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diff --git a/old/5343.txt b/old/5343.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c2f1956..0000000 --- a/old/5343.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9240 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rainbow Valley, by Lucy Maud Montgomery - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Rainbow Valley - -Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery - - -Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5343] -This file was first posted on July 3, 2002 -Last Updated: April 15, 2013 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW VALLEY *** - - - - -Produced by Bernard J. Farber, Carmen Baxter, Dona Rucci, -Elizabeth Morton, Rebekah Neely, Joe Johnson, Joan Chovan, -Judith Fetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake, Sally Starks, -Steve Callis, Virginia Mohlere-Dellinger, Mary Mark -Ockerbloom and Ben Crowder - - - - - - - - -RAINBOW VALLEY - -By L. M. Montgomery - - -Author of "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of the Island," "Anne's House of -Dreams," "The Story Girl," "The Watchman," etc. - -________________________________________________________________________ -This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative at -the Celebration of Women Writers through the combined work of Bernard J. -Farber, Carmen Baxter, Dona Rucci, Elizabeth Morton, Rebekah Neely, Joe -Johnson, Joan Chovan, Judith Fetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake, -Sally Starks, Steve Callis, Virginia Mohlere-Dellinger and Mary Mark -Ockerbloom. - -http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/ - -Reformatted by Ben Crowder -________________________________________________________________________ - - - "The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." - --LONGFELLOW - -TO THE MEMORY OF - -GOLDWIN LAPP, ROBERT BROOKES AND MORLEY SHIER - -WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE THAT THE HAPPY VALLEYS OF THEIR HOME LAND -MIGHT BE KEPT SACRED FROM THE 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 Winds Harbour was -mirroring back the clouds of the golden west between its softly dark -shores. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring, -but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the red harbour road along which -Miss Cornelia's comfortable, matronly figure was making its way towards -the village of Glen St. Mary. Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. Marshall -Elliott, and had been Mrs. Marshall Elliott for thirteen years, but even -yet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs. -Elliott. The old name was dear to her old friends, only one of them -contemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithful -handmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, never lost an opportunity -of calling her "Mrs. Marshall Elliott," with the most killing and -pointed emphasis, as if to say "You wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs. you shall -be with a vengeance as far as I am concerned." - -Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, who -were just home from Europe. They had been away for three months, having -left in February to attend a famous medical congress in London; and -certain things, which Miss Cornelia was anxious to discuss, had taken -place in the Glen during their absence. For one thing, there was a new -family in the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook her head -over them several times as she walked briskly along. - -Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they -sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat's -light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, -and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing 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 any right to be; -and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbour road, were -as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream as ever. Behind her, in the -hammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creature -of six years, the youngest of the Ingleside children. She had curly red -hair and hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkled -fashion in which Rilla 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 was Susan's especial -love. After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, and Susan -"mothered" the baby with a passionate tenderness which none of the other -children, dear as they were to her, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe had -said that but for her he would never have lived. - -"I gave him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan was 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 be kissed for bumps, and rocked -to sleep, and protected from well-deserved spankings. Susan had -conscientiously spanked all the other Blythe children when she thought -they needed it for their souls' good, but she would not spank Shirