted inhis presence and he had not tried to punish her insulter. Hefelt sure she must despise him. She had not even spoken to himsince Dan had called her pig-girl. He was glad when they came tothe parting of the ways. 

Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different reason. Shewanted to be alone because she suddenly felt rather nervous abouther errand. Impulse had cooled, especially since Dan had bruisedher self-respect. She must go through with it, but she no longerhad enthusiasm to sustain her. She was going to see NormanDouglas and ask him to come back to church, and she began to beafraid of him. What had seemed so easy and simple up at the Glenseemed very different down here. She had heard a good deal aboutNorman Douglas, and she knew that even the biggest boys in schoolwere afraid of him. Suppose he called her something nasty--shehad heard he was given to that. Faith could not endure beingcalled names--they subdued her far more quickly than a physicalblow. But she would go on--Faith Meredith always went on. Ifshe did not her father might have to leave the Glen. 

At the end of the long lane Faith came to the house--a big, old-fashioned one with a row of soldierly Lombardies marchingpast it. On the back veranda Norman Douglas himself was sitting, reading a newspaper. His big dog was beside him. Behind, in thekitchen, where his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was getting supper, there was a clatter of dishes--an angry clatter, for NormanDouglas had just had a quarrel with Mrs. Wilson, and both were ina very bad temper over it. Consequently, when Faith stepped onthe veranda and Norman Douglas lowered his newspaper she foundherself looking into the choleric eyes of an irritated man. 

Norman Douglas was rather a fine-looking personage in his way. He had a sweep of long red beard over his broad chest and a maneof red hair, ungrizzled by the years, on his massive head. Hishigh, white forehead was unwrinkled and his blue eyes could flashstill with all the fire of his tempestuous youth. He could bevery amiable when he liked, and he could be very terrible. PoorFaith, so anxiously bent on retrieving the situation in regard tothe church, had caught him in one of his terrible moods. 

He did not know who she was and he gazed at her with disfavour. Norman Douglas liked girls of spirit and flame and laughter. Atthis moment Faith was very pale. She was of the type to whichcolour means everything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemedmeek and even insignificant. She looked apologetic and afraid, and the bully in Norman Douglas's heart stirred. 

"Who the dickens are you? And what do you want here?" hedemanded in his great resounding voice, with a fierce scowl. 

For once in her life Faith had nothing to say. She had neversupposed Norman Douglas was like THIS. She was paralyzed withterror of him. He saw it and it made him worse. 

"What's the matter with you?" he boomed. "You look as if youwanted to say something and was scared to say it. What'stroubling you? Confound it, speak up, can't you?"

No. Faith could not speak up. No words would come. But herlips began to tremble. 

"For heaven's sake, don't cry, " shouted Norman. "I can't standsnivelling. If you've anything to say, say it and have done. Great Kitty, is the girl possessed of a dumb spirit? Don't lookat me like that--I'm human--I haven't got a tail! Who areyou--who are you, I say?"

Norman's voice could have been heard at the harbour. Operationsin the kitchen were suspended. Mrs. Wilson was listeningopen-eared and eyed. Norman put his huge brown hands on hisknees and leaned forward, staring into Faith's pallid, shrinkingface. He seemed to loom over her like some evil giant out of afairy tale. She felt as if he would eat her up next thing, bodyand bones. 

"I--am--Faith--Meredith, " she said, in little more than awhisper. 

"Meredith, hey? One of the parson's youngsters, hey? I've heardof you--I've heard of you! Riding on pigs and breaking theSabbath! A nice lot! What do you want here, hey? What do youwant of the old pagan, hey? _I_ don't ask favours ofparsons--and I don't give any. What do you want, I say?"

Faith wished herself a thousand miles away. She stammered outher thought in its naked simplicity. 

"I came--to ask you--to go to church--and pay--to the salary. "

Norman glared at her. Then he burst forth again. 

"You impudent hussy--you! Who put you up to it, jade? Who putyou up to it?"

"Nobody, " said poor Faith. 

"That's a lie. Don't lie to me! Who sent you here? It wasn'tyour father--he hasn't the smeddum of a flea--but he wouldn'tsend you to do what he dassn't do himself. I suppose it was someof them confounded old maids at the Glen, was it--was it, hey?"

"No--I--I just came myself. "

"Do you take me for a fool?" shouted Norman. 

"No--I thought you were a gentleman, " said Faith faintly, andcertainly without any thought of being sarcastic. 

Norman bounced up. 

"Mind your own business. I don't want to hear another word fromyou. If you wasn't such a kid I'd teach you to interfere in whatdoesn't concern you. When I want parsons or pill-dosers I'llsend for them. Till I do I'll have no truck with them. Do youunderstand? Now, get out, cheese-face. "

Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the steps, out of theyard gate and into the lane. Half way up the lane her daze offear passed away and a reaction of tingling anger possessed her. By the time she reached the end of the lane she was in such afurious temper as she had never experienced before. NormanDouglas' insults burned in her soul, kindling a scorching flame. Go home! Not she! She would go straight back and tell that oldogre just what she thought of him--she would show him--oh, wouldn't she! Cheese-face, indeed!

Unhesitatingly she turned and walked back. The veranda wasdeserted and the kitchen door shut. Faith opened the doorwithout knocking, and went in. Norman Douglas had just sat downat the supper table, but he still held his newspaper. Faithwalked inflexibly across the room, caught the paper from hishand, flung it on the floor and stamped on it. Then she facedhim, with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was such ahandsome young fury that Norman Douglas hardly recognized her. 

"What's brought you back?" he growled, but more in bewildermentthan rage. 

Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes against which sofew people could hold their own. 

"I have come back to tell you exactly what I think of you, " saidFaith in clear, ringing tones. "I am not afraid of you. You area rude, unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old man. Susan says youare sure to go to hell, and I was sorry for you, but I am notnow. Your wife never had a new hat for ten years--no wonder shedied. I am going to make faces at you whenever I see you afterthis. Every time I am behind you you will know what ishappening. Father has a picture of the devil in a book in hisstudy, and I mean to go home and write your name under it. Youare an old vampire and I hope you'll have the Scotch fiddle!"

Faith did not know what a vampire meant any more than she knewwhat the Scotch fiddle was. She had heard Susan use theexpressions and gathered from her tone that both were direthings. But Norman Douglas knew what the latter meant at least. He had listened in absolute silence to Faith's tirade. When shepaused for breath, with a stamp of her foot, he suddenly burstinto loud laughter. With a mighty slap of hand on knee heexclaimed, "I vow you've got spunk, after all--I like spunk. Come, sitdown--sit down!"

"I will not. " Faith's eyes flashed more passionately. Shethought she was being made fun of--treated contemptuously. Shewould have enjoyed another explosion of rage, but this cut deep. "I will not sit down in your house. I am going home. But I amglad I came back here and told you exactly what my opinion of youis. "

"So am I--so am I, " chuckled Norman. "I like you--you'refine--you're great. Such roses--such vim! Did I call hercheese-face? Why, she never smelt a cheese. Sit down. If you'dlooked like that at the first, girl! So you'll write my nameunder the devil's picture, will you? But he's black, girl, he'sblack--and I'm red. It won't do--it won't do! And you hope I'llhave the Scotch fiddle, do you? Lord love you, girl, I had ITwhen I was a boy. Don't wish it on me again. Sit down--sit in. We'll tak' a cup o' kindness. "

"No, thank you, " said Faith haughtily. 

"Oh, yes, you will. Come, come now, I apologize, girl--Iapologize. I made a fool of myself and I'm sorry. Man can't sayfairer. Forget and forgive. Shake hands, girl--shake hands. She won't--no, she won't! But she must! Look-a-here, girl, ifyou'll shake hands and break bread with me I'll pay what I usedto to the salary and I'll go to church the first Sunday in everymonth and I'll make Kitty Alec hold her jaw. I'm the only one inthe clan can do it. Is it a bargain, girl?"

It seemed a bargain. Faith found herself shaking hands with theogre and then sitting at his board. Her temper was over--Faith'stempers never lasted very long--but its excitement still sparkledin her eyes and crimsoned her cheeks. Norman Douglas looked ather admiringly. 

"Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson, " he ordered, "andstop sulking, woman, stop sulking. What if we did have aquarrel, woman? A good squall clears the air and briskens thingsup. But no drizzling and fogging afterwards--no drizzling andfogging, woman. I can't stand that. Temper in a woman but notears for me. Here, girl, is some messed up meat and potatoesfor you. Begin on that. Wilson has some fancy name for it, butI call lit macanaccady. Anything I can't analyze in the eatingline I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me I callshallamagouslem. Wilson's tea is shallamagouslem. I swear shemakes it out of burdocks. Don't take any of the ungodly blackliquid--here's some milk for you. What did you say your namewas?"

"Faith. "

"No name that--no name that! I can't stomach such a name. Gotany other?"

"No, sir. "

"Don't like the name, don't like it. There's no smeddum to it. Besides, it makes me think of my Aunt Jinny. She called herthree girls Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith didn't believe inanything--Hope was a born pessimist--and Charity was a miser. You ought to be called Red Rose--you look like one when you'remad. I'LL call you Red Rose. And you've roped me into promisingto go to church? But only once a month, remember--only once amonth. Come now, girl, will you let me off? I used to pay ahundred to the salary every year and go to church. If I promiseto pay two hundred a year will you let me off going to church?Come now!"

"No, no, sir, " said Faith, dimpling roguishly. "I want you to goto church, too. "

"Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon I can stand it twelvetimes a year. What a sensation it'll make the first Sunday I go!And old Susan Baker says I'm going to hell, hey? Do you believeI'll go there--come, now, do you?"

"I hope not, sir, " stammered Faith in some confusion. 

"WHY do you hope not? Come, now, WHY do you hope not? Give us areason, girl--give us a reason. "

"It--it must be a very--uncomfortable place, sir. "

"Uncomfortable? All depends on your taste in comfortable, girl. I'd soon get tired of angels. Fancy old Susan in a halo, now!"

Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so much that she had tolaugh. Norman eyed her approvingly. 

"See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you--you're great. Aboutthis church business, now--can your father preach?"

"He is a splendid preacher, " said loyal Faith. 

"He is, hey? I'll see--I'll watch out for flaws. He'd better becareful what he says before ME. I'll catch him--I'll trip himup--I'll keep tabs on his arguments. I'm bound to have some funout of this church going business. Does he ever preach hell?"

"No--o--o--I don't think so. "

"Too bad. I like sermons on that subject. You tell him that ifhe wants to keep me in good humour to preach a good rip-roaringsermon on hell once every six months--and the more brimstone thebetter. I like 'em smoking. And think of all the pleasure he'dgive the old maids, too. They'd all keep looking at old NormanDouglas and thinking, 'That's for you, you old reprobate. That'swhat's in store for YOU!' I'll give an extra ten dollars everytime you get your father to preach on hell. Here's Wilson andthe jam. Like that, hey? IT isn't macanaccady. Taste!"

Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful Norman held out toher. Luckily it WAS good. 

"Best plum jam in the world, " said Norman, filling a large saucerand plumping it down before her. "Glad you like it. I'll giveyou a couple of jars to take home with you. There's nothing meanabout me--never was. The devil can't catch me at THAT corner, anyhow. It wasn't my fault that Hester didn't have a new hat forten years. It was her own--she pinched on hats to save money togive yellow fellows over in China. _I_ never gave a cent tomissions in my life--never will. Never you try to bamboozle meinto that! A hundred a year to the salary and church once amonth--but no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians!Why, girl, they wouldn't be fit for heaven or hell--clean spoiledfor either place--clean spoiled. Hey, Wilson, haven't you got asmile on yet? Beats all how you women can sulk! _I_ neversulked in my life--it's just one big flash and crash with me andthen--pouf--the squall's over and the sun is out and you couldeat out of my hand. "

Norman insisted on driving Faith home after supper and he filledthe buggy up with apples, cabbages, potatoes and pumpkins andjars of jam. 

"There's a nice little tom-pussy out in the barn. I'll give youthat too, if you'd like it. Say the word, " he said. 

"No, thank you, " said Faith decidedly. "I don't like cats, andbesides, I have a rooster. "

"Listen to her. You can't cuddle a rooster as you can a kitten. Who ever heard of petting a rooster? Better take little Tom. Iwant to find a good home for him. "

"No. Aunt Martha has a cat and he would kill a strange kitten. "

Norman yielded the point rather reluctantly. He gave Faith anexciting drive home, behind his wild two-year old, and when hehad let her out at the kitchen door of the manse and dumped hiscargo on the back veranda he drove away shouting, "It's only once a month--only once a month, mind!"

Faith went up to bed, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, asif she had just escaped from the grasp of a genial whirlwind. She was happy and thankful. No fear now that they would have toleave the Glen and the graveyard and Rainbow Valley. But shefell asleep troubled by a disagreeable subconsciousness that DanReese had called her pig-girl and that, having stumbled on such acongenial epithet, he would continue to call her so wheneveropportunity offered. 

CHAPTER XVII. A DOUBLE VICTORY

Norman Douglas came to church the first Sunday in November andmade all the sensation he desired. Mr. Meredith shook hands withhim absently on the church steps and hoped dreamily that Mrs. Douglas was well. 

"She wasn't very well just before I buried her ten years ago, butI reckon she has better health now, " boomed Norman, to the horrorand amusement of every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbedin wondering if he had made the last head of his sermon as clearas he might have, and hadn't the least idea what Norman had saidto him or he to Norman. 

Norman intercepted Faith at the gate. 

"Kept my word, you see--kept my word, Red Rose. I'm free nowtill the first Sunday in December. Fine sermon, girl--finesermon. Your father has more in his head than he carries on hisface. But he contradicted himself once--tell him he contradictedhimself. And tell him I want that brimstone sermon in December. Great way to wind up the old year--with a taste of hell, youknow. And what's the matter with a nice tasty discourse onheaven for New Year's? Though it wouldn't be half as interestingas hell, girl--not half. Only I'd like to know what your fatherthinks about heaven--he CAN think--rarest thing in the world--aperson who can think. But he DID contradict himself. Ha, ha!Here's a question you might ask him sometime when he's awake, girl. 'Can God make a stone so big He couldn't lift it Himself?'Don't forget now. I want to hear his opinion on it. I'vestumped many a minister with that, girl. "

Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan Reese, standingamong the crowd of boys at the gate, looked at her and shaped his mouth into "pig-girl, " but dared notutter it aloud just there. Next day in school was a differentmatter. At noon recess Faith encountered Dan in the littlespruce plantation behind the school and Dan shouted once more, "Pig-girl! Pig-girl! ROOSTER-GIRL!"

Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion behind a littleclump of firs where he had been reading. He was very pale, buthis eyes blazed. 

"You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!" he said. 

"Oh, hello, Miss Walter, " retorted Dan, not at all abashed. Hevaulted airily to the top of the rail fence and chantedinsultingly, "Cowardy, cowardy-custard Stole a pot of mustard, Cowardy, cowardy-custard!"

"You are a coincidence!" said Walter scornfully, turning stillwhiter. He had only a very hazy idea what a coincidence was, butDan had none at all and thought it must be something peculiarlyopprobrious. 

"Yah! Cowardy!" he yelled gain. "Your mother writes lies--lies--lies! And Faith Meredith is a pig-girl--a--pig-girl--a pig-girl!And she's a rooster-girl--a rooster-girl--a rooster-girl! Yah!Cowardy--cowardy--cust--"

Dan got no further. Walter had hurled himself across theintervening space and knocked Dan off the fence backward with onewell-directed blow. Dan's sudden inglorious sprawl was greetedwith a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands from Faith. Dansprang up, purple with rage, and began to climb the fence. Butjust then the school-bell rang and Dan knew what happened to boyswho were late during Mr. Hazard's regime. 

"We'll fight this out, " he howled. "Cowardy!"

"Any time you like, " said Walter. 

"Oh, no, no, Walter, " protested Faith. "Don't fight him. _I_don't mind what he says--I wouldn't condescend to mind the likeof HIM. "

"He insulted you and he insulted my mother, " said Walter, withthe same deadly calm. "Tonight after school, Dan. "

"I've got to go right home from school to pick taters after theharrows, dad says, " answered Dan sulkily. "But to-morrownight'll do. "

"All right--here to-morrow night, " agreed Walter. 

"And I'll smash your sissy-face for you, " promised Dan. 

Walter shuddered--not so much from fear of the threat as fromrepulsion over the ugliness and vulgarity of it. But he held hishead high and marched into school. Faith followed in a conflictof emotions. She hated to think of Walter fighting that littlesneak, but oh, he had been splendid! And he was going to fightfor HER--Faith Meredith--to punish her insulter! Of course hewould win--such eyes spelled victory. 

Faith's confidence in her champion had dimmed a little byevening, however. Walter had seemed so very quiet and dull therest of the day in school. 

"If it were only Jem, " she sighed to Una, as they sat on HezekiahPollock's tombstone in the graveyard. "HE is such a fighter--hecould finish Dan off in no time. But Walter doesn't know muchabout fighting. "

"I'm so afraid he'll be hurt, " sighed Una, who hated fighting andcouldn't understand the subtle, secret exultation she divined inFaith. 

"He oughtn't to be, " said Faith uncomfortably. "He's every bitas big as Dan. "

"But Dan's so much older, " said Una. "Why, he's nearly a yearolder. "

"Dan hasn't done much fighting when you come to count up, " saidFaith. "I believe he's really a coward. He didn't think Walterwould fight, or he wouldn't have called names before him. Oh, ifyou could just have seen Walter's face when he looked at him, Una! It made me shiver--with a nice shiver. He looked just likeSir Galahad in that poem father read us on Saturday. "

"I hate the thought of them fighting and I wish it could bestopped, " said Una. 

"Oh, it's got to go on now, " cried Faith. "It's a matter ofhonour. Don't you DARE tell anyone, Una. If you do I'll nevertell you secrets again!"

"I won't tell, " agreed Una. "But I won't stay to-morrow to watchthe fight. I'm coming right home. "

"Oh, all right. _I_ have to be there--it would be mean not to, when Walter is fighting for me. I'm going to tie my colours onhis arm--that's the thing to do when he's my knight. How luckyMrs. Blythe gave me that pretty blue hair-ribbon for my birthday!I've only worn it twice so it will be almost new. But I wish Iwas sure Walter would win. It will be so--so HUMILIATING if hedoesn't. "

Faith would have been yet more dubious if she could have seen herchampion just then. Walter had gone home from school with allhis righteous anger at a low ebb and a very nasty feeling in itsplace. He had to fight Dan Reese the next night--and he didn'twant to--he hated the thought of it. And he kept thinking of itall the time. Not for a minute could he get away from thethought. Would it hurt much? He was terribly afraid that itwould hurt. And would he be defeated and shamed?

He could not eat any supper worth speaking of. Susan had made abig batch of his favourite monkey-faces, but he could choke onlyone down. Jem ate four. Walter wondered how he could. Howcould ANYBODY eat? And how could they all talk gaily as theywere doing? There was mother, with her shining eyes and pinkcheeks. SHE didn't know her son had to fight next day. Wouldshe be so gay if she knew, Walter wondered darkly. Jem had takenSusan's picture with his new camera and the result was passedaround the table and Susan was terribly indignant over it. 

"I am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. Dear, and well I know it, and havealways known it, " she said in an aggrieved tone, "but that I amas ugly as that picture makes me out I will never, no, neverbelieve. "

Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again with him. Waltercouldn't endure it. He got up and fled to his room. 

"That child has got something on his mind, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " saidSusan. "He has et next to nothing. Do you suppose he isplotting another poem?"

Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit from the starry realmsof poesy just then. He propped his elbow on his open window-silland leaned his head drearily on his hands. 

"Come on down to the shore, Walter, " cried Jem, busting in. "Theboys are going to burn the sand-hill grass to-night. Father sayswe can go. Come on. "

At any other time Walter would have been delighted. He gloriedin the burning of the sand-hill grass. But now he flatly refusedto go, and no arguments or entreaties could move him. Disappointed Jem, who did not care for the long dark walk to FourWinds Point alone, retreated to his museum in the garret andburied himself in a book. He soon forgot his disappointment, revelling with the heroes of old romance, and pausingoccasionally to picture himself a famous general, leading histroops to victory on some great battlefield. 

Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di crept in, hoping tobe told what was wrong, but Walter could not talk of it, even toDi. Talking of it seemed to give it a reality from which heshrank. It was torture enough to think of it. The crisp, withered leaves rustled on the maple trees outside his window. The glow of rose and flame had died out of the hollow, silverysky, and the full moon was rising gloriously over Rainbow Valley. Afar off, a ruddy woodfire was painting a page of glory on thehorizon beyond the hills. It was a sharp, clear evening whenfar-away sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking acrossthe pond; an engine was puffing down at the Glen station; ablue-jay was screaming madly in the maple grove; there waslaughter over on the manse lawn. How could people laugh? Howcould foxes and blue-jays and engines behave as if nothing weregoing to happen on the morrow?

"Oh, I wish it was over, " groaned Walter. 

He slept very little that night and had hard work choking downhis porridge in the morning. Susan WAS rather lavish in herplatefuls. Mr. Hazard found him an unsatisfactory pupil thatday. Faith Meredith's wits seemed to be wool-gathering, too. Dan Reese kept drawing surreptitious pictures of girls, with pigor rooster heads, on his slate and holding them up for all tosee. The news of the coming battle had leaked out and most ofthe boys and many of the girls were in the spruce plantation whenDan and Walter sought it after school. Una had gone home, butFaith was there, having tied her blue ribbon around Walter's arm. Walter was thankful that neither Jem nor Di nor Nan were amongthe crowd of spectators. Somehow they had not heard of what wasin the wind and had gone home, too. Walter faced Dan quiteundauntedly now. At the last moment all his fear had vanished, but he still felt disgust at the idea of fighting. Dan, it wasnoted, was really paler under his freckles than Walter was. Oneof the older boys gave the word and Dan struck Walter in theface. 

Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow tingled through allhis sensitive frame for a moment. Then he felt pain no longer. Something, such as he had never experienced before, seemed toroll over him like a flood. His face flushed crimson, his eyesburned like flame. The scholars of Glen St. Mary school hadnever dreamed that "Miss Walter" could look like that. He hurledhimself forward and closed with Dan like a young wildcat. 

There were no particular rules in the fights of the Glen schoolboys. It was catch-as-catch can, and get your blows in anyhow. Walter fought with a savage fury and a joy in the struggleagainst which Dan could not hold his ground. It was all oververy speedily. Walter had no clear consciousness of what he wasdoing until suddenly the red mist cleared from his sight and hefound himself kneeling on the body of the prostrate Dan whosenose--oh, horror!--was spouting blood. 

"Have you had enough?" demanded Walter through his clenchedteeth. 

Dan sulkily admitted that he had. 

"My mother doesn't write lies?"

"No. "

"Faith Meredith isn't a pig-girl?"

"No. "

"Nor a rooster-girl?"

"No. "

"And I'm not a coward?"

"No. "

Walter had intended to ask, "And you are a liar?" but pityintervened and he did not humiliate Dan further. Besides, thatblood was so horrible. 

"You can go, then, " he said contemptuously. 

There was a loud clapping from the boys who were perched on therail fence, but some of the girls were crying. They werefrightened. They had seen schoolboy fights before, but nothinglike Walter as he had grappled with Dan. There had beensomething terrifying about him. They thought he would kill Dan. Now that all was over they sobbed hysterically--except Faith, whostill stood tense and crimson cheeked. 

Walter did not stay for any conqueror's meed. He sprang over thefence and rushed down the spruce hill to Rainbow Valley. He feltnone of the victor's joy, but he felt a certain calm satisfactionin duty done and honour avenged--mingled with a sickish qualmwhen he thought of Dan's gory nose. It had been so ugly, andWalter hated ugliness. 

Also, he began to realize that he himself was somewhat sore andbattered up. His lip was cut and swollen and one eye felt verystrange. In Rainbow Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who wascoming home from an afternoon call on the Miss Wests. Thatreverend gentleman looked gravely at him. 

"It seems to me that you have been fighting, Walter?"

"Yes, sir, " said Walter, expecting a scolding. 

"What was it about?"

"Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and that that Faith was apig-girl, " answered Walter bluntly. 

"Oh--h! Then you were certainly justified, Walter. "

"Do you think it's right to fight, sir?" asked Walter curiously. 

"Not always--and not often--but sometimes--yes, sometimes, " saidJohn Meredith. "When womenkind are insulted for instance--as inyour case. My motto, Walter, is, don't fight till you're sureyou ought to, and THEN put every ounce of you into it. In spiteof sundry discolorations I infer that you came off best. "

"Yes. I made him take it all back. "

"Very good--very good, indeed. I didn't think you were such afighter, Walter. "

"I never fought before--and I didn't want to right up to thelast--and then, " said Walter, determined to make a clean breastof it, "I liked it while I was at it. "

The Rev. John's eyes twinkled. 

"You were--a little frightened--at first?"

"I was a whole lot frightened, " said honest Walter. "But I'm notgoing to be frightened any more, sir. Being frightened of thingsis worse than the things themselves. I'm going to ask father totake me over to Lowbridge to-morrow to get my tooth out. "

"Right again. 'Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears. ' Doyou know who wrote that, Walter? It was Shakespeare. Was thereany feeling or emotion or experience of the human heart that thatwonderful man did not know? When you go home tell your mother Iam proud of you. "

Walter did not tell her that, however; but he told her all therest, and she sympathized with him and told him she was glad hehad stood up for her and Faith, and she anointed his sore spotsand rubbed cologne on his aching head. 

"Are all mothers as nice as you?" asked Walter, hugging her. "You're WORTH standing up for. "

Miss Cornelia and Susan were in the living room when Anne camedownstairs, and listened to the story with much enjoyment. Susanin particular was highly gratified. 

"I am real glad to hear he has had a good fight, Mrs. Dr. Dear. Perhaps it may knock that poetry nonsense out of him. And Inever, no, never could bear that little viper of a Dan Reese. Will you not sit nearer to the fire, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?These November evenings are very chilly. "

"Thank you, Susan, I'm not cold. I called at the manse before Icame here and got quite warm--though I had to go to the kitchento do it, for there was no fire anywhere else. The kitchenlooked as if it had been stirred up with a stick, believe ME. Mr. Meredith wasn't home. I couldn't find out where he was, butI have an idea that he was up at the Wests'. Do you know, Annedearie, they say he has been going there frequently all the falland people are beginning to think he is going to see Rosemary. "

"He would get a very charming wife if he married Rosemary, " saidAnne, piling driftwood on the fire. "She is one of the mostdelightful girls I've ever known--truly one of the race ofJoseph. "

"Ye--s--only she is an Episcopalian, " said Miss Corneliadoubtfully. "Of course, that is better than if she was aMethodist--but I do think Mr. Meredith could find a good enoughwife in his own denomination. However, very likely there isnothing in it. It's only a month ago that I said to him, 'Youought to marry again, Mr. Meredith. ' He looked as shocked as ifI had suggested something improper. 'My wife is in her grave, Mrs. Elliott, ' he said, in that gentle, saintly way of his. 'Isuppose so, ' I said, 'or I wouldn't be advising you to marryagain. ' Then he looked more shocked than ever. So I doubt ifthere is much in this Rosemary story. If a single minister callstwice at a house where there is a single woman all the gossipshave it he is courting her. "

"It seems to me--if I may presume to say so--that Mr. Meredith istoo shy to go courting a second wife, " said Susan solemnly. 

"He ISN'T shy, believe ME, " retorted Miss Cornelia. "Absent-minded, --yes--but shy, no. And for all he is soabstracted and dreamy he has a very good opinion of himself, man-like, and when he is really awake he wouldn't think it muchof a chore to ask any woman to have him. No, the trouble is, he's deluding himself into believing that his heart is buried, while all the time it's beating away inside of him just likeanybody else's. He may have a notion of Rosemary West and he maynot. If he has, we must make the best of it. She is a sweetgirl and a fine housekeeper, and would make a good mother forthose poor, neglected children. And, " concluded Miss Corneliaresignedly, "my own grandmother was an Episcopalian. "

CHAPTER XVIII. MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS

Mary Vance, whom Mrs. Elliott had sent up to the manse on anerrand, came tripping down Rainbow Valley on her way to Inglesidewhere she was to spend the afternoon with Nan and Di as aSaturday treat. Nan and Di had been picking spruce gum withFaith and Una in the manse woods and the four of them were nowsitting on a fallen pine by the brook, all, it must be admitted, chewing rather vigorously. The Ingleside twins were not allowedto chew spruce gum anywhere but in the seclusion of RainbowValley, but Faith and Una were unrestricted by such rules ofetiquette and cheerfully chewed it everywhere, at home andabroad, to the very proper horror of the Glen. Faith had beenchewing it in church one day; but Jerry had realized the enormityof THAT, and had given her such an older-brotherly scolding thatshe never did it again. 

"I was so hungry I just felt as if I had to chew something, " sheprotested. "You know well enough what breakfast was like, JerryMeredith. I COULDN'T eat scorched porridge and my stomach justfelt so queer and empty. The gum helped a lot--and I didn't chewVERY hard. I didn't make any noise and I never cracked the gumonce. "

"You mustn't chew gum in church, anyhow, " insisted Jerry. "Don'tlet me catch you at it again. "

"You chewed yourself in prayer-meeting last week, " cried Faith. 

"THAT'S different, " said Jerry loftily. "Prayer-meeting isn't onSunday. Besides, I sat away at the back in a dark seat andnobody saw me. You were sitting right up front where every onesaw you. And I took the gum out of my mouth for the last hymnand stuck it on the back of the pew right up in front where everyone saw you. And I took the gum out of my mouth for the lasthymn and stuck it on the back of the pew in front of me. Then Icame away and forgot it. I went back to get it next morning, butit was gone. I suppose Rod Warren swiped it. And it was a dandychew. "

Mary Vance walked down the Valley with her head held high. Shehad on a new blue velvet cap with a scarlet rosette in it, a coatof navy blue cloth and a little squirrel-fur muff. She was veryconscious of her new clothes and very well pleased with herself. Her hair was elaborately crimped, her face was quite plump, hercheeks rosy, her white eyes shining. She did not look much likethe forlorn and ragged waif the Merediths had found in the oldTaylor barn. Una tried not to feel envious. Here was Mary witha new velvet cap, but she and Faith had to wear their shabby oldgray tams again this winter. Nobody ever thought of getting themnew ones and they were afraid to ask their father for them forfear that he might be short of money and then he would feelbadly. Mary had told them once that ministers were always shortof money, and found it "awful hard" to make ends meet. Sincethen Faith and Una would have gone in rags rather than ask theirfather for anything if they could help it. They did not worry agreat deal over their shabbiness; but it was rather trying to seeMary Vance coming out in such style and putting on such airsabout it, too. The new squirrel muff was really the last straw. Neither Faith nor Una had ever had a muff, counting themselveslucky if they could compass mittens without holes in them. AuntMartha could not see to darn holes and though Una tried to, shemade sad cobbling. Somehow, they could not make their greetingof Mary very cordial. But Mary did not mind or notice that; shewas not overly sensitive. She vaulted lightly to a seat on thepine tree, and laid the offending muff on a bough. Una saw thatit was lined with shirred red satin and had red tassels. Shelooked down at her own rather purple, chapped, little hands andwondered if she would ever, EVER be able to put them into a mufflike that. 

"Give us a chew, " said Mary companionably. Nan, Di and Faith allproduced an amber-hued knot or two from their pockets and passedthem to Mary. Una sat very still. She had four lovely big knotsin the pocket of her tight, thread-bare little jacket, but shewasn't going to give one of them to Mary Vance--not one Let Marypick her own gum! People with squirrel muffs needn't expect toget everything in the world. 

"Great day, isn't it?" said Mary, swinging her legs, the better, perhaps, to display new boots with very smart cloth tops. Unatucked HER feet under her. There was a hole in the toe of one ofher boots and both laces were much knotted. But they were thebest she had. Oh, this Mary Vance! Why hadn't they left her inthe old barn?

Una never felt badly because the Ingleside twins were betterdressed than she and Faith were. THEY wore their pretty clotheswith careless grace and never seemed to think about them at all. Somehow, they did not make other people feel shabby. But whenMary Vance was dressed up she seemed fairly to exude clothes--towalk in an atmosphere of clothes--to make everybody else feel andthink clothes. Una, as she sat there in the honey-tintedsunshine of the gracious December afternoon, was acutely andmiserably conscious of everything she had on--the faded tam, which was yet her best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for threewinters, the holes in her skirt and her boots, the shiveringinsufficiency of her poor little undergarments. Of course, Marywas going out for a visit and she was not. But even if she hadbeen she had nothing better to put on and in this lay the sting. 

"Say, this is great gum. Listen to me cracking it. There ain'tany gum spruces down at Four Winds, " said Mary. "Sometimes Ijust hanker after a chew. Mrs. Elliott won't let me chew gum ifshe sees me. She says it ain't lady-like. This lady-businesspuzzles me. I can't get on to all its kinks. Say, Una, what'sthe matter with you? Cat got your tongue?"

"No, " said Una, who could not drag her fascinated eyes from thatsquirrel muff. Mary leaned past her, picked it up and thrust itinto Una's hands. 

"Stick your paws in that for a while, " she ordered. "They looksorter pinched. Ain't that a dandy muff? Mrs. Elliott give itto me last week for a birthday present. I'm to get the collar atChristmas. I heard her telling Mr. Elliott that. "

"Mrs. Elliott is very good to you, " said Faith. 

"You bet she is. And I'M good to her, too, " retorted Mary. "Iwork like a nigger to make it easy for her and have everythingjust as she likes it. We was made for each other. 'Tisn't everyone could get along with her as well as I do. She's pizen neat, but so am I, and so we agree fine. "

"I told you she would never whip you. "

"So you did. She's never tried to lay a finger on me and I ain'tnever told a lie to her--not one, true's you live. She combs medown with her tongue sometimes though, but that just slips off MElike water off a duck's back. Say, Una, why didn't you hang onto the muff?"

Una had put it back on the bough. 

"My hands aren't cold, thank you, " she said stiffly. 

"Well, if you're satisfied, _I_ am. Say, old Kitty Alec has comeback to church as meek as Moses and nobody knows why. Buteverybody is saying it was Faith brought Norman Douglas out. Hishousekeeper says you went there and gave him an awfultongue-lashing. Did you?"

"I went and asked him to come to church, " said Faithuncomfortably. 

"Fancy your spunk!" said Mary admiringly. "_I_ wouldn't havedared do that and I'm not so slow. Mrs. Wilson says the two ofyou jawed something scandalous, but you come off best and then hejust turned round and like to eat you up. Say, is your fathergoing to preach here to-morrow?"

"No. He's going to exchange with Mr. Perry from Charlottetown. Father went to town this morning and Mr. Perry is coming outto-night. "

"I THOUGHT there was something in the wind, though old Marthawouldn't give me any satisfaction. But I felt sure she wouldn'thave been killing that rooster for nothing. "

"What rooster? What do you mean?" cried Faith, turning pale. 

"_I_ don't know what rooster. I didn't see it. When she tookthe butter Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she'd been out to thebarn killing a rooster for dinner tomorrow. "

Faith sprang down from the pine. 

"It's Adam--we have no other rooster--she has killed Adam. "

"Now, don't fly off the handle. Martha said the butcher at theGlen had no meat this week and she had to have something and thehens were all laying and too poor. "

"If she has killed Adam--" Faith began to run up the hill. 

Mary shrugged her shoulders. 

"She'll go crazy now. She was so fond of that Adam. He ought tohave been in the pot long ago--he'll be as tough as sole leather. But _I_ wouldn't like to be in Martha's shoes. Faith's justwhite with rage; Una, you'd better go after her and try topeacify her. "

Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls when Una suddenlyturned and ran after her. 

"Here's some gum for you, Mary, " she said, with a littlerepentant catch in her voice, thrusting all her four knots intoMary's hands, "and I'm glad you have such a pretty muff. "

"Why, thanks, " said Mary, rather taken by surprise. To theBlythe girls, after Una had gone, she said, "Ain't she a queerlittle mite? But I've always said she had a good heart. "

CHAPTER XIX. POOR ADAM!

When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart andgizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith's passion of grief and angernot a whit. 

"We had to have something for the strange minister's dinner, " shesaid. "You're too big a girl to make such a fuss over an oldrooster. You knew he'd have to be killed sometime. "

"I'll tell father when he comes home what you've done, " sobbedFaith. 

"Don't you go bothering your poor father. He has troublesenough. And I'M housekeeper here. "

"Adam was MINE--Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no businessto touch him, " stormed Faith. 

"Don't you get sassy now. The rooster's killed and there's anend of it. I ain't going to set no strange minister down to adinner of cold b'iled mutton. I was brought up to know betterthan that, if I have come down in the world. "

Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not goto church the next morning. But at dinner time she went to thetable, her eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen. 

The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristlingwhite moustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He was certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompoussort of person. But if he had looked like the Archangel Michaeland talked with the tongues of men and angels Faith would stillhave utterly detested him. He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white hands and very handsome diamond ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all through the performance. Jerryand Carl giggled, and even Una smiled wanly, because she thoughtpoliteness demanded it. But Faith only scowled darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad. Once, when he wasdelivering himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith broke inrudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew his bushyeyebrows together at her. 

"Little girls should not interrupt, " he said, "and they shouldnot contradict people who know far more than they do. "

This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called "littlegirl" as if she were no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over atIngleside! It was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even picked poor Adam's bones. Neither Faithnor Una would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the boys aslittle better than cannibals. Faith felt that if that awfulrepast did not soon come to an end she would wind it up bythrowing something at Mr. Perry's gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha's leathery apple pie too much evenfor his powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, aftera long grace in which Mr. Perry offered up devout thanks for thefood which a kind and beneficent Providence had provided forsustenance and temperate pleasure. 

"God hadn't a single thing to do with providing Adam for you, "muttered Faith rebelliously under her breath. 

The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una went to helpAunt Martha with the dishes--though that rather grumpy old damenever welcomed her timid assistance--and Faith betook herself tothe study where a cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. She thought she would thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry, who had announced his intention of taking a nap in his roomduring the afternoon. But scarcely had Faith settled herself ina corner, with a book, when he walked in and, standing before thefire, proceeded to survey the disorderly study with an air ofdisapproval. 

"You father's books seem to be in somewhat deplorable confusion, my little girl, " he said severely. 

Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. She would NOTtalk to this--this creature. 

"You should try to put them in order, " Mr. Perry went on, playingwith his handsome watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith. "You are quite old enough to attend to such duties. MY littledaughter at home is only ten and she is already an excellentlittle housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort to hermother. She is a very sweet child. I wish you had the privilegeof her acquaintance. She could help you in many ways. Ofcourse, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a goodmother's care and training. A sad lack--a very sad lack. I havespoken more than once to your father in this connection andpointed out his duty to him faithfully, but so far with noeffect. I trust he may awaken to a realization of hisresponsibility before it is too late. In the meantime, it isyour duty and privilege to endeavour to take your saintedmother's place. You might exercise a great influence over yourbrothers and your little sister--you might be a true mother tothem. I fear that you do not think of these things as youshould. My dear child, allow me to open your eyes in regard tothem. "

Mr. Perry's oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in hiselement. Nothing suited him better than to lay down the law, patronize and exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did notstop. He stood before the fire, his feet planted firmly on therug, and poured out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heardnot a word. She was really not listening to him at all. But shewas watching his long black coat-tails with impish delightgrowing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing VERY near thefire. His coat-tails began to scorch--his coat-tails began tosmoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. Thecoat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burningwood and alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught andspread into a smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself nolonger and broke into a stifled giggle. 

Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly he became conscious that a reek of burning cloth filledthe room. He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped hishands to his coat-tails and brought them around in front of him. There was already quite a hole in one of them--and this was hisnew suit. Faith shook with helpless laughter over his pose andexpression. 

"Did you see my coat-tails burning?" he demanded angrily. 

"Yes, sir, " said Faith demurely. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, glaring at her. 

"You said it wasn't good manners to interrupt, sir, " said Faith, more demurely still. 

"If--if I was your father, I would give you a spanking that youwould remember all your life, Miss, " said a very angry reverendgentleman, as he stalked out of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith's second best suit would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had togo to the evening service with his singed coat-tail. But he didnot walk up the aisle with his usual consciousness of the honourhe was conferring on the building. He never would agree to anexchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again, and he was barelycivil to the latter when they met for a few minutes at thestation the next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomysatisfaction. Adam was partially avenged. 

CHAPTER XX. FAITH MAKES A FRIEND

Next day in school was a hard one for Faith. Mary Vance had toldthe tale of Adam, and all the scholars, except the Blythes, thought it quite a joke. The girls told Faith, between giggles, that it was too bad, and the boys wrote sardonic notes ofcondolence to her. Poor Faith went home from school feeling hervery soul raw and smarting within her. 

"I'm going over to Ingleside to have a talk with Mrs. Blythe, "she sobbed. "SHE won't laugh at me, as everybody else does. I've just GOT to talk to somebody who understands how bad Ifeel. "

She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment had been atwork the night before. A light snow had fallen and the powderedfirs were dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to be. The longhill beyond was richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosylight of sunset lay over the world like a pink kiss. Of all theairy, fairy places, full of weird, elfin grace, Rainbow Valleythat winter evening was the most beautiful. But all itsdreamlike loveliness was lost on poor, sore-hearted little Faith. 

By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary West, who wassitting on the old pine tree. She was on her way home fromIngleside, where she had been giving the girls their musiclesson. She had been lingering in Rainbow Valley quite a littletime, looking across its white beauty and roaming some by-ways ofdream. Judging from the expression of her face, her thoughtswere pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, occasional tinkle fromthe bells on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking smile toher lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned by the consciousness thatJohn Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in the grayhouse on the white wind-swept hill. 

Into Rosemary's dreams burst Faith Meredith full of rebelliousbitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when she saw Miss West. Shedid not know her very well--just well enough to speak to whenthey met. And she did not want to see any one just then--exceptMrs. Blythe. She knew her eyes and nose were red and swollen andshe hated to have a stranger know she had been crying. 

"Good evening, Miss West, " she said uncomfortably. 

"What is the matter, Faith?" asked Rosemary gently. 

"Nothing, " said Faith rather shortly. 

"Oh!" Rosemary smiled. "You mean nothing that you can tell tooutsiders, don't you?"

Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. Here was aperson who understood things. And how pretty she was! Howgolden her hair was under her plumy hat! How pink her cheekswere over her velvet coat! How blue and companionable her eyeswere! Faith felt that Miss West could be a lovely friend--ifonly she were a friend instead of a stranger!

"I--I'm going up to tell Mrs. Blythe, " said Faith. "She alwaysunderstands--she never laughs at us. I always talk things overwith her. It helps. "

"Dear girlie, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Blytheisn't home, " said Miss West, sympathetically. "She went toAvonlea to-day and isn't coming back till the last of the week. "

Faith's lip quivered. 

"Then I might as well go home again, " she said miserably. 

"I suppose so--unless you think you could bring yourself to talkit over with me instead, " said Miss Rosemary gently. "It IS sucha help to talk things over. _I_ know. I don't suppose I can beas good at understanding as Mrs. Blythe--but I promise you that Iwon't laugh. "

"You wouldn't laugh outside, " hesitated Faith. "But youmight--inside. "

"No, I wouldn't laugh inside, either. Why should I? Somethinghas hurt you--it never amuses me to see anybody hurt, no matterwhat hurts them. If you feel that you'd like to tell me what hashurt you I'll be glad to listen. But if you think you'd rathernot--that's all right, too, dear. "

Faith took another long, earnest look into Miss West's eyes. They were very serious--there was no laughter in them, not evenfar, far back. With a little sigh she sat down on the old pinebeside her new friend and told her all about Adam and his cruelfate. 

Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She understood andsympathized--really, she was almost as good as Mrs. Blythe--yes, quite as good. 

"Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should have been a BUTCHER, "said Faith bitterly. "He is so fond of carving things up. HeENJOYED cutting poor Adam to pieces. He just sliced into him asif he were any common rooster. "

"Between you and me, Faith, _I_ don't like Mr. Perry very wellmyself, " said Rosemary, laughing a little--but at Mr. Perry, notat Adam, as Faith clearly understood. "I never did like him. Iwent to school with him--he was a Glen boy, you know--and he wasa most detestable little prig even then. Oh, how we girls usedto hate holding his fat, clammy hands in the ring-around games. But we must remember, dear, that he didn't know that Adam hadbeen a pet of yours. He thought he WAS just a common rooster. We must be just, even when we are terribly hurt. "

"I suppose so, " admitted Faith. "But why does everybody seem tothink it funny that I should have loved Adam so much, Miss West?If it had been a horrid old cat nobody would have thought itqueer. When Lottie Warren's kitten had its legs cut off by thebinder everybody was sorry for her. She cried two days in schooland nobody laughed at her, not even Dan Reese. And all her chumswent to the kitten's funeral and helped her bury it--only theycouldn't bury its poor little paws with it, because they couldn'tfind them. It was a horrid thing to have happen, of course, butI don't think it was as dreadful as seeing your pet EATEN UP. Yet everybody laughs at ME. "

"I think it is because the name 'rooster' seems rather a funnyone, " said Rosemary gravely. "There IS something in it that iscomical. Now, 'chicken' is different. It doesn't sound so funnyto talk of loving a chicken. "

"Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just alittle golden ball. He would run up to me and peck out of myhand. And he was handsome when he grew up, too--white as snow, with such a beautiful curving white tail, though Mary Vance saidit was too short. He knew his name and always came when I calledhim--he was a very intelligent rooster. And Aunt Martha had noright to kill him. He was mine. It wasn't fair, was it, MissWest?"

"No, it wasn't, " said Rosemary decidedly. "Not a bit fair. Iremember I had a pet hen when I was a little girl. She was sucha pretty little thing--all golden brown and speckly. I loved heras much as I ever loved any pet. She was never killed--she diedof old age. Mother wouldn't have her killed because she was mypet. "

"If MY mother had been living she wouldn't have let Adam bekilled, " said Faith. "For that matter, father wouldn't haveeither, if he'd been home and known of it. I'm SURE he wouldn't, Miss West. "

"I'm sure, too, " said Rosemary. There was a little added flush onher face. She looked rather conscious but Faith noticed nothing. 

"Was it VERY wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coat-tailswere scorching?" she asked anxiously. 

"Oh, terribly wicked, " answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. "But _I_ would have been just as naughty, Faith--_I_ wouldn'thave told him they were scorching--and I don't believe I wouldever have been a bit sorry for my wickedness, either. "

"Una thought I should have told him because he was a minister. "

"Dearest, if a minister doesn't behave as a gentleman we are notbound to respect his coat-tails. I know _I_ would just haveloved to see Jimmy Perry's coat-tails burning up. It must havebeen fun. "

Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little sigh. 

"Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am NEVER going to love anythingagain. "

"Don't say that, dear. We miss so much out of life if we don'tlove. The more we love the richer life is--even if it is onlysome little furry or feathery pet. Would you like a canary, Faith--a little golden bit of a canary? If you would I'll giveyou one. We have two up home. "

"Oh, I WOULD like that, " cried Faith. "I love birds. Only--would Aunt Martha's cat eat it? It's so TRAGIC to haveyour pets eaten. I don't think I could endure it a second time. "

"If you hang the cage far enough from the wall I don't think thecat could harm it. I'll tell you just how to take care of it andI'll bring it to Ingleside for you the next time I come down. "

To herself, Rosemary was thinking, "It will give every gossip in the Glen something to talk of, butI WILL not care. I want to comfort this poor little heart. "

Faith was comforted. Sympathy and understanding were very sweet. She and Miss Rosemary sat on the old pine until the twilightcrept softly down over the white valley and the evening starshone over the gray maple grove. Faith told Rosemary all hersmall history and hopes, her likes and dislikes, the ins and outsof life at the manse, the ups and downs of school society. Finally they parted firm friends. 

Mr. Meredith was, as usual, lost in dreams when supper began thatevening, but presently a name pierced his abstraction and broughthim back to reality. Faith was telling Una of her meeting withRosemary. 

"She is just lovely, I think, " said Faith. "Just as nice as Mrs. Blythe--but different. I felt as if I wanted to hug her. Shedid hug ME--such a nice, velvety hug. And she called me'dearest. ' It THRILLED me. I could tell her ANYTHING. "

"So you liked Miss West, Faith?" Mr. Meredith asked, with arather odd intonation. 

"I love her, " cried Faith. 

"Ah!" said Mr. Meredith. "Ah!"

CHAPTER XXI. THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD

John Meredith walked meditatively through the clear crispness ofa winter night in Rainbow Valley. The hills beyond glistenedwith the chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Everylittle fir tree in the long valley sang its own wild song to theharp of wind and frost. His children and the Blythe lads andlasses were coasting down the eastern slope and whizzing over theglassy pond. They were having a glorious time and their gayvoices and gayer laughter echoed up and down the valley, dyingaway in elfin cadences among the trees. On the right the lightsof Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the genial lureand invitation which seems always to glow in the beacons of ahome where we know there is love and good-cheer and a welcome forall kin, whether of flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very wellon occasion to spend an evening arguing with the doctor by thedrift wood fire, where the famous china dogs of Ingleside keptceaseless watch and ward, as became deities of the hearth, butto-night he did not look that way. Far on the western hillgleamed a paler but more alluring star. Mr. Meredith was on hisway to see Rosemary West, and he meant to tell her somethingwhich had been slowly blossoming in his heart since their firstmeeting and had sprung into full flower on the evening when Faithhad so warmly voiced her admiration for Rosemary. 

He had come to realize that he had learned to care for Rosemary. Not as he had cared for Cecilia, of course. THAT was entirelydifferent. That love of romance and dream and glamour couldnever, he thought, return. But Rosemary was beautiful and sweetand dear--very dear. She was the best of companions. He washappier in her company than he had ever expected to be again. She would be an ideal mistress for his home, a good mother to hischildren. 

During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith had receivedinnumerable hints from brother members of Presbytery and frommany parishioners who could not be suspected of any ulteriormotive, as well as from some who could, that he ought to marryagain: But these hints never made any impression on him. It wascommonly thought he was never aware of them. But he was quiteacutely aware of them. And in his own occasional visitations ofcommon sense he knew that the common sensible thing for him to dowas to marry. But common sense was not the strong point of JohnMeredith, and to choose out, deliberately and cold-bloodedly, some "suitable" woman, as one might choose a housekeeper or abusiness partner, was something he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated that word "suitable. " It reminded him so stronglyof James Perry. "A SUIT able woman of SUIT able age, " thatunctuous brother of the cloth had said, in his far from subtlehint. For the moment John Meredith had had a perfectlyunbelievable desire to rush madly away and propose marriage tothe youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible to discover. 

Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he liked her. Butwhen she had bluntly told him he should marry again he felt as ifshe had torn away the veil that hung before some sacred shrine ofhis innermost life, and he had been more or less afraid of herever since. He knew there were women in his congregation "ofsuitable age" who would marry him quite readily. That fact hadseeped through all his abstraction very early in his ministry inGlen St. Mary. They were good, substantial, uninteresting women, one or two fairly comely, the others not exactly so and JohnMeredith would as soon have thought of marrying any one of themas of hanging himself. He had some ideals to which no seemingnecessity could make him false. He could ask no woman to fillCecilia's place in his home unless he could offer her at leastsome of the affection and homage he had given to his girlishbride. And where, in his limited feminine acquaintance, was sucha woman to be found?

Rosemary West had come into his life on that autumn eveningbringing with her an atmosphere in which his spirit recognizednative air. Across the gulf of strangerhood they clasped handsof friendship. He knew her better in that ten minutes by thehidden spring than he knew Emmeline Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or AmyAnnetta Douglas in a year, or could know them, in a century. Hehad fled to her for comfort when Mrs. Alec Davis had outraged hismind and soul and had found it. Since then he had gone often tothe house on the hill, slipping through the shadowy paths ofnight in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen gossip could neverbe absolutely certain that he DID go to see Rosemary West. Onceor twice he had been caught in the West living room by othervisitors; that was all the Ladies' Aid had to go by. But whenElizabeth Kirk heard it she put away a secret hope she hadallowed herself to cherish, without a change of expression on herkind plain face, and Emmeline Drew resolved that the next timeshe saw a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge she would not snubhim as she had done at a previous meeting. Of course, ifRosemary West was out to catch the minister she would catch him;she looked younger than she was and MEN thought her pretty;besides, the West girls had money!

"It is to be hoped that he won't be so absent-minded as topropose to Ellen by mistake, " was the only malicious thing sheallowed herself to say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmelinebore no further grudge towards Rosemary. When all was said anddone, an unencumbered bachelor was far better than a widower withfour children. It had been only the glamour of the manse thathad temporarily blinded Emmeline's eyes to the better part. 

A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. Meredith tothe pond. Faith's long curls streamed in the wind and herlaughter rang above that of the others. John Meredith lookedafter them kindly and longingly. He was glad that his childrenhad such chums as the Blythes--glad that they had so wise and gayand tender a friend as Mrs. Blythe. But they needed somethingmore, and that something would be supplied when he broughtRosemary West as a bride to the old manse. There was in her aquality essentially maternal. 

It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturdaynight, which was supposed to be dedicated to a thoughtfulrevision of Sunday's sermon. But he had chosen this nightbecause he had learned that Ellen West was going to be away andRosemary would be alone. Often as he had spent pleasant eveningsin the house on the hill he had never, since that first meetingat the spring, seen Rosemary alone. Ellen had always been there. 

He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He liked EllenWest very much and they were the best of friends. Ellen had analmost masculine understanding and a sense of humour which hisown shy, hidden appreciation of fun found very agreeable. Heliked her interest in politics and world events. There was noman in the Glen, not even excepting Dr. Blythe, who had a bettergrasp of such things. 

"I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long asyou live, " she had said. "If you're not, it doesn't seem to methat there's much difference between the quick and the dead. "

He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked the heartylaugh with which she always ended up some jolly and well-toldstory. She never gave him digs about his children as other Glenwomen did; she never bored him with local gossip; she had nomalice and no pettiness. She was always splendidly sincere. Mr. Meredith, who had picked up Miss Cornelia's way of classifyingpeople, considered that Ellen belonged to the race of Joseph. Altogether, an admirable woman for a sister-in-law. Nevertheless, a man did not want even the most admirable of womenaround when he was proposing to another woman. And Ellen wasalways around. She did not insist on talking to Mr. Meredithherself all the time. She let Rosemary have a fair share of him. Many evenings, indeed, Ellen effaced herself almost totally, sitting back in the corner with St. George in her lap, andletting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk and sing and read bookstogether. Sometimes they quite forgot her presence. But iftheir conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed the leasttendency to what Ellen considered philandering, Ellen promptlynipped that tendency in the bud and blotted Rosemary out for therest of the evening. But not even the grimmest of amiabledragons can altogether prevent a certain subtle language of eyeand smile and eloquent silence; and so the minister's courtshipprogressed after a fashion. 

But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax must come whenEllen was away. And Ellen was so seldom away, especially inwinter. She found her own fireside the pleasantest place in theworld, she vowed. Gadding had no attraction for her. She wasfond of company but she wanted it at home. Mr. Meredith hadalmost been driven to the conclusion that he must write toRosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen casually announced oneevening that she was going to a silver wedding next Saturdaynight. She had been bridesmaid when the principals were married. Only old guests were invited, so Rosemary was not included. Mr. Meredith pricked up his ears a trifle and a gleam flashed intohis dreamy dark eyes. Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it; and bothEllen and Rosemary felt, with a tingling shock, that Mr. Meredithwould certainly come up the hill next Saturday night. 

"Might as well have it over with, St. George, " Ellen sternly toldthe black cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone home and Rosemary hadsilently gone upstairs. "He means to ask her, St. George--I'mperfectly sure of that. So he might as well have his chance todo it and find out he can't get her, George. She'd rather liketo take him, Saint. I know that--but she promised, and she's gotto keep her promise. I'm rather sorry in some ways, St. George. I don't know of a man I'd sooner have for a brother-in-law if abrother-in-law was convenient. I haven't a thing against him, Saint--not a thing except that he won't see and can't be made tosee that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace of Europe. That'sHIS blind spot. But he's good company and I like him. A womancan say anything she likes to a man with a mouth like JohnMeredith's and be sure of not being misunderstood. Such a man ismore precious than rubies, Saint--and much rarer, George. But hecan't have Rosemary--and I suppose when he finds out he can'thave her he'll drop us both. And we'll miss him, Saint--we'llmiss him something scandalous, George. But she promised, andI'll see that she keeps her promise!"

Ellen's face looked almost ugly in its lowering resolution. Upstairs Rosemary was crying into her pillow. 

So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking very beautiful. Rosemary had not made any special toilet for the occasion; shewanted to, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for aman you meant to refuse. So she wore her plain dark afternoondress and looked like a queen in it. Her suppressed excitementcoloured her face to brilliancy, her great blue eyes were poolsof light less placid than usual. 

She wished the interview were over. She had looked forward to itall day with dread. She felt quite sure that John Meredith careda great deal for her after a fashion--and she felt just as surethat he did not care for her as he had cared for his first love. She felt that her refusal would disappoint him considerably, butshe did not think it would altogether overwhelm him. Yet shehated to make it; hated for his sake and--Rosemary was quitehonest with herself--for her own. She knew she could have lovedJohn Meredith if--if it had been permissible. She knew thatlife would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, he refusedlonger to be a friend. She knew that she could be very happywith him and that she could make him happy. But between her andhappiness stood the prison gate of the promise she had made toEllen years ago. Rosemary could not remember her father. He haddied when she was only three years old. Ellen, who had beenthirteen, remembered him, but with no special tenderness. He hadbeen a stern, reserved man many years older than his fair, prettywife. Five years later their brother of twelve died also; sincehis death the two girls had always lived alone with their mother. They had never mingled very freely in the social life of the Glenor Lowbridge, though where they went the wit and spirit of Ellenand the sweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them welcomeguests. Both had what was called "a disappointment" in theirgirlhood. The sea had not given up Rosemary's lover; and NormanDouglas, then a handsome, red-haired young giant, noted for wilddriving and noisy though harmless escapades, had quarrelled withEllen and left her in a fit of pique. 

There were not lacking candidates for both Martin's and Norman'splaces, but none seemed to find favour in the eyes of the Westgirls, who drifted slowly out of youth and bellehood without anyseeming regret. They were devoted to their mother, who was achronic invalid. The three had a little circle of homeinterests--books and pets and flowers--which made them happy andcontented. 

Mrs. West's death, which occurred on Rosemary's twenty-fifthbirthday, was a bitter grief to them. At first they wereintolerably lonely. Ellen, especially, continued to grieve andbrood, her long, moody musings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The old Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary thathe feared permanent melancholy or worse. 

Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either to speak oreat, Rosemary had flung herself on her knees by her sister'sside. 

"Oh, Ellen, you have me yet, " she said imploringly. "Am Inothing to you? We have always loved each other so. "

"I won't have you always, " Ellen had said, breaking her silencewith harsh intensity. "You will marry and leave me. I shall beleft all alone. I cannot bear the thought--I CANNOT. I wouldrather die. "

"I will never marry, " said Rosemary, "never, Ellen. "

Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly into Rosemary's eyes. 

"Will you promise me that solemnly?" she said. "Promise it onmother's Bible. "

Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humour Ellen. Whatdid it matter? She knew quite well she would never want to marryany one. Her love had gone down with Martin Crawford to thedeeps of the sea; and without love she could not marry any one. So she promised readily, though Ellen made rather a fearsome riteof it. They clasped hands over the Bible, in their mother'svacant room, and both vowed to each other that they would nevermarry and would always live together. 

Ellen's condition improved from that hour. She soon regained hernormal cheery poise. For ten years she and Rosemary lived in theold house happily, undisturbed by any thought of marrying orgiving in marriage. Their promise sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed to remind her sister of it whenever anyeligible male creature crossed their paths, but she had neverbeen really alarmed until John Meredith came home that night withRosemary. As for Rosemary, Ellen's obsession regarding thatpromise had always been a little matter of mirth to her--untillately. Now, it was a merciless fetter, self-imposed but neverto be shaken off. Because of it to-night she must turn her facefrom happiness. 

It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she had given toher boy-lover she could never give to another. But she knew nowthat she could give to John Meredith a love richer and morewomanly. She knew that he touched deeps in her nature thatMartin had never touched--that had not, perhaps, been in the girlof seventeen to touch. And she must send him away to-night--sendhim back to his lonely hearth and his empty life and hisheart-breaking problems, because she had promised Ellen, tenyears before, on their mother's Bible, that she would nevermarry. 

John Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity. On thecontrary, he talked for two good hours on the least lover-like ofsubjects. He even tried politics, though politics always boredRosemary. The later began to think that she had been altogethermistaken, and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed to hergrotesque. She felt flat and foolish. The glow went out of herface and the lustre out of her eyes. John Meredith had not theslightest intention of asking her to marry him. 

And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, andstanding by her chair, he asked it. The room had grown terriblystill. Even St. George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard her ownheart beating and was sure John Meredith must hear it too. 

Now was the time for her to say no, gently but firmly. She hadbeen ready for days with her stilted, regretful little formula. And now the words of it had completely vanished from her mind. She had to say no--and she suddenly found she could not say it. It was the impossible word. She knew now that it was not thatshe COULD have loved John Meredith, but that she DID love him. The thought of putting him from her life was agony. 

She must say SOMETHING; she lifted her bowed golden head andasked him stammeringly to give her a few days for--forconsideration. 

John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not vainer than anyman has a right to be, but he had expected that Rosemary Westwould say yes. He had been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this doubt--this hesitation? She was not a school girlto be uncertain as to her own mind. He felt an ugly shock ofdisappointment and dismay. But he assented to her request withhis unfailing gentle courtesy and went away at once. 

"I will tell you in a few days, " said Rosemary, with downcasteyes and burning face. 

When the door shut behind him she went back into the room andwrung her hands. 

CHAPTER XXII. ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL ABOUT IT

At midnight Ellen West was walking home from the Pollock silverwedding. She had stayed a little while after the other guestshad gone, to help the gray-haired bride wash the dishes. Thedistance between the two houses was not far and the road good, sothat Ellen was enjoying the walk back home in the moonlight. 

The evening had been a pleasant one. Ellen, who had not been toa party for years, found it very pleasant. All the guests hadbeen members of her old set and there was no intrusive youth tospoil the flavour, for the only son of the bride and groom wasfar away at college and could not be present. Norman Douglas hadbeen there and they had met socially for the first time in years, though she had seen him once or twice in church that winter. Notthe least sentiment was awakened in Ellen's heart by theirmeeting. She was accustomed to wonder, when she thought about itat all, how she could ever have fancied him or felt so badly overhis sudden marriage. But she had rather liked meeting him again. She had forgotten how bracing and stimulating he could be. Nogathering was ever stagnant when Norman Douglas was present. Everybody had been surprised when Norman came. It was well knownhe never went anywhere. The Pollocks had invited him because hehad been one of the original guests, but they never thought hewould come. He had taken his second cousin, Amy Annetta Douglas, out to supper and seemed rather attentive to her. But Ellen satacross the table from him and had a spirited argument withhim--an argument during which all his shouting and banter couldnot fluster her and in which she came off best, flooring Normanso composedly and so completely that he was silent for tenminutes. At the end of which time he had muttered in his ruddybeard--"spunky as ever--spunky as ever"--and began to hector AmyAnnetta, who giggled foolishly over his sallies where Ellen wouldhave retorted bitingly. 

Ellen thought these things over as she walked home, tasting themwith reminiscent relish. The moonlit air sparkled with frost. The snow crisped under her feet. Below her lay the Glen with thewhite harbour beyond. There was a light in the manse study. SoJohn Meredith had gone home. Had he asked Rosemary to marry him?And after what fashion had she made her refusal known? Ellenfelt that she would never know this, though she was quitecurious. She was sure Rosemary would never tell her anythingabout it and she would not dare to ask. She must just be contentwith the fact of the refusal. After all, that was the only thingthat really mattered. 

"I hope he'll have sense enough to come back once in a while andbe friendly, " she said to herself. She disliked so much to bealone that thinking aloud was one of her devices forcircumventing unwelcome solitude. "It's awful never to have aman-body with some brains to talk to once in a while. And likeas not he'll never come near the house again. There's NormanDouglas, too--I like that man, and I'd like to have a goodrousing argument with him now and then. But he'd never dare comeup for fear people would think he was courting me again--for fearI'D think it, too, most likely--though he's more a stranger to menow than John Meredith. It seems like a dream that we could everhave been beaus. But there it is--there's only two men in theGlen I'd ever want to talk to--and what with gossip and thiswretched love-making business it's not likely I'll ever seeeither of them again. I could, " said Ellen, addressing theunmoved stars with a spiteful emphasis, "I could have made abetter world myself. "

She paused at her gate with a sudden vague feeling of alarm. There was still a light in the living-room and to and fro acrossthe window-shades went the shadow of a woman walking restlesslyup and down. What was Rosemary doing up at this hour of thenight? And why was she striding about like a lunatic?

Ellen went softly in. As she opened the hall door Rosemary cameout of the room. She was flushed and breathless. An atmosphereof stress and passion hung about her like a garment. 

"Why aren't you in bed, Rosemary?" demanded Ellen. 

"Come in here, " said Rosemary intensely. "I want to tell yousomething. "

Ellen composedly removed her wraps and overshoes, and followedher sister into the warm, fire-lighted room. She stood with herhand on the table and waited. She was looking very handsomeherself, in her own grim, black-browed style. The new blackvelvet dress, with its train and V-neck, which she had madepurposely for the party, became her stately, massive figure. Shewore coiled around her neck the rich heavy necklace of amberbeads which was a family heirloom. Her walk in the frosty airhad stung her cheeks into a glowing scarlet. But her steel-blueeyes were as icy and unyielding as the sky of the winter night. She stood waiting in a silence which Rosemary could break only bya convulsive effort. 

"Ellen, Mr. Meredith was here this evening. "

"Yes?"

"And--and--he asked me to marry him. "

"So I expected. Of course, you refused him?"

"No. "

"Rosemary. " Ellen clenched her hands and took an involuntarystep forward. "Do you mean to tell me that you accepted him?"

"No--no. "

Ellen recovered her self-command. 

"What DID you do then?"

"I--I asked him to give me a few days to think it over. "

"I hardly see why that was necessary, " said Ellen, coldlycontemptuous, "when there is only the one answer you can makehim. "

Rosemary held out her hands beseechingly. 

"Ellen, " she said desperately, "I love John Meredith--I want tobe his wife. Will you set me free from that promise?"

"No, " said Ellen, merciless, because she was sick from fear. 

"Ellen--Ellen--"

"Listen, " interrupted Ellen. "I did not ask you for thatpromise. You offered it. "

"I know--I know. But I did not think then that I could ever carefor anyone again. "

"You offered it, " went on Ellen unmovably. "You promised it overour mother's Bible. It was more than a promise--it was an oath. Now you want to break it. "

"I only asked you to set me free from it, Ellen. "

"I will not do it. A promise is a promise in my eyes. I willnot do it. Break your promise--be forsworn if you will--but itshall not be with any assent of mine. "

"You are very hard on me, Ellen. "

"Hard on you! And what of me? Have you ever given a thought towhat my loneliness would be here if you left me? I could notbear it--I would go crazy. I CANNOT live alone. Haven't I beena good sister to you? Have I ever opposed any wish of yours?Haven't I indulged you in everything?"

"Yes--yes. "

"Then why do you want to leave me for this man whom you hadn'tseen a year ago?"

"I love him, Ellen. "

"Love! You talk like a school miss instead of a middle-agedwoman. He doesn't love you. He wants a housekeeper and agoverness. You don't love him. You want to be 'Mrs. '--you areone of those weak-minded women who think it's a disgrace to beranked as an old maid. That's all there is to it. "

Rosemary quivered. Ellen could not, or would not, understand. There was no use arguing with her. 

"So you won't release me, Ellen?"

"No, I won't. And I won't talk of it again. You promised andyou've got to keep your word. That's all. Go to bed. Look atthe time! You're all romantic and worked up. To-morrow you'llbe more sensible. At any rate, don't let me hear any more ofthis nonsense. Go. "

Rosemary went without another word, pale and spiritless. Ellenwalked stormily about the room for a few minutes, then pausedbefore the chair where St. George had been calmly sleepingthrough the whole evening. A reluctant smile overspread her darkface. There had been only one time in her life--the time of hermother's death--when Ellen had not been able to temper tragedywith comedy. Even in that long ago bitterness, when NormanDouglas had, after a fashion, jilted her, she had laughed atherself quite as often as she had cried. 

"I expect there'll be some sulking, St. George. Yes, Saint, Iexpect we are in for a few unpleasant foggy days. Well, we'llweather them through, George. We've dealt with foolish childrenbefore, Saint. Rosemary'll sulk a while--and then she'll getover it--and all will be as before, George. She promised--andshe's got to keep her promise. And that's the last word on thesubject I'll say to you or her or anyone, Saint. "

But Ellen lay savagely awake till morning. 

There was no sulking, however. Rosemary was pale and quiet thenext day, but beyond that Ellen could detect no difference inher. Certainly, she seemed to bear Ellen no grudge. It wasstormy, so no mention was made of going to church. In theafternoon Rosemary shut herself in her room and wrote a note toJohn Meredith. She could not trust herself to say "no" inperson. She felt quite sure that if he suspected she wassaying "no" reluctantly he would not take it for an answer, andshe could not face pleading or entreaty. She must make him thinkshe cared nothing at all for him and she could do that only byletter. She wrote him the stiffest, coolest little refusalimaginable. It was barely courteous; it certainly left noloophole of hope for the boldest lover--and John Meredith wasanything but that. He shrank into himself, hurt and mortified, when he read Rosemary's letter next day in his dusty study. Butunder his mortification a dreadful realization presently madeitself felt. He had thought he did not love Rosemary as deeplyas he had loved Cecilia. Now, when he had lost her, he knew thathe did. She was everything to him--everything! And he must puther out of his life completely. Even friendship was impossiblenow. Life stretched before him in intolerable dreariness. Hemust go on--there was his work--his children--but the heart hadgone out of him. He sat alone all that evening in his dark, cold, comfortless study with his head bowed on his hands. Up onthe hill Rosemary had a headache and went early to bed, whileEllen remarked to St. George, purring his disdain of foolishhumankind, who did not know that a soft cushion was the onlything that really mattered, "What would women do if headaches had never been invented, St. George? But never mind, Saint. We'll just wink the other eyefor a few weeks. I admit I don't feel comfortable myself, George. I feel as if I had drowned a kitten. But she promised, Saint--and she was the one to offer it, George. Bismillah!"

CHAPTER XXIII. THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB

A light rain had been falling all day--a little, delicate, beautiful spring rain, that somehow seemed to hint and whisper ofmayflowers and wakening violets. The harbour and the gulf andthe low-lying shore fields had been dim with pearl-gray mists. But now in the evening the rain had ceased and the mists hadblown out to sea. Clouds sprinkled the sky over the harbour likelittle fiery roses. Beyond it the hills were dark against aspendthrift splendour of daffodil and crimson. A great silveryevening star was watching over the bar. A brisk, dancing, new-sprung wind was blowing up from Rainbow Valley, resinous withthe odours of fir and damp mosses. It crooned in the old sprucesaround the graveyard and ruffled Faith's splendid curls as shesat on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone with her arms round MaryVance and Una. Carl and Jerry were sitting opposite them onanother tombstone and all were rather full of mischief afterbeing cooped up all day. 

"The air just SHINES to-night, doesn't it? It's been washed soclean, you see, " said Faith happily. 

Mary Vance eyed her gloomily. Knowing what she knew, or fanciedshe knew, Mary considered that Faith was far too light-hearted. Mary had something on her mind to say and she meant to say itbefore she went home. Mrs. Elliott had sent her up to the mansewith some new-laid eggs, and had told her not to stay longer thanhalf an hour. The half hour was nearly up, so Mary uncurled hercramped legs from under her and said abruptly, "Never mind about the air. Just you listen to me. You manseyoung ones have just got to behave yourselves better than you'vebeen doing this spring--that's all there is to it. I just comeup to-night a-purpose to tell you so. The way people are talkingabout you is awful. "

"What have we been doing now?" cried Faith in amazement, pullingher arm away from Mary. Una's lips trembled and her sensitivelittle soul shrank within her. Mary was always so brutallyfrank. Jerry began to whistle out of bravado. He meant to letMary see he didn't care for HER tirades. Their behaviour was nobusiness of HERS anyway. What right had SHE to lecture them ontheir conduct?

"Doing now! You're doing ALL the time, " retorted Mary. "Just assoon as the talk about one of your didos fades away you dosomething else to start it up again. It seems to me you haven'tany idea of how manse children ought to behave!"

"Maybe YOU can tell us, " said Jerry, killingly sarcastic. 

Sarcasm was quite thrown away on Mary. 

"_I_ can tell you what will happen if you don't learn to behaveyourselves. The session will ask your father to resign. Therenow, Master Jerry-know-it-all. Mrs. Alec Davis said so to Mrs. Elliott. I heard her. I always have my ears pricked up whenMrs. Alec Davis comes to tea. She said you were all going frombad to worse and that though it was only what was to be expectedwhen you had nobody to bring you up, still the congregationcouldn't be expected to put up with it much longer, and somethingwould have to be done. The Methodists just laugh and laugh atyou, and that hurts the Presbyterian feelings. SHE says you allneed a good dose of birch tonic. Lor', if that would make folksgood _I_ oughter be a young saint. I'm not telling you thisbecause I want to hurt YOUR feelings. I'm sorry for you"--Marywas past mistress of the gentle art of condescension. " _I_understand that you haven't much chance, the way things are. Butother people don't make as much allowance as _I_ do. Miss Drewsays Carl had a frog in his pocket in Sunday School last Sundayand it hopped out while she was hearing the lesson. She saysshe's going to give up the class. Why don't you keep yourinsecks home?"

"I popped it right back in again, " said Carl. "It didn't hurtanybody--a poor little frog! And I wish old Jane Drew WOULD giveup our class. I hate her. Her own nephew had a dirty plug oftobacco in his pocket and offered us fellows a chew when ElderClow was praying. I guess that's worse than a frog. "

"No, 'cause frogs are more unexpected-like. They make more of asensation. 'Sides, he wasn't caught at it. And then thatpraying competition you had last week has made a fearful scandal. Everybody is talking about it. "

"Why, the Blythes were in that as well as us, " cried Faith, indignantly. "It was Nan Blythe who suggested it in the firstplace. And Walter took the prize. "

"Well, you get the credit of it any way. It wouldn't have beenso bad if you hadn't had it in the graveyard. "

"I should think a graveyard was a very good place to pray in, "retorted Jerry. 

"Deacon Hazard drove past when YOU were praying, " said Mary, "andhe saw and heard you, with your hands folded over your stomach, and groaning after every sentence. He thought you were makingfun of HIM. "

"So I was, " declared unabashed Jerry. "Only I didn't know he wasgoing by, of course. That was just a mean accident. _I_ wasn'tpraying in real earnest--I knew I had no chance of winning theprize. So I was just getting what fun I could out of it. WalterBlythe can pray bully. Why, he can pray as well as dad. "

"Una is the only one of US who really likes praying, " said Faithpensively. 

"Well, if praying scandalizes people so much we mustn't do it anymore, " sighed Una. 

"Shucks, you can pray all you want to, only not in thegraveyard--and don't make a game of it. That was what made it sobad--that, and having a tea-party on the tombstones. "

"We hadn't. "

"Well, a soap-bubble party then. You had SOMETHING. Theover-harbour people swear you had a tea-party, but I'm willing totake your word. And you used this tombstone as a table. "

"Well, Martha wouldn't let us blow bubbles in the house. She wasawful cross that day, " explained Jerry. "And this old slab madesuch a jolly table. "

"Weren't they pretty?" cried Faith, her eyes sparkling over theremembrance. "They reflected the trees and the hills and theharbour like little fairy worlds, and when we shook them loosethey floated away down to Rainbow Valley. "

"All but one and it went over and bust up on the Methodistspire, " said Carl. 

"I'm glad we did it once, anyhow, before we found out it waswrong, " said Faith. 

"It wouldn't have been wrong to blow them on the lawn, " said Maryimpatiently. "Seems like I can't knock any sense into yourheads. You've been told often enough you shouldn't play in thegraveyard. The Methodists are sensitive about it. "

"We forget, " said Faith dolefully. "And the lawn is sosmall--and so caterpillary--and so full of shrubs and things. Wecan't be in Rainbow Valley all the time--and where are we to go?"

"It's the things you DO in the graveyard. It wouldn't matter ifyou just sat here and talked quiet, same as we're doing now. Well, I don't know what is going to come of it all, but I DO knowthat Elder Warren is going to speak to your pa about it. DeaconHazard is his cousin. "

"I wish they wouldn't bother father about us, " said Una. 

"Well, people think he ought to bother himself about you a littlemore. _I_ don't--_I_ understand him. He's a child in some wayshimself--that's what he is, and needs some one to look after himas bad as you do. Well, perhaps he'll have some one before long, if all tales is true. "

"What do you mean?" asked Faith. 

"Haven't you got any idea--honest?" demanded Mary. 

"No, no. What DO you mean?"

"Well, you are a lot of innocents, upon my word. Why, EVERYbodyis talking of it. Your pa goes to see Rosemary West. SHE isgoing to be your step-ma. "

"I don't believe it, " cried Una, flushing crimson. 

"Well, _I_ dunno. I just go by what folks say. _I_ don't giveit for a fact. But it would be a good thing. Rosemary West'dmake you toe the mark if she came here, I'll bet a cent, for allshe's so sweet and smiley on the face of her. They're alwaysthat way till they've caught them. But you need some one tobring you up. You're disgracing your pa and I feel for him. I've always thought an awful lot of your pa ever since that nighthe talked to me so nice. I've never said a single swear wordsince, or told a lie. And I'd like to see him happy andcomfortable, with his buttons on and his meals decent, and youyoung ones licked into shape, and that old cat of a Martha put inHER proper place. The way she looked at the eggs I brought herto-night. 'I hope they're fresh, ' says she. I just wished theyWAS rotten. But you just mind that she gives you all one forbreakfast, including your pa. Make a fuss if she doesn't. Thatwas what they was sent up for--but I don't trust old Martha. She's quite capable of feeding 'em to her cat. "

Mary's tongue being temporarily tired, a brief silence fell overthe graveyard. The manse children did not feel like talking. They were digesting the new and not altogether palatable ideasMary had suggested to them. Jerry and Carl were somewhatstartled. But, after all, what did it matter? And it wasn'tlikely there was a word of truth in it. Faith, on the whole, waspleased. Only Una was seriously upset. She felt that she wouldlike to get away and cry. 

"Will there be any stars in my crown?" sang the Methodist choir, beginning to practise in the Methodist church. 

"_I_ want just three, " said Mary, whose theological knowledge hadincreased notably since her residence with Mrs. Elliott. "Justthree--setting up on my head, like a corownet, a big one in themiddle and a small one each side. "

"Are there different sizes in souls?" asked Carl. 

"Of course. Why, little babies must have smaller ones than bigmen. Well, it's getting dark and I must scoot home. Mrs. Elliott doesn't like me to be out after dark. Laws, when I livedwith Mrs. Wiley the dark was just the same as the daylight to me. I didn't mind it no more'n a gray cat. Them days seem a hundredyears ago. Now, you mind what I've said and try to behaveyourselves, for you pa's sake. I'LL always back you up anddefend you--you can be dead sure of that. Mrs. Elliott says shenever saw the like of me for sticking up for my friends. I wasreal sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs. Elliott combedme down for it afterwards. The fair Cornelia has a tongue of herown and no mistake. But she was pleased underneath for all, 'cause she hates old Kitty Alec and she's real fond of you. _I_can see through folks. "

Mary sailed off, excellently well pleased with herself, leaving arather depressed little group behind her. 

"Mary Vance always says something that makes us feel bad when shecomes up, " said Una resentfully. 

"I wish we'd left her to starve in the old barn, " said Jerryvindictively. 

"Oh, that's wicked, Jerry, " rebuked Una. 

"May as well have the game as the name, " retorted unrepentantJerry. "If people say we're so bad let's BE bad. "

"But not if it hurts father, " pleaded Faith. 

Jerry squirmed uncomfortably. He adored his father. Through theunshaded study window they could see Mr. Meredith at his desk. He did not seem to be either reading or writing. His head was inhis hands and there was something in his whole attitude thatspoke of weariness and dejection. The children suddenly felt it. 

"I dare say somebody's been worrying him about us to-day, " saidFaith. "I wish we COULD get along without making people talk. Oh--Jem Blythe! How you scared me!"

Jem Blythe had slipped into the graveyard and sat down beside thegirls. He had been prowling about Rainbow Valley and hadsucceeded in finding the first little star-white cluster ofarbutus for his mother. The manse children were rather silentafter his coming. Jem was beginning to grow away from themsomewhat this spring. He was studying for the entranceexamination of Queen's Academy and stayed after school with theolder pupils for extra lessons. Also, his evenings were so fullof work that he seldom joined the others in Rainbow Valley now. He seemed to be drifting away into grown-up land. 

"What is the matter with you all to-night?" he asked. "There'sno fun in you. "

"Not much, " agreed Faith dolefully. "There wouldn't be much funin you either if YOU knew you were disgracing your father andmaking people talk about you. "

"Who's been talking about you now?"

"Everybody--so Mary Vance says. " And Faith poured out hertroubles to sympathetic Jem. "You see, " she concluded dolefully, "we've nobody to bring us up. And so we get into scrapes andpeople think we're bad. "

"Why don't you bring yourselves up?" suggested Jem. "I'll tellyou what to do. Form a Good-Conduct Club and punish yourselvesevery time you do anything that's not right. "

"That's a good idea, " said Faith, struck by it. "But, " sheadded doubtfully, "things that don't seem a bit of harm to USseem simply dreadful to other people. How can we tell? We can'tbe bothering father all the time--and he has to be away a lot, anyhow. "

"You could mostly tell if you stopped to think a thing overbefore doing it and ask yourselves what the congregation wouldsay about it, " said Jem. "The trouble is you just rush intothings and don't think them over at all. Mother says you're alltoo impulsive, just as she used to be. The Good-Conduct Clubwould help you to think, if you were fair and honest aboutpunishing yourselves when you broke the rules. You'd have topunish in some way that really HURT, or it wouldn't do any good. "

"Whip each other?"

"Not exactly. You'd have to think up different ways ofpunishment to suit the person. You wouldn't punish eachother--you'd punish YOURSELVES. I read all about such a club ina story-book. You try it and see how it works. "

"Let's, " said Faith; and when Jem was gone they agreed theywould. "If things aren't right we've just got to make themright, " said Faith, resolutely. 

"We've got to be fair and square, as Jem says, " said Jerry. "This is a club to bring ourselves up, seeing there's nobody elseto do it. There's no use in having many rules. Let's just haveone and any of us that breaks it has got to be punished hard. "

"But HOW. "

"We'll think that up as we go along. We'll hold a session of theclub here in the graveyard every night and talk over what we'vedone through the day, and if we think we've done anything thatisn't right or that would disgrace dad the one that does it, oris responsible for it, must be punished. That's the rule. We'llall decide on the kind of punishment--it must be made to fit thecrime, as Mr. Flagg says. And the one that's, guilty will bebound to carry it out and no shirking. There's going to be funin this, " concluded Jerry, with a relish. 

"You suggested the soap-bubble party, " said Faith. 

"But that was before we'd formed the club, " said Jerry hastily. "Everything starts from to-night. "

"But what if we can't agree on what's right, or what thepunishment ought to be? S'pose two of us thought of one thingand two another. There ought to be five in a club like this. "

"We can ask Jem Blythe to be umpire. He is the squarest boy inGlen St. Mary. But I guess we can settle our own affairsmostly. We want to keep this as much of a secret as we can. Don't breathe a word to Mary Vance. She'd want to join and dothe bringing up. "

"_I_ think, " said Faith, "that there's no use in spoiling everyday by dragging punishments in. Let's have a punishment day. "

"We'd better choose Saturday because there is no school tointerfere, " suggested Una. 

"And spoil the one holiday in the week, " cried Faith. "Not much!No, let's take Friday. That's fish day, anyhow, and we all hatefish. We may as well have all the disagreeable things in oneday. Then other days we can go ahead and have a good time. "

"Nonsense, " said Jerry authoritatively. "Such a scheme wouldn'twork at all. We'll just punish ourselves as we go along and keepa clear slate. Now, we all understand, don't we? This is aGood-Conduct Club, for the purpose of bringing ourselves up. Weagree to punish ourselves for bad conduct, and always to stopbefore we do anything, no matter what, and ask ourselves if it islikely to hurt dad in any way, and any one who shirks is to becast out of the club and never allowed to play with the rest ofus in Rainbow Valley again. Jem Blythe to be umpire in case ofdisputes. No more taking bugs to Sunday School, Carl, and nomore chewing gum in public, if you please, Miss Faith. "

"No more making fun of elders praying or going to the Methodistprayer meeting, " retorted Faith. 

"Why, it isn't any harm to go to the Methodist prayer meeting, "protested Jerry in amazement. 

"Mrs. Elliott says it is, She says manse children have nobusiness to go anywhere but to Presbyterian things. "

"Darn it, I won't give up going to the Methodist prayer meeting, "cried Jerry. "It's ten times more fun than ours is. "

"You said a naughty word, " cried Faith. "NOW, you've got topunish yourself. "

"Not till it's all down in black and white. We're only talkingthe club over. It isn't really formed until we've written it outand signed it. There's got to be a constitution and by-laws. And you KNOW there's nothing wrong in going to a prayer meeting. "

"But it's not only the wrong things we're to punish ourselvesfor, but anything that might hurt father. "

"It won't hurt anybody. You know Mrs. Elliott is cracked on thesubject of Methodists. Nobody else makes any fuss about mygoing. I always behave myself. You ask Jem or Mrs. Blythe andsee what they say. I'll abide by their opinion. I'm going forthe paper now and I'll bring out the lantern and we'll all sign. "

Fifteen minutes later the document was solemnly signed onHezekiah Pollock's tombstone, on the centre of which stood thesmoky manse lantern, while the children knelt around it. Mrs. Elder Clow was going past at the moment and next day all the Glenheard that the manse children had been having another prayingcompetition and had wound it up by chasing each other all overthe graves with a lantern. This piece of embroidery was probablysuggested by the fact that, after the signing and sealing wascompleted, Carl had taken the lantern and had walkedcircumspectly to the little hollow to examine his ant-hill. Theothers had gone quietly into the manse and to bed. 

"Do you think it is true that father is going to marry MissWest?" Una had tremulously asked of Faith, after their prayershad been said. 

"I don't know, but I'd like it, " said Faith. 

"Oh, I wouldn't, " said Una, chokingly. "She is nice the way sheis. But Mary Vance says it changes people ALTOGETHER to be madestepmothers. They get horrid cross and mean and hateful then, and turn your father against you. She says they're sure to dothat. She never knew it to fail in a single case. "

"I don't believe Miss West would EVER try to do that, " criedFaith. 

"Mary says ANYBODY would. She knows ALL about stepmothers, Faith--she says she's seen hundreds of them--and you've neverseen one. Oh, Mary has told me blood-curdling things about them. She says she knew of one who whipped her husband's little girlson their bare shoulders till they bled, and then shut them up ina cold, dark coal cellar all night. She says they're ALL achingto do things like that. "

"I don't believe Miss West would. You don't know her as well asI do, Una. Just think of that sweet little bird she sent me. Ilove it far more even than Adam. "

"It's just being a stepmother changes them. Mary says they can'thelp it. I wouldn't mind the whippings so much as having fatherhate us. "

"You know nothing could make father hate us. Don't be silly, Una. I dare say there's nothing to worry over. Likely if we runour club right and bring ourselves up properly father won't thinkof marrying any one. And if he does, I KNOW Miss West will belovely to us. "

But Una had no such conviction and she cried herself to sleep. 

CHAPTER XXIV. A CHARITABLE IMPULSE

For a fortnight things ran smoothly in the Good-Conduct Club. Itseemed to work admirably. Not once was Jem Blythe called in asumpire. Not once did any of the manse children set the Glengossips by the ears. As for their minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other and gamely underwent theirself-imposed punishment--generally a voluntary absence from somegay Friday night frolic in Rainbow Valley, or a sojourn in bed onsome spring evening when all young bones ached to be out andaway. Faith, for whispering in Sunday School, condemned herselfto pass a whole day without speaking a single word, unless it wasabsolutely necessary, and accomplished it. It was ratherunfortunate that Mr. Baker from over-harbour should have chosenthat evening for calling at the manse, and that Faith should havehappened to go to the door. Not one word did she reply to hisgenial greeting, but went silently away to call her fatherbriefly. Mr. Baker was slightly offended and told his wife whenhe went home that that the biggest Meredith girl seemed a veryshy, sulky little thing, without manners enough to speak when shewas spoken to. But nothing worse came of it, and generally theirpenances did no harm to themselves or anybody else. All of themwere beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it was avery easy matter to bring yourself up. 

"I guess people will soon see that we can behave ourselvesproperly as well as anybody, " said Faith jubilantly. "It isn'thard when we put our minds to it. "

She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone. It had been acold, raw, wet day of spring storm and Rainbow Valley was out ofthe question for girls, though the manse and the Ingleside boyswere down there fishing. The rain had held up, but the east windblew mercilessly in from the sea, cutting to bone and marrow. Spring was late in spite of its early promise, and there was evenyet a hard drift of old snow and ice in the northern corner ofthe graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had come up to bring the manse amess of herring, slipped in through the gate shivering. Shebelonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth and herfather had, for thirty years, made a practice of sending a messfrom his first spring catch to the manse. He never darkened achurch door; he was a hard drinker and a reckless man, but aslong as he sent those herring up to the manse every spring, ashis father had done before him, he felt comfortably sure that hisaccount with the Powers That Govern was squared for the year. Hewould not have expected a good mackerel catch if he had not sosent the first fruits of the season. 

Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such asmall, wizened little creature. To-night, as she sidled boldlyenough up to the manse girls, she looked as if she had never beenwarm since she was born. Her face was purple and her pale-blue, bold little eyes were red and watery. She wore a tattered printdress and a ragged woollen comforter, tied across her thinshoulders and under her arms. She had walked the three milesfrom the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road where there wasstill snow and slush and mud. Her feet and legs were as purpleas her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was used tobeing cold, and she had been going barefooted for a monthalready, like all the other swarming young fry of the fishingvillage. There was no self-pity in her heart as she sat down onthe tombstone and grinned cheerfully at Faith and Una. Faith andUna grinned cheerfully back. They knew Lida slightly, having mether once or twice the preceding summer when they had gone downthe harbour with the Blythes. 

"Hello!" said Lida, "ain't this a fierce kind of a night?"T'ain't fit for a dog to be out, is it?"

"Then why are you out?" asked Faith. 

"Pa made me bring you up some herring, " returned Lida. Sheshivered, coughed, and stuck out her bare feet. Lida was notthinking about herself or her feet, and was making no bid forsympathy. She held her feet out instinctively to keep them fromthe wet grass around the tombstone. But Faith and Una wereinstantly swamped with a wave of pity for her. She looked socold--so miserable. 

"Oh, why are you barefooted on such a cold night?" cried Faith. "Your feet must be almost frozen. "

"Pretty near, " said Lida proudly. "I tell you it was fiercewalking up that harbour road. "

"Why didn't you put on your shoes and stockings?" asked Una. 

"Hain't none to put on. All I had was wore out by the timewinter was over, " said Lida indifferently. 

For a moment Faith stated in horror. This was terrible. Herewas a little girl, almost a neighbour, half frozen because shehad no shoes or stockings in this cruel spring weather. Impulsive Faith thought of nothing but the dreadfulness of it. In a moment she was pulling off her own shoes and stockings. 

"Here, take these and put them right on, " she said, forcing theminto the hands of the astonished Lida. "Quick now. You'll catchyour death of cold. I've got others. Put them right on. "

Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered gift, with asparkle in her dull eyes. Sure she would put them on, and thatmighty quick, before any one appeared with authority to recallthem. In a minute she had pulled the stockings over her scrawnylittle legs and slipped Faith's shoes over her thick littleankles. 

"I'm obliged to you, " she said, "but won't your folks be cross?"

"No--and I don't care if they are, " said Faith. "Do you think Icould see any one freezing to death without helping them if Icould? It wouldn't be right, especially when my father's aminister. "

"Will you want them back? It's awful cold down at the harbourmouth--long after it's warm up here, " said Lida slyly. 

"No, you're to keep them, of course. That is what I meant when Igave them. I have another pair of shoes and plenty ofstockings. "

Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls about manythings. But now she thought she had better get away beforesomebody came and made her yield up her booty. So she shuffledoff through the bitter twilight, in the noiseless, shadowy wayshe had slipped in. As soon as she was out of sight of the manseshe sat down, took off the shoes and stockings, and put them inher herring basket. She had no intention of keeping them on downthat dirty harbour road. They were to be kept good for galaoccasions. Not another little girl down at the harbour mouth hadsuch fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost newshoes. Lida was furnished forth for the summer. She had noqualms in the matter. In her eyes the manse people were quitefabulously rich, and no doubt those girls had slathers of shoesand stockings. Then Lida ran down to the Glen village and playedfor an hour with the boys before Mr. Flagg's store, splashingabout in a pool of slush with the maddest of them, until Mrs. Elliott came along and bade her begone home. 

"I don't think, Faith, that you should have done that, " said Una, a little reproachfully, after Lida had gone. "You'll have towear your good boots every day now and they'll soon scuff out. "

"I don't care, " cried Faith, still in the fine glow of havingdone a kindness to a fellow creature. "It isn't fair that Ishould have two pairs of shoes and poor little Lida Marsh nothave any. NOW we both have a pair. You know perfectly well, Una, that father said in his sermon last Sunday that there was noreal happiness in getting or having--only in giving. And it'strue. I feel FAR happier now than I ever did in my whole lifebefore. Just think of Lida walking home this very minute withher poor little feet all nice and warm and comfy. "

"You know you haven't another pair of black cashmere stockings, "said Una. "Your other pair were so full of holes that AuntMartha said she couldn't darn them any more and she cut the legsup for stove dusters. You've nothing but those two pairs ofstriped stockings you hate so. "

All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her gladnesscollapsed like a pricked balloon. She sat for a few dismalminutes in silence, facing the consequences of her rash act. 

"Oh, Una, I never thought of that, " she said dolefully. "Ididn't stop to think at all. "

The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockingsof blue and red which Aunt Martha had knit for Faith in thewinter. They were undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them asshe had never loathed anything before. Wear them she certainlywould not. They were still unworn in her bureau drawer. 

"You'll have to wear the striped stockings after this, " said Una. "Just think how the boys in school will laugh at you. You knowhow they laugh at Mamie Warren for her striped stockings and callher barber pole and yours are far worse. "

"I won't wear them, " said Faith. "I'll go barefooted first, coldas it is. "

"You can't go barefooted to church to-morrow. Think what peoplewould say. "

"Then I'll stay home. "

"You can't. You know very well Aunt Martha will make you go. "

Faith did know this. The one thing on which Aunt Martha troubledherself to insist was that they must all go to church, rain orshine. How they were dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned her. But go they must. That was how Aunt Marthahad been brought up seventy years ago, and that was how she meantto bring them up. 

"Haven't you got a pair you can lend me, Una?" said poor Faithpiteously. 

Una shook her head. "No, you know I only have the one blackpair. And they're so tight I can hardly get them on. Theywouldn't go on you. Neither would my gray ones. Besides, thelegs of THEM are all darned AND darned. "

"I won't wear those striped stockings, " said Faith stubbornly. "The feel of them is even worse than the looks. They make mefeel as if my legs were as big as barrels and they're soSCRATCHY. "

"Well, I don't know what you're going to do. "

"If father was home I'd go and ask him to get me a new pairbefore the store closes. But he won't be home till too late. I'll ask him Monday--and I won't go to church tomorrow. I'llpretend I'm sick and Aunt Martha'll HAVE to let me stay home. "

"That would be acting a lie, Faith, " cried Una. "You CAN'T dothat. You know it would be dreadful. What would father say ifhe knew? Don't you remember how he talked to us after motherdied and told us we must always be TRUE, no matter what else wefailed in. He said we must never tell or act a lie--he said he'dTRUST us not to. You CAN'T do it, Faith. Just wear the stripedstockings. It'll only be for once. Nobody will notice them inchurch. It isn't like school. And your new brown dress is solong they won't show much. Wasn't it lucky Aunt Martha made itbig, so you'd have room to grow in it, for all you hated it sowhen she finished it?"

"I won't wear those stockings, " repeated Faith. She uncoiled herbare, white legs from the tombstone and deliberately walkedthrough the wet, cold grass to the bank of snow. Setting herteeth, she stepped upon it and stood there. 

"What are you doing?" cried Una aghast. "You'll catch your deathof cold, Faith Meredith. "

"I'm trying to, " answered Faith. "I hope I'll catch a fearfulcold and be AWFUL sick to-morrow. Then I won't be acting a lie. I'm going to stand here as long as I can bear it. "

"But, Faith, you might really die. You might get pneumonia. Please, Faith don't. Let's go into the house and get SOMETHINGfor your feet. Oh, here's Jerry. I'm so thankful. Jerry, MAKEFaith get off that snow. Look at her feet. "

"Holy cats! Faith, what ARE you doing?" demanded Jerry. "Are youcrazy?"

"No. Go away!" snapped Faith. 

"Then are you punishing yourself for something? It isn't right, if you are. You'll be sick. "

"I want to be sick. I'm not punishing myself. Go away. "

"Where's her shoes and stockings?" asked Jerry of Una. 

"She gave them to Lida Marsh. "

"Lida Marsh? What for?"

"Because Lida had none--and her feet were so cold. And now shewants to be sick so that she won't have to go to church to-morrowand wear her striped stockings. But, Jerry, she may die. "

"Faith, " said Jerry, "get off that ice-bank or I'll pull youoff. "

"Pull away, " dared Faith. 

Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled one way andFaith pulled another. Una ran behind Faith and pushed. Faithstormed at Jerry to leave her alone. Jerry stormed back at hernot to be a dizzy idiot; and Una cried. They made no end ofnoise and they were close to the road fence of the graveyard. Henry Warren and his wife drove by and heard and saw them. Verysoon the Glen heard that the manse children had been having anawful fight in the graveyard and using most improper language. Meanwhile, Faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the icebecause her feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to getoff any way. They all went in amiably and went to bed. Faithslept like a cherub and woke in the morning without a trace of acold. She felt that she couldn't feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that long-ago talk with her father. But shewas still as fully determined as ever that she would not wearthose abominable stockings to church. 

CHAPTER XXV. ANOTHER SCANDAL AND ANOTHER "EXPLANATION"

Faith went early to Sunday School and was seated in the corner ofher class pew before any one came. Therefore, the dreadful truthdid not burst upon any one until Faith left the class pew nearthe door to walk up to the manse pew after Sunday School. Thechurch was already half filled and all who were sitting near theaisle saw that the minister's daughter had boots on but nostockings!

Faith's new brown dress, which Aunt Martha had made from anancient pattern, was absurdly long for her, but even so it didnot meet her boot-tops. Two good inches of bare white leg showedplainly. 

Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew. Jerry had gone intothe gallery to sit with a chum and the Blythe girls had taken Unawith them. The Meredith children were given to "sitting all overthe church" in this fashion and a great many people thought itvery improper. The gallery especially, where irresponsible ladscongregated and were known to whisper and suspected of chewingtobacco during service, was no place, for a son of the manse. But Jerry hated the manse pew at the very top of the church, under the eyes of Elder Clow and his family. He escaped from itwhenever he could. 

Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning its web at thewindow, did not notice Faith's legs. She walked home with herfather after church and he never noticed them. She got on thehated striped stockings before Jerry and Una arrived, so that forthe time being none of the occupants of the manse knew what shehad done. But nobody else in Glen St. Mary was ignorant of it. The few who had not seen soon heard. Nothing else was talked ofon the way home from church. Mrs. Alec Davis said it was onlywhat she expected, and the next thing you would see some of thoseyoung ones coming to church with no clothes on at all. Thepresident of the Ladies' Aid decided that she would bring thematter up at the next Aid meeting, and suggest that they wait ina body on the minister and protest. Miss Cornelia said that she, for her part, gave up. There was no use worrying over the mansefry any longer. Even Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt a little shocked, though she attributed the occurrence solely to Faith'sforgetfulness. Susan could not immediately begin knittingstockings for Faith because it was Sunday, but she had one set upbefore any one else was out of bed at Ingleside the next morning. 

"You need not tell me anything but that it was old Martha'sfault, Mrs. Dr. Dear. " she told Anne. "I suppose that poorlittle child had no decent stockings to wear. I suppose everystocking she had was in holes, as you know very well theygenerally are. And _I_ think, Mrs. Dr. Dear, that the Ladies'Aid would be better employed in knitting some for them than infighting over the new carpet for the pulpit platform. _I_ am nota Ladies' Aider, but I shall knit Faith two pairs of stockings, out of this nice black yarn, as fast as my fingers can move andthat you may tie to. Never shall I forget my sensations, Mrs. Dr. Dear, when I saw a minister's child walking up the aisle ofour church with no stockings on. I really did not know what wayto look. "

"And the church was just full of Methodists yesterday, too, "groaned Miss Cornelia, who had come up to the Glen to do someshopping and run into Ingleside to talk the affair over. "Idon't know how it is, but just as sure as those manse children dosomething especially awful the church is sure to be crowded withMethodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon Hazard's eyes would drop outof her head. When she came out of church she said, 'Well, thatexhibition was no more than decent. I do pity thePresbyterians. ' And we just had to TAKE it. There was nothingone could say. "

"There was something _I_ could have said, Mrs. Dr. Dear, if I hadheard her, " said Susan grimly. "I would have said, for onething, that in my opinion clean bare legs were quite as decent asholes. And I would have said, for another, that thePresbyterians did not feel greatly in need of pity seeing thatthey had a minister who could PREACH and the Methodists had NOT. I could have squelched Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs. Dr dear, and thatyou may tie to. "

"I wish Mr. Meredith didn't preach quite so well and looked afterhis family a little better, " retorted Miss Cornelia. "He couldat least glance over his children before they went to church andsee that they were quite properly clothed. I'm tired makingexcuses for him, believe ME. "

Meanwhile, Faith's soul was being harrowed up in Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance was there and, as usual, in a lecturing mood. Shegave Faith to understand that she had disgraced herself and herfather beyond redemption and that she, Mary Vance, was done withher. "Everybody" was talking, and "everybody" said the samething. 

"I simply feel that I can't associate with you any longer, " sheconcluded. 

"WE are going to associate with her then, " cried Nan Blythe. Nansecretly thought Faith HAD done a awful thing, but she wasn'tgoing to let Mary Vance run matters in this high-handed fashion. "And if YOU are not you needn't come any more to Rainbow Valley, MISS Vance. "

Nan and Di both put their arms around Faith and glared defianceat Mary. The latter suddenly crumpled up, sat down on a stumpand began to cry. 

"It ain't that I don't want to, " she wailed. "But if I keep inwith Faith people'll be saying I put her up to doing things. Some are saying it now, true's you live. I can't afford to havesuch things said of me, now that I'm in a respectable place andtrying to be a lady. And _I_ never went bare-legged in church inmy toughest days. I'd never have thought of doing such a thing. But that hateful old Kitty Alec says Faith has never been thesame girl since that time I stayed in the manse. She saysCornelia Elliott will live to rue the day she took me in. Ithurts my feelings, I tell you. But it's Mr. Meredith I'm reallyworried over. "

"I think you needn't worry about him, " said Di scornfully. "Itisn't likely necessary. Now, Faith darling, stop crying and tellus why you did it. "

Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls sympathized withher, and even Mary Vance agreed that it was a hard position to bein. But Jerry, on whom the thing came like a thunderbolt, refused to be placated. So THIS was what some mysterious hintshe had got in school that day meant! He marched Faith and Unahome without ceremony, and the Good-Conduct Club held animmediate session in the graveyard to sit in judgment on Faith'scase. 

"I don't see that it was any harm, " said Faith defiantly. "NotMUCH of my legs showed. It wasn't WRONG and it didn't hurtanybody. "

"It will hurt Dad. You KNOW it will. You know people blame himwhenever we do anything queer. "

"I didn't think of that, " muttered Faith. 

"That's just the trouble. You didn't think and you SHOULD havethought. That's what our Club is for--to bring us up and MAKE usthink. We promised we'd always stop and think before doingthings. You didn't and you've got to be punished, Faith--andreal hard, too. You'll wear those striped stockings to schoolfor a week for punishment. "

"Oh, Jerry, won't a day do--two days? Not a whole week!"

"Yes, a whole week, " said inexorable Jerry. "It is fair--ask JemBlythe if it isn't. "

Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about sucha matter. She was beginning to realize that her offence was aquite shameful one. 

"I'll do it, then, " she muttered, a little sulkily. 

"You're getting off easy, " said, Jerry severely. "And no matterhow we punish you it won't help father. People will always thinkyou just did it for mischief, and they'll blame father for notstopping it. We can never explain it to everybody. "

This aspect of the case weighed on Faith's mind. Her owncondemnation she could bear, but it tortured her that her fathershould be blamed. If people knew the true facts of the case theywould not blame him. But how could she make them known to allthe world? Getting up in church, as she had once done, andexplaining the matter was out of the question. Faith had heardfrom Mary Vance how the congregation had looked upon thatperformance and realized that she must not repeat it. Faithworried over the problem for half a week. Then she had aninspiration and promptly acted upon it. She spent that eveningin the garret, with a lamp and an exercise book, writing busily, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It was the very thing!How clever she was to have thought of it! It would puteverything right and explain everything and yet cause no scandal. It was eleven o'clock when she had finished to her satisfactionand crept down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly happy. 

In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen under thename of _The Journal_ came out as usual, and the Glen had anothersensation. A letter signed "Faith Meredith" occupied a prominentplace on the front page and ran as follows:--

"TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

I want to explain to everybody how it was I came to go to churchwithout stockings on, so that everybody will know that father wasnot to blame one bit for it, and the old gossips need not say heis, because it is not true. I gave my only pair of blackstockings to Lida Marsh, because she hadn't any and her poorlittle feet were awful cold and I was so sorry for her. No childought to have to go without shoes and stockings in a Christiancommunity before the snow is all gone, and I think the W. F. M. S. Ought to have given her stockings. Of course, I know they aresending things to the little heathen children, and that is allright and a kind thing to do. But the little heathen childrenhave lots more warm weather than we have, and I think the womenof our church ought to look after Lida and not leave it all tome. When I gave her my stockings I forgot they were the onlyblack pair I had without holes, but I am glad I did give them toher, because my conscience would have been uncomfortable if Ihadn't. When she had gone away, looking so proud and happy, thepoor little thing, I remembered that all I had to wear were thehorrid red and blue things Aunt Martha knit last winter for meout of some yarn that Mrs. Joseph Burr of Upper Glen sent us. Itwas dreadfully coarse yarn and all knots, and I never saw any ofMrs. Burr's own children wearing things made of such yarn. ButMary Vance says Mrs. Burr gives the minister stuff that she can'tuse or eat herself, and thinks it ought to go as part of thesalary her husband signed to pay, but never does. 

I just couldn't bear to wear those hateful stockings. They wereso ugly and rough and felt so scratchy. Everybody would havemade fun of me. I thought at first I'd pretend to be sick andnot go to church next day, but I decided I couldn't do that, because it would be acting a lie, and father told us after motherdied that was something we must never, never do. It is just asbad to act a lie as to tell one, though I know some people, righthere in the Glen, who act them, and never seem to feel a bit badabout it. I will not mention any names, but I know who they areand so does father. 

Then I tried my best to catch cold and really be sick by standingon the snowbank in the Methodist graveyard with my bare feetuntil Jerry pulled me off. But it didn't hurt me a bit and so Icouldn't get out of going to church. So I just decided I wouldput my boots on and go that way. I can't see why it was so wrongand I was so careful to wash my legs just as clean as my face, but, anyway, father wasn't to blame for it. He was in the studythinking of his sermon and other heavenly things, and I kept outof his way before I went to Sunday School. Father does not lookat people's legs in church, so of course he did not notice mine, but all the gossips did and talked about it, and that is why I amwriting this letter to the _Journal_ to explain. I suppose I didvery wrong, since everybody says so, and I am sorry and I amwearing those awful stockings to punish myself, although fatherbought me two nice new black pairs as soon as Mr. Flagg's storeopened on Monday morning. But it was all my fault, and if peopleblame father for it after they read this they are not Christiansand so I do not mind what they say. 

There is another thing I want to explain about before I stop. Mary Vance told me that Mr. Evan Boyd is blaming the Lew Baxtersfor stealing potatoes out of his field last fall. They did nottouch his potatoes. They are very poor, but they are honest. Itwas us did it--Jerry and Carl and I. Una was not with us at thetime. We never thought it was stealing. We just wanted a fewpotatoes to cook over a fire in Rainbow Valley one evening to eatwith our fried trout. Mr. Boyd's field was the nearest, justbetween the valley and the village, so we climbed over his fenceand pulled up some stalks. The potatoes were awful small, because Mr. Boyd did not put enough fertilizer on them and we hadto pull up a lot of stalks before we got enough, and then theywere not much bigger than marbles. Walter and Di Blythe helpedus eat them, but they did not come along until we had them cookedand did not know where we got them, so they were not to blame atall, only us. We didn't mean any harm, but if it was stealing weare very sorry and we will pay Mr. Boyd for them if he will waituntil we grow up. We never have any money now because we are notbig enough to earn any, and Aunt Martha says it takes every centof poor father's salary, even when it is paid up regularly--andit isn't often--to run this house. But Mr. Boyd must not blamethe Lew Baxters any more, when they were quite innocent, and givethem a bad name. Yours respectfully, FAITH MEREDITH. "

CHAPTER XXVI. MISS CORNELIA GETS A NEW POINT OF VIEW

"Susan, after I'm dead I'm going to come back to earth every timewhen the daffodils blow in this garden, " said Anne rapturously. "Nobody may see me, but I'll be here. If anybody is in thegarden at the time--I THINK I'll come on an evening just likethis, but it MIGHT be just at dawn--a lovely, pale-pinky springdawn--they'll just see the daffodils nodding wildly as if anextra gust of wind had blown past them, but it will be _I_. "

"Indeed, Mrs. Dr. Dear, you will not be thinking of flauntingworldly things like daffies after you are dead, " said Susan. "And I do NOT believe in ghosts, seen or unseen. "

"Oh, Susan, I shall not be a ghost! That has such a horriblesound. I shall just be ME. And I shall run around in thetwilight, whether it is morn or eve, and see all the spots Ilove. Do you remember how badly I felt when I left our littleHouse of Dreams, Susan? I thought I could never love Inglesideso well. But I do. I love every inch of the ground and everystick and stone on it. "

"I am rather fond of the place myself, " said Susan, who wouldhave died if she had been removed from it, "but we must not setour affections too much on earthly things, Mrs. Dr. Dear. Thereare such things as fires and earthquakes. We should always beprepared. The Tom MacAllisters over-harbour were burned outthree nights ago. Some say Tom MacAllister set the house on firehimself to get the insurance. That may or may not be. But Iadvise the doctor to have our chimneys seen to at once. An ounceof prevention is worth a pound of cure. But I see Mrs. MarshallElliott coming in at the gate, looking as if she had been sentfor and couldn't go. "

"Anne dearie, have you seen the _Journal_ to-day?"

Miss Cornelia's voice was trembling, partly from emotion, partlyfrom the fact that she had hurried up from the store too fast andlost her breath. 

Anne bent over the daffodils to hide a smile. She and Gilberthad laughed heartily and heartlessly over the front page of the_Journal_ that day, but she knew that to dear Miss Cornelia itwas almost a tragedy, and she must not wound her feelings by anydisplay of levity. 

"Isn't it dreadful? What IS to be done?" asked Miss Corneliadespairingly. Miss Cornelia had vowed that she was done withworrying over the pranks of the manse children, but she went onworrying just the same. 

Anne led the way to the veranda, where Susan was knitting, withShirley and Rilla conning their primers on either side. Susanwas already on her second pair of stockings for Faith. Susannever worried over poor humanity. She did what in her lay forits betterment and serenely left the rest to the Higher Powers. 

"Cornelia Elliott thinks she was born to run this world, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " she had once said to Anne, "and so she is always in a stewover something. I have never thought _I_ was, and so I go calmlyalong. Not but what it has sometimes occurred to me that thingsmight be run a little better than they are. But it is not for uspoor worms to nourish such thoughts. They only make usuncomfortable and do not get us anywhere. "

"I don't see that anything can be done--now--" said Anne, pullingout a nice, cushiony chair for Miss Cornelia. "But how in theworld did Mr. Vickers allow that letter to be printed? Surely heshould have known better. "

"Why, he's away, Anne dearie--he's been away to New Brunswick fora week. And that young scalawag of a Joe Vickers is editing the_Journal_ in his absence. Of course, Mr. Vickers would neverhave put it in, even if he is a Methodist, but Joe would justthink it a good joke. As you say, I don't suppose there isanything to be done now, only live it down. But if I ever getJoe Vickers cornered somewhere I'll give him a talking to hewon't forget in a hurry. I wanted Marshall to stop oursubscription to the _Journal_ instantly, but he only laughed andsaid that to-day's issue was the only one that had had anythingreadable in it for a year. Marshall never will take anythingseriously--just like a man. Fortunately, Evan Boyd is like that, too. He takes it as a joke and is laughing all over the placeabout it. And he's another Methodist! As for Mrs. Burr of UpperGlen, of course she will be furious and they will leave thechurch. Not that it will be a great loss from any point of view. The Methodists are quite welcome to THEM. "

"It serves Mrs. Burr right, " said Susan, who had an old feud withthe lady in question and had been hugely tickled over thereference to her in Faith's letter. "She will find that she willnot be able to cheat the Methodist parson out of HIS salary withbad yarn. "

"The worst of it is, there's not much hope of things getting anybetter, " said Miss Cornelia gloomily. "As long as Mr. Meredithwas going to see Rosemary West I did hope the manse would soonhave a proper mistress. But that is all off. I suppose shewouldn't have him on account of the children--at least, everybodyseems to think so. "

"I do not believe that he ever asked her, " said Susan, who couldnot conceive of any one refusing a minister. 

"Well, nobody knows anything about THAT. But one thing iscertain, he doesn't go there any longer. And Rosemary didn'tlook well all the spring. I hope her visit to Kingsport will doher good. She's been gone for a month and will stay anothermonth, I understand. I can't remember when Rosemary was awayfrom home before. She and Ellen could never bear to be parted. But I understand Ellen insisted on her going this time. Andmeanwhile Ellen and Norman Douglas are warming up the old soup. "

"Is that really so?" asked Anne, laughing. "I heard a rumour ofit, but I hardly believed it. "

"Believe it! You may believe it all right, Anne, dearie. Nobodyis in ignorance of it. Norman Douglas never left anybody indoubt as to his intentions in regard to anything. He always didhis courting before the public. He told Marshall that he hadn'tthought about Ellen for years, but the first time he went tochurch last fall he saw her and fell in love with her all overagain. He said he'd clean forgot how handsome she was. Hehadn't seen her for twenty years, if you can believe it. Ofcourse he never went to church, and Ellen never went anywhereelse round here. Oh, we all know what Norman means, but whatEllen means is a different matter. I shan't take it upon me topredict whether it will be a match or not. "

"He jilted her once--but it seems that does not count with somepeople, Mrs. Dr. Dear, " Susan remarked rather acidly. 

"He jilted her in a fit of temper and repented it all his life, "said Miss Cornelia. "That is different from a cold-bloodedjilting. For my part, I never detested Norman as some folks do. He could never over-crow ME. I DO wonder what started him comingto church. I have never been able to believe Mrs. Wilsons'sstory that Faith Meredith went there and bullied him into it. I've always intended to ask Faith herself, but I've neverhappened to think of it just when I saw her. What influencecould SHE have over Norman Douglas? He was in the store when Ileft, bellowing with laughter over that scandalous letter. Youcould have heard him at Four Winds Point. 'The greatest girl inthe world, ' he was shouting. 'She's that full of spunk she'sbursting with it. And all the old grannies want to tame her, darn them. But they'll never be able to do it--never! Theymight as well try to drown a fish. Boyd, see that you put morefertilizer on your potatoes next year. Ho, ho, ho!' And then helaughed till the roof shook. "

"Mr. Douglas pays well to the salary, at least, " remarked Susan. 

"Oh, Norman isn't mean in some ways. He'd give a thousandwithout blinking a lash, and roar like a Bull of Bashan if he hadto pay five cents too much for anything. Besides, he likes Mr. Meredith's sermons, and Norman Douglas was always willing toshell out if he got his brains tickled up. There is no moreChristianity about him than there is about a black, naked heathenin Africa and never will be. But he's clever and well read andhe judges sermons as he would lectures. Anyhow, it's well hebacks up Mr. Meredith and the children as he does, for they'llneed friends more than ever after this. I am tired of makingexcuses for them, believe ME. "

"Do you know, dear Miss Cornelia, " said Anne seriously, "I thinkwe have all been making too many excuses. It is very foolish andwe ought to stop it. I am going to tell you what I'd LIKE to do. I shan't do it, of course"--Anne had noted a glint of alarm inSusan's eye--"it would be too unconventional, and we must beconventional or die, after we reach what is supposed to be adignified age. But I'd LIKE to do it. I'd like to call ameeting of the Ladies Aid and W. M. S. And the Girls SewingSociety, and include in the audience all and any Methodists whohave been criticizing the Merediths--although I do think if wePresbyterians stopped criticizing and excusing we would find thatother denominations would trouble themselves very little aboutour manse folks. I would say to them, 'Dear Christianfriends'--with marked emphasis on 'Christian'--I have somethingto say to you and I want to say it good and hard, that you maytake it home and repeat it to your families. You Methodists neednot pity us, and we Presbyterians need not pity ourselves. Weare not going to do it any more. And we are going to say, boldlyand truthfully, to all critics and sympathizers, 'We are PROUD ofour minister and his family. Mr. Meredith is the best preacherGlen St. Mary church ever had. Moreover, he is a sincere, earnest teacher of truth and Christian charity. He is a faithfulfriend, a judicious pastor in all essentials, and a refined, scholarly, well-bred man. His family are worthy of him. GeraldMeredith is the cleverest pupil in the Glen school, and Mr. Hazard says that he is destined to a brilliant career. He is amanly, honourable, truthful little fellow. Faith Meredith is abeauty, and as inspiring and original as she is beautiful. Thereis nothing commonplace about her. All the other girls in theGlen put together haven't the vim, and wit, and joyousness and'spunk' she has. She has not an enemy in the world. Every onewho knows her loves her. Of how many, children or grown-ups, canthat be said? Una Meredith is sweetness personified. She willmake a most lovable woman. Carl Meredith, with his love for antsand frogs and spiders, will some day be a naturalist whom allCanada--nay, all the world, will delight to honour. Do you knowof any other family in the Glen, or out of it, of whom all thesethings can be said? Away with shamefaced excuses and apologies. We REJOICE in our minister and his splendid boys and girls!"

Anne stopped, partly because she was out of breath after hervehement speech and partly because she could not trust herself tospeak further in view of Miss Cornelia's face. That good lady wasstaring helplessly at Anne, apparently engulfed in billows of newideas. But she came up with a gasp and struck out for shoregallantly. 

"Anne Blythe, I wish you WOULD call that meeting and say justthat! You've made me ashamed of myself, for one, and far be itfrom me to refuse to admit it. OF COURSE, that is how we shouldhave talked--especially to the Methodists. And it's every wordof it true--every word. We've just been shutting our eyes to thebig worth-while things and squinting them on the little thingsthat don't really matter a pin's worth. Oh, Anne dearie, I cansee a thing when it's hammered into my head. No more apologizingfor Cornelia Marshall! _I_ shall hold MY head up after this, believe ME--though I MAY talk things over with you as usual justto relieve my feelings if the Merediths do any more startlingstunts. Even that letter I felt so bad about--why, it's only agood joke after all, as Norman says. Not many girls would havebeen cute enough to think of writing it--and all punctuated sonicely and not one word misspelled. Just let me hear anyMethodist say one word about it--though all the same I'll neverforgive Joe Vickers--believe ME! Where are the rest of yoursmall fry to-night?"

"Walter and the twins are in Rainbow Valley. Jem is studying inthe garret. "

"They are all crazy about Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance thinks it'sthe only place in the world. She'd be off up here every eveningif I'd let her. But I don't encourage her in gadding. Besides, I miss the creature when she isn't around, Anne dearie. I neverthought I'd get so fond of her. Not but what I see her faultsand try to correct them. But she has never said one saucy wordto me since she came to my house and she is a GREAT help--forwhen all is said and done, Anne dearie, I am not so young as Ionce was, and there is no sense denying it. I was fifty-nine mylast birthday. I don't FEEL it, but there is no gainsaying theFamily Bible. "

CHAPTER XXVII. A SACRED CONCERT

In spite of Miss Cornelia's new point of view she could not helpfeeling a little disturbed over the next performance of the mansechildren. In public she carried off the situation splendidly, saying to all the gossips the substance of what Anne had said indaffodil time, and saying it so pointedly and forcibly that herhearers found themselves feeling rather foolish and began tothink that, after all, they were making too much of a childishprank. But in private Miss Cornelia allowed herself the relief ofbemoaning it to Anne. 

"Anne dearie, they had a CONCERT IN THE GRAVEYARD last Thursdayevening, while the Methodist prayer meeting was going on. Therethey sat, on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, and sang for a solidhour. Of course, I understand it was mostly hymns they sang, andit wouldn't have been quite so bad if they'd done nothing else. But I'm told they finished up with _Polly Wolly Doodle_ at fulllength--and that just when Deacon Baxter was praying. "

"I was there that night, " said Susan, " and, although I did notsay anything about it to you, Mrs. Dr. Dear, I could not helpthinking that it was a great pity they picked that particularevening. It was truly blood-curdling to hear them sitting therein that abode of the dead, shouting that frivolous song at thetops of their lungs. "

"I don't know what YOU were doing in a Methodist prayer meeting, "said Miss Cornelia acidly. 

"I have never found that Methodism was catching, " retorted Susanstiffly. "And, as I was going to say when I was interrupted, badly as I felt, I did NOT give in to the Methodists. When Mrs. Deacon Baxter said, as we came out, 'What a disgracefulexhibition!' _I_ said, looking her fairly in the eye, 'They areall beautiful singers, and none of YOUR choir, Mrs. Baxter, everbother themselves coming out to your prayer meeting, it seems. Their voices appear to be in tune only on Sundays!' She wasquite meek and I felt that I had snubbed her properly. But Icould have done it much more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. Dear, if onlythey had left out _Polly Wolly Doodle_. It is truly terrible tothink of that being sung in a graveyard. "

"Some of those dead folks sang _Polly Wolly Doodle_ when theywere living, Susan. Perhaps they like to hear it yet, " suggestedGilbert. 

Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully and made up her mindthat, on some future occasion, she would hint to Anne that thedoctor should be admonished not to say such things. They mightinjure his practice. People might get it into their heads thathe wasn't orthodox. To be sure, Marshall said even worse thingshabitually, but then HE was not a public man. 

"I understand that their father was in his study all the time, with his windows open, but never noticed them at all. Of course, he was lost in a book as usual. But I spoke to him about ityesterday, when he called. "

"How could you dare, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?" asked Susanrebukingly. 

"Dare! It's time somebody dared something. Why, they say heknows nothing about that letter of Faith's to the JOURNAL becausenobody liked to mention it to him. He never looks at a JOURNALof course. But I thought he ought to know of this to prevent anysuch performances in future. He said he would 'discuss it withthem. ' But of course he'd never think of it again after he gotout of our gate. That man has no sense of humour, Anne, believeME. He preached last Sunday on 'How to Bring up Children. ' Abeautiful sermon it was, too--and everybody in church thinking'what a pity you can't practise what you preach. '"

Miss Cornelia did Mr. Meredith an injustice in thinking he wouldsoon forget what she had told him. He went home much disturbedand when the children came from Rainbow Valley that night, at amuch later hour than they should have been prowling in it, hecalled them into his study. 

They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an unusual thing fortheir father to do. What could he be going to say to them? Theyracked their memories for any recent transgression of sufficientimportance, but could not recall any. Carl had spilled asaucerful of jam on Mrs. Peter Flagg's silk dress two eveningsbefore, when, at Aunt Martha's invitation, she had stayed tosupper. But Mr. Meredith had not noticed it, and Mrs. Flagg, whowas a kindly soul, had made no fuss. Besides, Carl had beenpunished by having to wear Una's dress all the rest of theevening. 

Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father meant to tell themthat he was going to marry Miss West. Her heart began to beatviolently and her legs trembled. Then she saw that Mr. Meredithlooked very stern and sorrowful. No, it could not be that. 

"Children, " said Mr. Meredith, "I have heard something that haspained me very much. Is it true that you sat out in thegraveyard all last Thursday evening and sang ribald songs while aprayer meeting was being held in the Methodist church?"

"Great Caesar, Dad, we forgot all about it being their prayermeeting night, " exclaimed Jerry in dismay. 

"Then it is true--you did do this thing?"

"Why, Dad, I don't know what you mean by ribald songs. We sanghymns--it was a sacred concert, you know. What harm was that? Itell you we never thought about it's being Methodist prayermeeting night. They used to have their meeting Tuesday nightsand since they've changed to Thursdays it's hard to remember. "

"Did you sing nothing but hymns?"

"Why, " said Jerry, turning red, "we DID sing _Polly Wolly Doodle_at the last. Faith said, 'Let's have something cheerful to windup with. ' But we didn't mean any harm, Father--truly we didn't. "

"The concert was my idea, Father, " said Faith, afraid that Mr. Meredith might blame Jerry too much. "You know the Methodiststhemselves had a sacred concert in their church three Sundaynights ago. I thought it would be good fun to get one up inimitation of it. Only they had prayers at theirs, and we leftthat part out, because we heard that people thought it awful forus to pray in a graveyard. YOU were sitting in here all thetime, " she added, "and never said a word to us. "

"I did not notice what you were doing. That is no excuse for me, of course. I am more to blame than you--I realize that. But whydid you sing that foolish song at the end?"

"We didn't think, " muttered Jerry, feeling that it was a verylame excuse, seeing that he had lectured Faith so strongly in theGood-Conduct Club sessions for her lack of thought. "We'resorry, Father--truly, we are. Pitch into us hard--we deserve aregular combing down. "

But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching into. He satdown and gathered his small culprits close to him and talked alittle to them, tenderly and wisely. They were overcome withremorse and shame, and felt that they could never be so silly andthoughtless again. 

"We've just got to punish ourselves good and hard for this, "whispered Jerry as they crept upstairs. "We'll have a session ofthe Club first thing tomorrow and decide how we'll do it. Inever saw father so cut up. But I wish to goodness theMethodists would stick to one night for their prayer meeting andnot wander all over the week. "

"Anyhow, I'm glad it wasn't what I was afraid it was, " murmuredUna to herself. 

Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had sat down at his deskand buried his face in his arms. 

"God help me!" he said. "I'm a poor sort of father. Oh, Rosemary! If you had only cared!"

CHAPTER XXVIII. A FAST DAY

The Good-Conduct Club had a special session the next morningbefore school. After various suggestions, it was decided that afast day would be an appropriate punishment. 

"We won't eat a single thing for a whole day, " said Jerry. "I'mkind of curious to see what fasting is like, anyhow. This will bea good chance to find out. "

"What day will we choose for it?" asked Una, who thought it wouldhe quite an easy punishment and rather wondered that Jerry andFaith had not devised something harder. 

"Let's pick Monday, " said Faith. "We mostly have a pretty FILLINGdinner on Sundays, and Mondays meals never amount to muchanyhow. "

"But that's just the point, " exclaimed Jerry. "We mustn't takethe easiest day to fast, but the hardest--and that's Sunday, because, as you say, we mostly have roast beef that day insteadof cold ditto. It wouldn't be much punishment to fast fromditto. Let's take next Sunday. It will be a good day, forfather is going to exchange for the morning service with theUpper Lowbridge minister. Father will be away till evening. IfAunt Martha wonders what's got into us, we'll tell her right upthat we're fasting for the good of our souls, and it is in theBible and she is not to interfere, and I guess she won't. "

Aunt Martha did not. She merely said in her fretful mumblingway, "What foolishness are you young rips up to now?" and thoughtno more about it. Mr. Meredith had gone away early in themorning before any one was up. He went without his breakfast, too, but that was, of course, of common occurrence. Half of thetime he forgot it and there was no one to remind him of it. Breakfast--Aunt Martha's breakfast--was not a hard meal to miss. Even the hungry "young rips" did not feel it any greatdeprivation to abstain from the "lumpy porridge and blue milk"which had aroused the scorn of Mary Vance. But it was differentat dinner time. They were furiously hungry then, and the odor ofroast beef which pervaded the manse, and which was whollydelightful in spite of the fact that the roast beef was badlyunderdone, was almost more than they could stand. In desperationthey rushed to the graveyard where they couldn't smell it. ButUna could not keep her eyes from the dining room window, throughwhich the Upper Lowbridge minister could be seen, placidlyeating. 

"If I could only have just a weeny, teeny piece, " she sighed. 

"Now, you stop that, " commanded Jerry. "Of course it's hard--butthat's the punishment of it. I could eat a graven image this veryminute, but am I complaining? Let's think of something else. We've just got to rise above our stomachs. "

At supper time they did not feel the pangs of hunger which theyhad suffered earlier in the day. 

"I suppose we're getting used to it, " said Faith. "I feel anawfully queer all-gone sort of feeling, but I can't say I'mhungry. "

"My head is funny, " said Una. "It goes round and roundsometimes. "

But she went gamely to church with the others. If Mr. Meredithhad not been so wholly wrapped up in and carried away with hissubject he might have noticed the pale little face and holloweyes in the manse pew beneath. But he noticed nothing and hissermon was something longer than usual. Then, just before be gaveout the final hymn, Una Meredith tumbled off the seat of themanse pew and lay in a dead faint on the floor. 

Mrs. Elder Clow was the first to reach her. She caught the thinlittle body from the arms of white-faced, terrified Faith andcarried it into the vestry. Mr. Meredith forgot the hymn andeverything else and rushed madly after her. The congregationdismissed itself as best it could. 

"Oh, Mrs. Clow, " gasped Faith, "is Una dead? Have we killedher?"

"What is the matter with my child?" demanded the pale father. 

"She has just fainted, I think, " said Mrs. Clow. "Oh, here's thedoctor, thank goodness. "

Gilbert did not find it a very easy thing to bring Una back toconsciousness. He worked over her for a long time before hereyes opened. Then he carried her over to the manse, followed byFaith, sobbing hysterically in her relief. 

"She is just hungry, you know--she didn't eat a thing to-day--none of us did--we were all fasting. "

"Fasting!" said Mr. Meredith, and "Fasting?" said the doctor. 

"Yes--to punish ourselves for singing _Polly Wolly_ in thegraveyard, " said Faith. 

"My child, I don't want you to punish yourselves for that, " saidMr. Meredith in distress. "I gave you your little scolding--andyou were all penitent--and I forgave you. "

"Yes, but we had to be punished, " explained Faith. "It's ourrule--in our Good-Conduct Club, you know--if we do anythingwrong, or anything that is likely to hurt father in thecongregation, we HAVE to punish ourselves. We are bringingourselves up, you know, because there is nobody to do it. "

Mr. Meredith groaned, but the doctor got up from Una's side withan air of relief. 

"Then this child simply fainted from lack of food and all sheneeds is a good square meal, " he said. "Mrs. Clow, will you bekind enough to see she gets it? And I think from Faith's storythat they all would be the better for something to eat, or weshall have more faintings. "

"I suppose we shouldn't have made Una fast, " said Faithremorsefully. "When I think of it, only Jerry and I should havebeen punished. WE got up the concert and we were the oldest. "

"I sang _Polly Wolly_ just the same as the rest of you, " saidUna's weak little voice, "so I had to be punished, too. "

Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith and Jerry and Carlsneaked off to the pantry, and John Meredith went into his study, where he sat in the darkness for a long time, alone with hisbitter thoughts. So his children were bringing themselves upbecause there was "nobody to do it"--struggling along amid theirlittle perplexities without a hand to guide or a voice tocounsel. Faith's innocently uttered phrase rankled in herfather's mind like a barbed shaft. There was "nobody" to lookafter them--to comfort their little souls and care for theirlittle bodies. How frail Una had looked, lying there on thevestry sofa in that long faint! How thin were her tiny hands, how pallid her little face! She looked as if she might slip awayfrom him in a breath--sweet little Una, of whom Cecilia hadbegged him to take such special care. Since his wife's death hehad not felt such an agony of dread as when he had hung over hislittle girl in her unconsciousness. He must do something--butwhat? Should he ask Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? She was a goodwoman--she would be kind to his children. He might bring himselfto do it if it were not for his love for Rosemary West. Butuntil he had crushed that out he could not seek another woman inmarriage. And he could not crush it out--he had tried and hecould not. Rosemary had been in church that evening, for thefirst time since her return from Kingsport. He had caught aglimpse of her face in the back of the crowded church, just as hehad finished his sermon. His heart had given a fierce throb. Hesat while the choir sang the "collection piece, " with his benthead and tingling pulses. He had not seen her since the eveningupon which he had asked her to marry him. When he had risen togive out the hymn his hands were trembling and his pale face wasflushed. Then Una's fainting spell had banished everything fromhis mind for a time. Now, in the darkness and solitude of thestudy it rushed back. Rosemary was the only woman in the worldfor him. It was of no use for him to think of marrying anyother. He could not commit such a sacrilege even for hischildren's sake. He must take up his burden alone--he must tryto be a better, a more watchful father--he must tell his childrennot to be afraid to come to him with all their little problems. Then he lighted his lamp and took up a bulky new book which wassetting the theological world by the ears. He would read justone chapter to compose his mind. Five minutes later he was lostto the world and the troubles of the world. 

CHAPTER XXIX. A WEIRD TALE

On an early June evening Rainbow Valley was an entirelydelightful place and the children felt it to be so, as they satin the open glade where the bells rang elfishly on the TreeLovers, and the White Lady shook her green tresses. The wind waslaughing and whistling about them like a leal, glad-heartedcomrade. The young ferns were spicy in the hollow. The wildcherry trees scattered over the valley, among the dark firs, weremistily white. The robins were whistling over in the maplesbehind Ingleside. Beyond, on the slopes of the Glen, wereblossoming orchards, sweet and mystic and wonderful, veiled indusk. It was spring, and young things MUST be glad in spring. Everybody was glad in Rainbow Valley that evening--until MaryVance froze their blood with the story of Henry Warren's ghost. 

Jem was not there. Jem spent his evenings now studying for hisentrance examination in the Ingleside garret. Jerry was downnear the pond, trouting. Walter had been reading Longfellow'ssea poems to the others and they were steeped in the beauty andmystery of the ships. Then they talked of what they would dowhen they were grown up--where they would travel--the far, fairshores they would see. Nan and Di meant to go to Europe. Walterlonged for the Nile moaning past its Egyptian sands, and aglimpse of the sphinx. Faith opined rather dismally that shesupposed she would have to be a missionary--old Mrs. Taylor toldher she ought to be--and then she would at least see India orChina, those mysterious lands of the Orient. Carl's heart wasset on African jungles. Una said nothing. She thought shewould just like to stay at home. It was prettier here thananywhere else. It would be dreadful when they were all grown upand had to scatter over the world. The very idea made Una feellonesome and homesick. But the others dreamed on delightedlyuntil Mary Vance arrived and vanished poesy and dreams at onefell swoop. 

"Laws, but I'm out of puff, " she exclaimed. "I've run down thathill like sixty. I got an awful scare up there at the old Baileyplace. "

"What frightened you?" asked Di. 

"I dunno. I was poking about under them lilacs in the oldgarden, trying to see if there was any lilies-of-the-valley outyet. It was dark as a pocket there--and all at once I seensomething stirring and rustling round at the other side of thegarden, in those cherry bushes. It was WHITE. I tell you Ididn't stop for a second look. I flew over the dyke quicker thanquick. I was sure it was Henry Warren's ghost. "

"Who was Henry Warren?" asked Di. 

"And why should he have a ghost?" asked Nan. 

"Laws, did you never hear the story? And you brought up in theGlen. Well, wait a minute till I get by breath all back and I'lltell you. "

Walter shivered delightsomely. He loved ghost stories. Theirmystery, their dramatic climaxes, their eeriness gave him afearful, exquisite pleasure. Longfellow instantly grew tame andcommonplace. He threw the book aside and stretched himself out, propped upon his elbows to listen whole-heartedly, fixing hisgreat luminous eyes on Mary's face. Mary wished he wouldn't lookat her so. She felt she could make a better job of the ghoststory if Walter were not looking at her. She could put onseveral frills and invent a few artistic details to enhance thehorror. As it was, she had to stick to the bare truth--or whathad been told her for the truth. 

"Well, " she began, "you know old Tom Bailey and his wife used tolive in that house up there thirty years ago. He was an awfulold rip, they say, and his wife wasn't much better. They'd nochildren of their own, but a sister of old Tom's died and left alittle boy--this Henry Warren--and they took him. He was abouttwelve when he came to them, and kind of undersized and delicate. They say Tom and his wife used him awful from the start--whippedhim and starved him. Folks said they wanted him to die so's theycould get the little bit of money his mother had left for him. Henry didn't die right off, but he begun having fits--epileps, they called 'em--and he grew up kind of simple, till he was abouteighteen. His uncle used to thrash him in that garden up there'cause it was back of the house where no one could see him. Butfolks could hear, and they say it was awful sometimes hearingpoor Henry plead with his uncle not to kill him. But nobodydared interfere 'cause old Tom was such a reprobate he'd havebeen sure to get square with 'em some way. He burned the barnsof a man at Harbour Head who offended him. At last Henry diedand his uncle and aunt give out he died in one of his fits andthat was all anybody ever knowed, but everybody said Tom had justup and killed him for keeps at last. And it wasn't long till itgot around that Henry WALKED. That old garden was HA'NTED. Hewas heard there at nights, moaning and crying. Old Tom and hiswife got out--went out West and never came back. The place gotsuch a bad name nobody'd buy or rent it. That's why it's allgone to ruin. That was thirty years ago, but Henry Warren'sghost ha'nts it yet. "

"Do you believe that?" asked Nan scornfully. "_I_ don't. "

"Well, GOOD people have seen him--and heard him. " retorted Mary. "They say he appears and grovels on the ground and holds you bythe legs and gibbers and moans like he did when he was alive. Ithought of that as soon as I seen that white thing in the bushesand thought if it caught me like that and moaned I'd drop downdead on the spot. So I cut and run. It MIGHTN'T have been hisghost, but I wasn't going to take any chances with a ha'nt. "

"It was likely old Mrs. Stimson's white calf, " laughed Di. "Itpastures in that garden--I've seen it. "

"Maybe so. But I'M not going home through the Bailey garden anymore. Here's Jerry with a big string of trout and it's my turnto cook them. Jem and Jerry both say I'm the best cook in theGlen. And Cornelia told me I could bring up this batch ofcookies. I all but dropped them when I saw Henry's ghost. "

Jerry hooted when he heard the ghost story--which Mary repeatedas she fried the fish, touching it up a trifle or so, sinceWalter had gone to help Faith to set the table. It made noimpression on Jerry, but Faith and Una and Carl had been secretlymuch frightened, though they would never have given in to it. Itwas all right as long as the others were with them in the valley:but when the feast was over and the shadows fell they quaked withremembrance. Jerry went up to Ingleside with the Blythes to seeJem about something, and Mary Vance went around that way home. So Faith and Una and Carl had to go back to the manse alone. They walked very close together and gave the old Bailey garden awide berth. They did not believe that it was haunted, of course, but they would not go near it for all that. 

CHAPTER XXX. THE GHOST ON THE DYKE

Somehow, Faith and Carl and Una could not shake off the holdwhich the story of Henry Warren's ghost had taken upon theirimaginations. They had never believed in ghosts. Ghost talesthey had heard a-plenty--Mary Vance had told some far moreblood-curdling than this; but those tales were all of places andpeople and spooks far away and unknown. After the firsthalf-awful, half-pleasant thrill of awe and terror they thoughtof them no more. But this story came home to them. The oldBailey garden was almost at their very door--almost in theirbeloved Rainbow Valley. They had passed and repassed itconstantly; they had hunted for flowers in it; they had madeshort cuts through it when they wished to go straight from thevillage to the valley. But never again! After the night whenMary Vance told them its gruesome tale they would not have gonethrough or near it on pain of death. Death! What was deathcompared to the unearthly possibility of falling into theclutches of Henry Warren's grovelling ghost?

One warm July evening the three of them were sitting under theTree Lovers, feeling a little lonely. Nobody else had come nearthe valley that evening. Jem Blythe was away in Charlottetown, writing on his entrance examinations. Jerry and Walter Blythewere off for a sail on the harbour with old Captain Crawford. Nan and Di and Rilla and Shirley had gone down the harbour roadto visit Kenneth and Persis Ford, who had come with their parentsfor a flying visit to the little old House of Dreams. Nan hadasked Faith to go with them, but Faith had declined. She wouldnever have admitted it, but she felt a little secret jealousy ofPersis Ford, concerning whose wonderful beauty and city glamourshe had heard a great deal. No, she wasn't going to go downthere and play second fiddle to anybody. She and Una took theirstory books to Rainbow Valley and read, while Carl investigatedbugs along the banks of the brook, and all three were happy untilthey suddenly realized that it was twilight and that the oldBailey garden was uncomfortably near by. Carl came and sat downclose to the girls. They all wished they had gone home a littlesooner, but nobody said anything. 

Great, velvety, purple clouds heaped up in the west and spreadover the valley. There was no wind and everything was suddenly, strangely, dreadfully still. The marsh was full of thousands offire-flies. Surely some fairy parliament was being convened thatnight. Altogether, Rainbow Valley was not a canny place justthen. 

Faith looked fearfully up the valley to the old Bailey garden. Then, if anybody's blood ever did freeze, Faith Meredith'scertainly froze at that moment. The eyes of Carl and Unafollowed her entranced gaze and chills began gallopading up anddown their spines also. For there, under the big tamarack treeon the tumble-down, grass-grown dyke of the Bailey garden, wassomething white--shapelessly white in the gathering gloom. Thethree Merediths sat and gazed as if turned to stone. 

"It's--it's the--calf, " whispered Una at last. 

"It's--too--big--for the calf, " whispered Faith. Her mouth andlips were so dry she could hardly articulate the words. 

Suddenly Carl gasped, "It's coming here. "

The girls gave one last agonized glance. Yes, it was creepingdown over the dyke, as no calf ever did or could creep. Reasonfled before sudden, over-mastering panic. For the moment everyone of the trio was firmly convinced that what they saw was HenryWarren's ghost. Carl sprang to his feet and bolted blindly. With a simultaneous shriek the girls followed him. Like madcreatures they tore up the hill, across the road and into themanse. They had left Aunt Martha sewing in the kitchen. She wasnot there. They rushed to the study. It was dark andtenantless. As with one impulse, they swung around and made forIngleside--but not across Rainbow Valley. Down the hill andthrough the Glen street they flew on the wings of their wildterror, Carl in the lead, Una bringing up the rear. Nobody triedto stop them, though everybody who saw them wondered what freshdevilment those manse youngsters were up to now. But at the gateof Ingleside they ran into Rosemary West, who had just been infor a moment to return some borrowed books. 

She saw their ghastly faces and staring eyes. She realized thattheir poor little souls were wrung with some awful and real fear, whatever its cause. She caught Carl with one arm and Faith withthe other. Una stumbled against her and held on desperately. 

"Children, dear, what has happened?" she said. "What hasfrightened you?"

"Henry Warren's ghost, " answered Carl, through his chatteringteeth. 

"Henry--Warren's--ghost!" said amazed Rosemary, who had neverheard the story. 

"Yes, " sobbed Faith hysterically. "It's there--on the Baileydyke--we saw it--and it started to--chase us. "

Rosemary herded the three distracted creatures to the Inglesideveranda. Gilbert and Anne were both away, having also gone tothe House of Dreams, but Susan appeared in the doorway, gaunt andpractical and unghostlike. 

"What is all this rumpus about?" she inquired. 

Again the children gasped out their awful tale, while Rosemaryheld them close to her and soothed them with wordless comfort. 

"Likely it was an owl, " said Susan, unstirred. 

An owl! The Meredith children never had any opinion of Susan'sintelligence after that!

"It was bigger than a million owls, " said Carl, sobbing--oh, howashamed Carl was of that sobbing in after days--"and it--itGROVELLED just as Mary said--and it was crawling down over thedyke to get at us. Do owls CRAWL?"

Rosemary looked at Susan. 

"They must have seen something to frighten them so, " she said. 

"I will go and see, " said Susan coolly. "Now, children, calmyourselves. Whatever you have seen, it was not a ghost. As forpoor Henry Warren, I feel sure he would be only too glad to restquietly in his peaceful grave once he got there. No fear of HIMventuring back, and that you may tie to. If you can make themsee reason, Miss West, I will find out the truth of the matter. "

Susan departed for Rainbow Valley, valiantly grasping a pitchforkwhich she found leaning against the back fence where the doctorhad been working in his little hay-field. A pitchfork might notbe of much use against "ha'nts, " but it was a comforting sort ofweapon. There was nothing to be seen in Rainbow Valley whenSusan reached it. No white visitants appeared to be lurking inthe shadowy, tangled old Bailey garden. Susan marched boldlythrough it and beyond it, and rapped with her pitchfork on thedoor of the little cottage on the other side, where Mrs. Stimsonlived with her two daughters. 

Back at Ingleside Rosemary had succeeded in calming the children. They still sobbed a little from shock, but they were beginning tofeel a lurking and salutary suspicion that they had made dreadfulgeese of themselves. This suspicion became a certainty whenSusan finally returned. 

"I have found out what your ghost was, " she said, with a grimsmile, sitting down on a rocker and fanning herself. "Old Mrs. Stimson has had a pair of factory cotton sheets bleaching in theBailey garden for a week. She spread them on the dyke under thetamarack tree because the grass was clean and short there. Thisevening she went out to take them in. She had her knitting inher hands so she hung the sheets over her shoulders by way ofcarrying them. And then she must have dropped one of her needlesand find it she could not and has not yet. But she went down onher knees and crept about to hunt for it, and she was at thatwhen she heard awful yells down in the valley and saw the threechildren tearing up the hill past her. She thought they had beenbit by something and it gave her poor old heart such a turn thatshe could not move or speak, but just crouched there till theydisappeared. Then she staggered back home and they have beenapplying stimulants to her ever since, and her heart is in aterrible condition and she says she will not get over this frightall summer. "

The Merediths sat, crimson with a shame that even Rosemary'sunderstanding sympathy could not remove. They sneaked off home, met Jerry at the manse gate and made remorseful confession. Asession of the Good-Conduct Club was arranged for next morning. 

"Wasn't Miss West sweet to us to-night?" whispered Faith in bed. 

"Yes, " admitted Una. "It is such a pity it changes people somuch to be made stepmothers. "

"I don't believe it does, " said Faith loyally. 

CHAPTER XXXI. CARL DOES PENANCE

"I don't see why we should be punished at all, " said Faith, rather sulkily. "We didn't do anything wrong. We couldn't helpbeing frightened. And it won't do father any harm. It was justan accident. "

"You were cowards, " said Jerry with judicial scorn, "and you gaveway to your cowardice. That is why you should be punished. Everybody will laugh at you about this, and that is a disgrace tothe family. "

"If you knew how awful the whole thing was, " said Faith with ashiver, "you would think we had been punished enough already. Iwouldn't go through it again for anything in the whole world. "

"I believe you'd have run yourself if you'd been there, " mutteredCarl. 

"From an old woman in a cotton sheet, " mocked Jerry. "Ho, ho, ho!"

"It didn't look a bit like an old woman, " cried Faith. "It wasjust a great, big, white thing crawling about in the grass justas Mary Vance said Henry Warren did. It's all very fine for youto laugh, Jerry Meredith, but you'd have laughed on the otherside of your mouth if you'd been there. And how are we to bepunished? _I_ don't think it's fair, but let's know what we haveto do, Judge Meredith!"

"The way I look at it, " said Jerry, frowning, "is that Carl wasthe most to blame. He bolted first, as I understand it. Besides, he was a boy, so he should have stood his ground toprotect you girls, whatever the danger was. You know that, Carl, don't you?"

"I s'pose so, " growled Carl shamefacedly. 

"Very well. This is to be your punishment. To-night you'll siton Mr. Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the graveyard alone, untiltwelve o'clock. "

Carl gave a little shudder. The graveyard was not so very farfrom the old Bailey garden. It would be a trying ordeal, butCarl was anxious to wipe out his disgrace and prove that he wasnot a coward after all. 

"All right, " he said sturdily. "But how'll I know when it istwelve?"

"The study windows are open and you'll hear the clock striking. And mind you that you are not to budge out of that graveyarduntil the last stroke. As for you girls, you've got to gowithout jam at supper for a week. "

Faith and Una looked rather blank. They were inclined to thinkthat even Carl's comparatively short though sharp agony waslighter punishment than this long drawn-out ordeal. A whole weekof soggy bread without the saving grace of jam! But no shirkingwas permitted in the club. The girls accepted their lot withsuch philosophy as they could summon up. 

That night they all went to bed at nine, except Carl, who wasalready keeping vigil on the tombstone. Una slipped in to bidhim good night. Her tender heart was wrung with sympathy. 

"Oh, Carl, are you much scared?" she whispered. 

"Not a bit, " said Carl airily. 

"I won't sleep a wink till after twelve, " said Una. "If you getlonesome just look up at our window and remember that I'm inside, awake, and thinking about you. That will be a little company, won't it?"

"I'll be all right. Don't you worry about me, " said Carl. 

But in spite of his dauntless words Carl was a pretty lonely boywhen the lights went out in the manse. He had hoped his fatherwould be in the study as he so often was. He would not feelalone then. But that night Mr. Meredith had been summoned tothe fishing village at the harbour mouth to see a dying man. Hewould not likely be back until after midnight. Carl must dreehis weird alone. 

A Glen man went past carrying a lantern. The mysterious shadowscaused by the lantern-light went hurtling madly over thegraveyard like a dance of demons or witches. Then they passedand darkness fell again. One by one the lights in the Glen wentout. It was a very dark night, with a cloudy sky, and a raw eastwind that was cold in spite of the calendar. Far away on thehorizon was the low dim lustre of the Charlottetown lights. Thewind wailed and sighed in the old fir-trees. Mr. Alec Davis'tall monument gleamed whitely through the gloom. The willowbeside it tossed long, writhing arms spectrally. At times, thegyrations of its boughs made it seem as if the monument weremoving, too. 

Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his legs tuckedunder him. It wasn't precisely pleasant to hang them over theedge of the stone. Just suppose--just suppose--bony hands shouldreach up out of Mr. Pollock's grave under it and clutch him bythe ankles. That had been one of Mary Vance's cheerfulspeculations one time when they had all been sitting there. Itreturned to haunt Carl now. He didn't believe those things; hedidn't even really believe in Henry Warren's ghost. As for Mr. Pollock, he had been dead sixty years, so it wasn't likely hecared who sat on his tombstone now. But there is something verystrange and terrible in being awake when all the rest of theworld is asleep. You are alone then with nothing but your ownfeeble personality to pit against the mighty principalities andpowers of darkness. Carl was only ten and the dead were allaround him--and he wished, oh, he wished that the clock wouldstrike twelve. Would it NEVER strike twelve? Surely Aunt Marthamust have forgotten to wind it. 

And then it struck eleven--only eleven! He must stay yet anotherhour in that grim place. If only there were a few friendly starsto be seen! The darkness was so thick it seemed to press againsthis face. There was a sound as of stealthy passing footsteps allover the graveyard. Carl shivered, partly with prickling terror, partly with real cold. 

Then it began to rain--a chill, penetrating drizzle. Carl's thinlittle cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet through. He feltchilled to the bone. He forgot mental terrors in his physicaldiscomfort. But he must stay there till twelve--he was punishinghimself and he was on his honour. Nothing had been said aboutrain--but it did not make any difference. When the study clockfinally struck twelve a drenched little figure crept stiffly downoff Mr. Pollock's tombstone, made its way into the manse andupstairs to bed. Carl's teeth were chattering. He thought hewould never get warm again. 

He was warm enough when morning came. Jerry gave one startledlook at his crimson face and then rushed to call his father. Mr. Meredith came hurriedly, his own face ivory white from the pallorof his long night vigil by a death bed. He had not got homeuntil daylight. He bent over his little lad anxiously. 

"Carl, are you sick?" he said. 

"That--tombstone--over here, " said Carl, "it's--moving--about--it's coming--at--me--keep it--away--please. "

Mr. Meredith rushed to the telephone. In ten minutes Dr. Blythewas at the manse. Half an hour later a wire was sent to town fora trained nurse, and all the Glen knew that Carl Meredith wasvery ill with pneumonia and that Dr. Blythe had been seen toshake his head. 

Gilbert shook his head more than once in the fortnight thatfollowed. Carl developed double pneumonia. There was one nightwhen Mr. Meredith paced his study floor, and Faith and Unahuddled in their bedroom and cried, and Jerry, wild with remorse, refused to budge from the floor of the hall outside Carl's door. Dr. Blythe and the nurse never left the bedside. They foughtdeath gallantly until the red dawn and they won the victory. Carl rallied and passed the crisis in safety. The news wasphoned about the waiting Glen and people found out how much theyreally loved their minister and his children. 

"I haven't had one decent night's sleep since I heard the childwas sick, " Miss Cornelia told Anne, "and Mary Vance has crieduntil those queer eyes of hers looked like burnt holes in ablanket. Is it true that Carl got pneumonia from straying out inthe graveyard that wet night for a dare?"

"No. He was staying there to punish himself for cowardice inthat affair of the Warren ghost. It seems they have a club forbringing themselves up, and they punish themselves when they dowrong. Jerry told Mr. Meredith all about it. "

"The poor little souls, " said Miss Cornelia. 

Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took enoughnourishing things to the manse to furnish forth a hospital. Norman Douglas drove up every evening with a dozen fresh eggs anda jar of Jersey cream. Sometimes he stayed an hour and bellowedarguments on predestination with Mr. Meredith in the study;oftener he drove on up to the hill that overlooked the Glen. 

When Carl was able to go again to Rainbow Valley they had aspecial feast in his honour and the doctor came down and helpedthem with the fireworks. Mary Vance was there, too, but she didnot tell any ghost stories. Miss Cornelia had given her atalking on that subject which Mary would not forget in a hurry. 

CHAPTER XXXII. TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE

Rosemary West, on her way home from a music lesson at Ingleside, turned aside to the hidden spring in Rainbow Valley. She had notbeen there all summer; the beautiful little spot had no longerany allurement for her. The spirit of her young lover never cameto the tryst now; and the memories connected with John Meredithwere too painful and poignant. But she had happened to glancebackward up the valley and had seen Norman Douglas vaulting asairily as a stripling over the old stone dyke of the Baileygarden and thought he was on his way up the hill. If he overtookher she would have to walk home with him and she was not going todo that. So she slipped at once behind the maples of the spring, hoping he had not seen her and would pass on. 

But Norman had seen her and, what was more, was in pursuit ofher. He had been wanting for some time to have talk withRosemary, but she had always, so it seemed, avoided him. Rosemary had never, at any time, liked Norman Douglas very well. His bluster, his temper, his noisy hilarity, had alwaysantagonized her. Long ago she had often wondered how Ellen couldpossibly be attracted to him. Norman Douglas was perfectly awareof her dislike and he chuckled over it. It never worried Normanif people did not like him. It did not even make him dislikethem in return, for he took it as a kind of extorted compliment. He thought Rosemary a fine girl, and he meant to be an excellent, generous brother-in-law to her. But before he could be herbrother-in-law he had to have a talk with her, so, having seenher leaving Ingleside as he stood in the doorway of a Glen store, he had straightway plunged into the valley to overtake her. 

Rosemary was sitting pensively on the maple seat where JohnMeredith had been sitting on that evening nearly a year ago. Thetiny spring shimmered and dimpled under its fringe of ferns. Ruby-red gleams of sunset fell through the arching boughs. Atall clump of perfect asters grew at her side. The little spotwas as dreamy and witching and evasive as any retreat of fairiesand dryads in ancient forests. Into it Norman Douglas bounced, scattering and annihilating its charm in a moment. Hispersonality seemed to swallow the place up. There was simplynothing there but Norman Douglas, big, red-bearded, complacent. 

"Good evening, " said Rosemary coldly, standing up. 

"'Evening, girl. Sit down again--sit down again. I want to havea talk with you. Bless the girl, what's she looking at me likethat for? I don't want to eat you--I've had my supper. Sit downand be civil. "

"I can hear what you have to say quite as well here, " saidRosemary. 

"So you can, girl, if you use your ears. I only wanted you to becomfortable. You look so durned uncomfortable, standing there. Well, I'LL sit anyway. "

Norman accordingly sat down in the very place John Meredith hadonce sat. The contrast was so ludicrous that Rosemary was afraidshe would go off into a peal of hysterical laughter over it. Norman cast his hat aside, placed his huge, red hands on hisknees, and looked up at her with his eyes a-twinkle. 

"Come, girl, don't be so stiff, " he said, ingratiatingly. Whenhe liked he could be very ingratiating. "Let's have areasonable, sensible, friendly chat. There's something I want toask you. Ellen says she won't, so it's up to me to do it. "

Rosemary looked down at the spring, which seemed to have shrunkto the size of a dewdrop. Norman gazed at her in despair. 

"Durn it all, you might help a fellow out a bit, " he burst forth. 

"What is it you want me to help you say?" asked Rosemaryscornfully. 

"You know as well as I do, girl. Don't be putting on yourtragedy airs. No wonder Ellen was scared to ask you. Look here, girl, Ellen and I want to marry each other. That's plainEnglish, isn't it? Got that? And Ellen says she can't unlessyou give her back some tom-fool promise she made. Come now, willyou do it? Will you do it?"

"Yes, " said Rosemary. 

Norman bounced up and seized her reluctant hand. 

"Good! I knew you would--I told Ellen you would. I knew itwould only take a minute. Now, girl, you go home and tell Ellen, and we'll have a wedding in a fortnight and you'll come and livewith us. We shan't leave you to roost on that hill-top like alonely crow--don't you worry. I know you hate me, but, Lord, it'll be great fun living with some one that hates me. Life'llhave some spice in it after this. Ellen will roast me and you'llfreeze me. I won't have a dull moment. "

Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that nothing would everinduce her to live in his house. She let him go striding back tothe Glen, oozing delight and complacency, and she walked slowlyup the hill home. She had known this was coming ever since shehad returned from Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas establishedas a frequent evening caller. His name was never mentionedbetween her and Ellen, but the very avoidance of it wassignificant. It was not in Rosemary's nature to feel bitter, orshe would have felt very bitter. She was coldly civil to Norman, and she made no difference in any way with Ellen. But Ellen hadnot found much comfort in her second courtship. 

She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary camehome. The two sisters met in the dahlia walk. St. George satdown on the gravel walk between them and folded his glossy blacktail gracefully around his white paws, with all the indifferenceof a well-fed, well-bred, well-groomed cat. 

"Did you ever see such dahlias?" demanded Ellen proudly. "Theyare just the finest we've ever had. "

Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their presence in thegarden was her concession to Ellen's taste. She noticed one hugemottled one of crimson and yellow that lorded it over all theothers. 

"That dahlia, " she said, pointing to it, "is exactly like NormanDouglas. It might easily be his twin brother. "

Ellen's dark-browed face flushed. She admired the dahlia inquestion, but she knew Rosemary did not, and that no complimentwas intended. But she dared not resent Rosemary's speech--poorEllen dared not resent anything just then. And it was the firsttime Rosemary had ever mentioned Norman's name to her. She feltthat this portended something. 

"I met Norman Douglas in the valley, " said Rosemary, lookingstraight at her sister, "and he told me you and he wanted to bemarried--if I would give you permission. "

"Yes? What did you say?" asked Ellen, trying to speak naturallyand off-handedly, and failing completely. She could not meetRosemary's eyes. She looked down at St. George's sleek back andfelt horribly afraid. Rosemary had either said she would or shewouldn't. If she would Ellen would feel so ashamed andremorseful that she would be a very uncomfortable bride-elect;and if she wouldn't--well, Ellen had once learned to live withoutNorman Douglas, but she had forgotten the lesson and felt thatshe could never learn it again. 

"I said that as far as I was concerned you were at full libertyto marry each other as soon as you liked, " said Rosemary. 

"Thank you, " said Ellen, still looking at St. George. 

Rosemary's face softened. 

"I hope you'll be happy, Ellen, " she said gently. 

"Oh, Rosemary, " Ellen looked up in distress, "I'm so ashamed--Idon't deserve it--after all I said to you--"

"We won't speak about that, " said Rosemary hurriedly anddecidedly. 

"But--but, " persisted Ellen, "you are free now, too--and it's nottoo late--John Meredith--"

"Ellen West!" Rosemary had a little spark of temper under allher sweetness and it flashed forth now in her blue eyes. "Haveyou quite lost your senses in EVERY respect? Do you suppose foran instant that _I_ am going to go to John Meredith and saymeekly, 'Please, sir, I've changed my mind and please, sir, Ihope you haven't changed yours. ' Is that what you want me todo?"

"No--no--but a little--encouragement--he would come back--"

"Never. He despises me--and rightly. No more of this, Ellen. Ibear you no grudge--marry whom you like. But no meddling in myaffairs. "

"Then you must come and live with me, " said Ellen. "I shall notleave you here alone. "

"Do you really think that I would go and live in Norman Douglas'shouse?"

"Why not?" cried Ellen, half angrily, despite her humiliation. 

Rosemary began to laugh. 

"Ellen, I thought you had a sense of humour. Can you see me doingit?"

"I don't see why you wouldn't. His house is big enough--you'dhave your share of it to yourself--he wouldn't interfere. "

"Ellen, the thing is not to be thought of. Don't bring this upagain. "

"Then, " said Ellen coldly, and determinedly, "I shall not marryhim. I shall not leave you here alone. That is all there is tobe said about it. "

"Nonsense, Ellen. "

"It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision. It would be absurdfor you to think of living here by yourself--a mile from anyother house. If you won't come with me I'll stay with you. Now, we won't argue the matter, so don't try"

"I shall leave Norman to do the arguing, " said Rosemary. 

"I'LL deal with Norman. I can manage HIM. I would never haveasked you to give me back my promise--never--but I had to tellNorman why I couldn't marry him and he said HE would ask you. Icouldn't prevent him. You need not suppose you are the onlyperson in the world who possesses self-respect. I never dreamedof marrying and leaving you here alone. And you'll find I can beas determined as yourself. "

Rosemary turned away and went into the house, with a shrug of hershoulders. Ellen looked down at St. George, who had neverblinked an eyelash or stirred a whisker during the wholeinterview. 

"St. George, this world would be a dull place without the men, I'll admit, but I'm almost tempted to wish there wasn't one of'em in it. Look at the trouble and bother they've made righthere, George--torn our happy old life completely up by the roots, Saint. John Meredith began it and Norman Douglas has finishedit. And now both of them have to go into limbo. Norman is theonly man I ever met who agrees with me that the Kaiser of Germanyis the most dangerous creature alive on this earth--and I can'tmarry this sensible person because my sister is stubborn and I'mstubborner. Mark my words, St. George, the minister would comeback if she raised her little finger. But she won't George--she'll never do it--she won't even crook it--and I don't daremeddle, Saint. I won't sulk, George; Rosemary didn't sulk, soI'm determined I won't either, Saint; Norman will tear up theturf, but the long and short of it is, St. George, that all of usold fools must just stop thinking of marrying. Well, well, 'despair is a free man, hope is a slave, ' Saint. So now comeinto the house, George, and I'll solace you with a saucerful ofcream. Then there will be one happy and contented creature onthis hill at least. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. CARL IS--NOT--WHIPPED

"There is something I think I ought to tell you, " said Mary Vancemysteriously. 

She and Faith and Una were walking arm in arm through thevillage, having foregathered at Mr. Flagg's store. Una and Faithexchanged looks which said, "NOW something disagreeable iscoming. " When Mary Vance thought she ought to tell them thingsthere was seldom much pleasure in the hearing. They oftenwondered why they kept on liking Mary Vance--for like her theydid, in spite of everything. To be sure, she was generally astimulating and agreeable companion. If only she would not havethose convictions that it was her duty to tell them things!

"Do you know that Rosemary West won't marry your pa because shethinks you are such a wild lot? She's afraid she couldn't bringyou up right and so she turned him down. "

Una's heart thrilled with secret exultation. She was very gladto hear that Miss West would not marry her father. But Faith wasrather disappointed. 

"How do you know?" she asked. 

"Oh, everybody's saying it. I heard Mrs. Elliott talking it overwith Mrs. Doctor. They thought I was too far away to hear, butI've got ears like a cat's. Mrs. Elliott said she hadn't a doubtthat Rosemary was afraid to try stepmothering you because you'dgot such a reputation. Your pa never goes up the hill now. Neither does Norman Douglas. Folks say Ellen has jilted him justto get square with him for jilting her ages ago. But Norman isgoing about declaring he'll get her yet. And I think you oughtto know you've spoiled your pa's match and _I_ think it's a pity, for he's bound to marry somebody before long, and Rosemary Westwould have been the best wife _I_ know of for him. "

"You told me all stepmothers were cruel and wicked, " said Una. 

"Oh--well, " said Mary rather confusedly, "they're mostly awfulcranky, I know. But Rosemary West couldn't be very mean to anyone. I tell you if your pa turns round and marries Emmeline Drewyou'll wish you'd behaved yourselves better and not frightenedRosemary out of it. It's awful that you've got such a reputationthat no decent woman'll marry your pa on account of you. Ofcourse, _I_ know that half the yarns that are told about youain't true. But give a dog a bad name. Why, some folks aresaying that it was Jerry and Carl that threw the stones throughMrs. Stimson's window the other night when it was really them twoBoyd boys. But I'm afraid it was Carl that put the eel in oldMrs. Carr's buggy, though I said at first I wouldn't believe ituntil I'd better proof than old Kitty Alec's word. I told Mrs. Elliott so right to her face. "

"What did Carl do?" cried Faith. 

"Well, they say--now, mind, I'm only telling you what peoplesay--so there's no use in your blaming me for it--that Carl and alot of other boys were fishing eels over the bridge one eveninglast week. Mrs. Carr drove past in that old rattletrap buggy ofhers with the open back. And Carl he just up and threw a big eelinto the back. When poor old Mrs. Carr was driving up the hillby Ingleside that eel came squirming out between her feet. Shethought it was a snake and she just give one awful screech andstood up and jumped clean over the wheels. The horse bolted, butit went home and no damage was done. But Mrs. Carr jarred herlegs most terrible, and has had nervous spasms ever sincewhenever she thinks of the eel. Say, it was a rotten trick toplay on the poor old soul. She's a decent body, if she is asqueer as Dick's hat band. "

Faith and Una looked at each other again. This was a matter forthe Good-Conduct Club. They would not talk it over with Mary. 

"There goes your pa, " said Mary as Mr. Meredith passed them, "andnever seeing us no more'n if we weren't here. Well, I'm gettingso's I don't mind it. But there are folks who do. "

Mr. Meredith had not seen them, but he was not walking along inhis usual dreamy and abstracted fashion. He strode up the hillin agitation and distress. Mrs. Alec Davis had just told him thestory of Carl and the eel. She had been very indignant about it. Old Mrs. Carr was her third cousin. Mr. Meredith was more thanindignant. He was hurt and shocked. He had not thought Carlwould do anything like this. He was not inclined to be hard onpranks of heedlessness or forgetfulness, but THIS was different. THIS had a nasty tang in it. When he reached home he found Carlon the lawn, patiently studying the habits and customs of acolony of wasps. Calling him into the study Mr. Meredithconfronted him, with a sterner face than any of his children hadever seen before, and asked him if the story were true. 

"Yes, " said Carl, flushing, but meeting his father's eyesbravely. 

Mr. Meredith groaned. He had hoped that there had been at leastexaggeration. 

"Tell me the whole matter, " he said. 

"The boys were fishing for eels over the bridge, " said Carl. "Link Drew had caught a whopper--I mean an awful big one--thebiggest eel I ever saw. He caught it right at the start and ithad been lying in his basket a long time, still as still. Ithought it was dead, honest I did. Then old Mrs. Carr drove overthe bridge and she called us all young varmints and told us to gohome. And we hadn't said a word to her, father, truly. So whenshe drove back again, after going to the store, the boys dared meto put Link's eel in her buggy. I thought it was so dead itcouldn't hurt her and I threw it in. Then the eel came to lifeon the hill and we heard her scream and saw her jump out. I wasawful sorry. That's all, father. "

It was not quite as bad as Mr. Meredith had feared, but it wasquite bad enough. "I must punish you, Carl, " he saidsorrowfully. 

"Yes, I know, father. "

"I--I must whip you. "

Carl winced. He had never been whipped. Then, seeing how badlyhis father felt, he said cheerfully, "All right, father. "

Mr. Meredith misunderstood his cheerfulness and thought himinsensible. He told Carl to come to the study after supper, andwhen the boy had gone out he flung himself into his chair andgroaned again. He dreaded the evening sevenfold more than Carldid. The poor minister did not even know what he should whip hisboy with. What was used to whip boys? Rods? Canes? No, thatwould be too brutal. A timber switch, then? And he, JohnMeredith, must hie him to the woods and cut one. It was anabominable thought. Then a picture presented itself unbidden tohis mind. He saw Mrs. Carr's wizened, nut-cracker little faceat the appearance of that reviving eel--he saw her sailingwitch-like over the buggy wheels. Before he could preventhimself the minister laughed. Then he was angry with himself andangrier still with Carl. He would get that switch at once--andit must not be too limber, after all. 

Carl was talking the matter over in the graveyard with Faith andUna, who had just come home. They were horrified at the idea ofhis being whipped--and by father, who had never done such athing! But they agreed soberly that it was just. 

"You know it was a dreadful thing to do, " sighed Faith. "And younever owned up in the club. "

"I forgot, " said Carl. "Besides, I didn't think any harm came ofit. I didn't know she jarred her legs. But I'm to be whippedand that will make things square. "

"Will it hurt--very much?" said Una, slipping her hand intoCarl's. 

"Oh, not so much, I guess, " said Carl gamely. "Anyhow, I'm notgoing to cry, no matter how much it hurts. It would make fatherfeel so bad, if I did. He's all cut up now. I wish I could whipmyself hard enough and save him doing it. "

After supper, at which Carl had eaten little and Mr. Meredithnothing at all, both went silently into the study. The switchlay on the table. Mr. Meredith had had a bad time getting aswitch to suit him. He cut one, then felt it was too slender. Carl had done a really indefensible thing. Then he cutanother--it was far too thick. After all, Carl had thought theeel was dead. The third one suited him better; but as he pickedit up from the table it seemed very thick and heavy--more like astick than a switch. 

"Hold out your hand, " he said to Carl. 

Carl threw back his head and held out his hand unflinchingly. But he was not very old and he could not quite keep a little fearout of his eyes. Mr. Meredith looked down into those eyes--why, they were Cecilia's eyes--her very eyes--and in them was theselfsame expression he had once seen in Cecilia's eyes when shehad come to him to tell him something she had been a littleafraid to tell him. Here were her eyes in Carl's little, whiteface--and six weeks ago he had thought, through one endless, terrible night, that his little lad was dying. 

John Meredith threw down the switch. 

"Go, " he said, "I cannot whip you. "

Carl fled to the graveyard, feeling that the look on his father'sface was worse than any whipping. 

"Is it over so soon?" asked Faith. She and Una had been holdinghands and setting teeth on the Pollock tombstone. 

"He--he didn't whip me at all, " said Carl with a sob, "and--Iwish he had--and he's in there, feeling just awful. "

Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort her father. Asnoiselessly as a little gray mouse she opened the study door andcrept in. The room was dark with twilight. Her father wassitting at his desk. His back was towards her--his head was inhis hands. He was talking to himself--broken, anguished words--but Una heard--heard and understood, with the sudden illuminationthat comes to sensitive, unmothered children. As silently as shehad come in she slipped out and closed the door. John Meredithwent on talking out his pain in what he deemed his undisturbedsolitude. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. UNA VISITS THE HILL

Una went upstairs. Carl and Faith were already on their waythrough the early moonlight to Rainbow Valley, having heardtherefrom the elfin lilt of Jerry's jews-harp and having guessedthat the Blythes were there and fun afoot. Una had no wish togo. She sought her own room first where she sat down on her bedand had a little cry. She did not want anybody to come in herdear mother's place. She did not want a stepmother who wouldhate her and make her father hate her. But father was sodesperately unhappy--and if she could do any anything to make himhappier she MUST do it. There was only one thing she coulddo--and she had known the moment she had left the study that shemust do it. But it was a very hard thing to do. 

After Una cried her heart out she wiped her eyes and went to thespare room. It was dark and rather musty, for the blind had notbeen drawn up nor the window opened for a long time. Aunt Marthawas no fresh-air fiend. But as nobody ever thought of shutting adoor in the manse this did not matter so much, save when someunfortunate minister came to stay all night and was compelled tobreathe the spare room atmosphere. 

There was a closet in the spare room and far back in the closet agray silk dress was hanging. Una went into the closet and shutthe door, went down on her knees and pressed her face against thesoft silken folds. It had been her mother's wedding-dress. Itwas still full of a sweet, faint, haunting perfume, likelingering love. Una always felt very close to her motherthere--as if she were kneeling at her feet with head in her lap. She went there once in a long while when life was TOO hard. 

"Mother, " she whispered to the gray silk gown, "_I_ will neverforget you, mother, and I'll ALWAYS love you best. But I have todo it, mother, because father is so very unhappy. I know youwouldn't want him to be unhappy. And I will be very good to her, mother, and try to love her, even if she is like Mary Vance saidstepmothers always were. "

Una carried some fine, spiritual strength away from her secretshrine. She slept peacefully that night with the tear stainsstill glistening on her sweet, serious, little face. 

The next afternoon she put on her best dress and hat. They wereshabby enough. Every other little girl in the Glen had newclothes that summer except Faith and Una. Mary Vance had alovely dress of white embroidered lawn, with scarlet silk sashand shoulder bows. But to-day Una did not mind her shabbiness. She only wanted to be very neat. She washed her face carefully. She brushed her black hair until it was as smooth as satin. Shetied her shoelaces carefully, having first sewed up two runs inher one pair of good stockings. She would have liked to blackher shoes, but she could not find any blacking. Finally, sheslipped away from the manse, down through Rainbow Valley, upthrough the whispering woods, and out to the road that ran pastthe house on the hill. It was quite a long walk and Una wastired and warm when she got there. 

She saw Rosemary West sitting under a tree in the garden andstole past the dahlia beds to her. Rosemary had a book in herlap, but she was gazing afar across the harbour and her thoughtswere sorrowful enough. Life had not been pleasant lately in thehouse on the hill. Ellen had not sulked--Ellen had been a brick. But things can be felt that are never said and at times thesilence between the two women was intolerably eloquent. All themany familiar things that had once made life sweet had a flavourof bitterness now. Norman Douglas made periodical irruptionsalso, bullying and coaxing Ellen by turns. It would end, Rosemary believed, by his dragging Ellen off with him some day, and Rosemary felt that she would be almost glad when it happened. Existence would be horribly lonely then, but it would be nolonger charged with dynamite. 

She was roused from her unpleasant reverie by a timid littletouch on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Una Meredith. 

"Why, Una, dear, did you walk up here in all this heat?"

"Yes, " said Una, "I came to--I came to--"

But she found it very hard to say what she had come to do. Hervoice failed--her eyes filled with tears. 

"Why, Una, little girl, what is the trouble? Don't be afraid totell me. "

Rosemary put her arm around the thin little form and drew thechild close to her. Her eyes were very beautiful--her touch sotender that Una found courage. 

"I came--to ask you--to marry father, " she gasped. 

Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer dumbfounderment. Shestared at Una blankly. 

"Oh, don't be angry, please, dear Miss West, " said Una, pleadingly. "You see, everybody is saying that you wouldn'tmarry father because we are so bad. He is VERY unhappy about it. So I thought I would come and tell you that we are never bad ONPURPOSE. And if you will only marry father we will all try to begood and do just what you tell us. I'm SURE you won't have anytrouble with us. PLEASE, Miss West. "

Rosemary had been thinking rapidly. Gossiping surmise, she saw, had put this mistaken idea into Una's mind. She must beperfectly frank and sincere with the child. 

"Una, dear, " she said softly. "It isn't because of you poorlittle souls that I cannot be your father's wife. I neverthought of such a thing. You are not bad--I never supposed youwere. There--there was another reason altogether, Una. "

"Don't you like father?" asked Una, lifting reproachful eyes. "Oh, Miss West, you don't know how nice he is. I'm sure he'dmake you a GOOD husband. "

Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress Rosemarycouldn't help a twisted, little smile. 

"Oh, don't laugh, Miss West, " Una cried passionately. "Fatherfeels DREADFUL about it. "

"I think you're mistaken, dear, " said Rosemary. 

"I'm not. I'm SURE I'm not. Oh, Miss West, father was going towhip Carl yesterday--Carl had been naughty--and father couldn'tdo it because you see he had no PRACTICE in whipping. So whenCarl came out and told us father felt so bad, I slipped into thestudy to see if I could help him--he LIKES me to comfort him, Miss West--and he didn't hear me come in and I heard what he wassaying. I'll tell you, Miss West, if you'll let me whisper it inyour ear. "

Una whispered earnestly. Rosemary's face turned crimson. SoJohn Meredith still cared. HE hadn't changed his mind. And hemust care intensely if he had said that--care more than she hadever supposed he did. She sat still for a moment, stroking Una'shair. Then she said, "Will you take a little letter from me to your father, Una?"

"Oh, are you going to marry him, Miss West?" asked Una eagerly. 

"Perhaps--if he really wants me to, " said Rosemary, blushingagain. 

"I'm glad--I'm glad, " said Una bravely. Then she looked up, withquivering lips. "Oh, Miss West, you won't turn father againstus--you won't make him hate us, will you?" she said beseechingly. 

Rosemary stared again. 

"Una Meredith! Do you think I would do such a thing? Whateverput such an idea into your head?"

"Mary Vance said stepmothers were all like that--and that theyall hated their stepchildren and made their father hate them--shesaid they just couldn't help it--just being stepmothers made themlike that"--

"You poor child! And yet you came up here and asked me to marryyour father because you wanted to make him happy? You're adarling--a heroine--as Ellen would say, you're a brick. Nowlisten to me, very closely, dearest. Mary Vance is a sillylittle girl who doesn't know very much and she is dreadfullymistaken about some things. I would never dream of trying toturn your father against you. I would love you all dearly. Idon't want to take your own mother's place--she must always havethat in your hearts. But neither have I any intention of being astepmother. I want to be your friend and helper and CHUM. Don'tyou think that would be nice, Una--if you and Faith and Carl andJerry could just think of me as a good jolly chum--a big oldersister?"

"Oh, it would be lovely, " cried Una, with a transfigured face. She flung her arms impulsively round Rosemary's neck. She was sohappy that she felt as if she could fly on wings. 

"Do the others--do Faith and the boys have the same idea you hadabout stepmothers?"

"No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I was dreadfully foolishto believe her, either. Faith loves you already--she has lovedyou ever since poor Adam was eaten. And Jerry and Carl willthink it is jolly. Oh, Miss West, when you come to live with us, will you--could you--teach me to cook--a little--and sew--and--and--and do things? I don't know anything. I won't be muchtrouble--I'll try to learn fast. "

"Darling, I'll teach you and help you all I can. Now, you won'tsay a word to anybody about this, will you--not even to Faith, until your father himself tells you you may? And you'll stay andhave tea with me?"

"Oh, thank you--but--but--I think I'd rather go right back andtake the letter to father, " faltered Una. "You see, he'll beglad that much SOONER, Miss West. "

"I see, " said Rosemary. She went to the house, wrote a note andgave it to Una. When that small damsel had run off, apalpitating bundle of happiness, Rosemary went to Ellen, who wasshelling peas on the back porch. 

"Ellen, " she said, "Una Meredith has just been here to ask me tomarry her father. "

Ellen looked up and read her sister's face. 

"And you're going to?" she said. 

"It's quite likely. "

Ellen went on shelling peas for a few minutes. Then she suddenlyput her hands up to her own face. There were tears in herblack-browed eyes. 

"I--I hope we'll all be happy, " she said between a sob and alaugh. 

Down at the manse Una Meredith, warm, rosy, triumphant, marchedboldly into her father's study and laid a letter on the deskbefore him. His pale face flushed as he saw the clear, finehandwriting he knew so well. He opened the letter. It was veryshort--but he shed twenty years as he read it. Rosemary askedhim if he could meet her that evening at sunset by the spring inRainbow Valley. 

CHAPTER XXXV. "LET THE PIPER COME"

"And so, " said Miss Cornelia, "the double wedding is to besometime about the middle of this month. "

There was a faint chill in the air of the early Septemberevening, so Anne had lighted her ever ready fire of driftwood inthe big living room, and she and Miss Cornelia basked in itsfairy flicker. 

"It is so delightful--especially in regard to Mr. Meredith andRosemary, " said Anne. "I'm as happy in the thought of it, as Iwas when I was getting married myself. I felt exactly like abride again last evening when I was up on the hill seeingRosemary's trousseau. "

"They tell me her things are fine enough for a princess, " saidSusan from a shadowy corner where she was cuddling her brown boy. "I have been invited up to see them also and I intend to go someevening. I understand that Rosemary is to wear white silk and aveil, but Ellen is to be married in navy blue. I have no doubt, Mrs. Dr. Dear, that that is very sensible of her, but for my ownpart I have always felt that if I were ever married _I_ wouldprefer the white and the veil, as being more bride-like. "

A vision of Susan in "white and a veil" presented itself beforeAnne's inner vision and was almost too much for her. 

"As for Mr. Meredith, " said Miss Cornelia, "even his engagementhas made a different man of him. He isn't half so dreamy andabsent-minded, believe me. I was so relieved when I heard thathe had decided to close the manse and let the children visitround while he was away on his honeymoon. If he had left themand old Aunt Martha there alone for a month I should haveexpected to wake every morning and see the place burned down. "

"Aunt Martha and Jerry are coming here, " said Anne. "Carl isgoing to Elder Clow's. I haven't heard where the girls aregoing. "

"Oh, I'm going to take them, " said Miss Cornelia. "Of course, Iwas glad to, but Mary would have given me no peace till I askedthem any way. The Ladies' Aid is going to clean the manse fromtop to bottom before the bride and groom come back, and NormanDouglas has arranged to fill the cellar with vegetables. Nobodyever saw or heard anything quite like Norman Douglas these days, believe ME. He's so tickled that he's going to marry Ellen Westafter wanting her all his life. If _I_ was Ellen--but then, I'mnot, and if she is satisfied I can very well be. I heard her sayyears ago when she was a schoolgirl that she didn't want a tamepuppy for a husband. There's nothing tame about Norman, believeME. "

The sun was setting over Rainbow Valley. The pond was wearing awonderful tissue of purple and gold and green and crimson. Afaint blue haze rested on the eastern hill, over which a great, pale, round moon was just floating up like a silver bubble. 

They were all there, squatted in the little open glade--Faith andUna, Jerry and Carl, Jem and Walter, Nan and Di, and Mary Vance. They had been having a special celebration, for it would be Jem'slast evening in Rainbow Valley. On the morrow he would leave forCharlottetown to attend Queen's Academy. Their charmed circlewould be broken; and, in spite of the jollity of their littlefestival, there was a hint of sorrow in every gay young heart. 

"See--there is a great golden palace over there in the sunset, "said Walter, pointing. "Look at the shining tower--and thecrimson banners streaming from them. Perhaps a conqueror isriding home from battle--and they are hanging them out to dohonour to him. "

"Oh, I wish we had the old days back again, " exclaimed Jem. "I'dlove to be a soldier--a great, triumphant general. I'd giveEVERYTHING to see a big battle. "

Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater battle than hadever been fought in the world; but that was as yet far in thefuture; and the mother, whose first-born son he was, was wont tolook on her boys and thank God that the "brave days of old, "which Jem longed for, were gone for ever, and that never would itbe necessary for the sons of Canada to ride forth to battle "forthe ashes of their fathers and the temples of their gods. "

The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt anyforerunner of its chill. The lads who were to fight, and perhapsfall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli andPalestine, were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life inprospect before them: the girls whose hearts were to be wrungwere yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. 

Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their crimson andgold; slowly the conqueror's pageant faded out. Twilight creptover the valley and the little group grew silent. Walter hadbeen reading again that day in his beloved book of myths and heremembered how he had once fancied the Pied Piper coming down thevalley on an evening just like this. 

He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrillhis companions a little, partly because something apart from himseemed to be speaking through his lips. 

"The Piper is coming nearer, " he said, "he is nearer than he wasthat evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak isblowing around him. He pipes--he pipes--and we must follow--Jemand Carl and Jerry and I--round and round the world. Listen--listen--can't you hear his wild music?"

The girls shivered. 

"You know you're only pretending, " protested Mary Vance, "and Iwish you wouldn't. You make it too real. I hate that old Piperof yours. "

But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood up on a littlehillock, tall and splendid, with his open brow and his fearlesseyes. There were thousands like him all over the land of themaple. 

"Let the Piper come and welcome, " he cried, waving his hand. "I'LL follow him gladly round and round the world. "

THE END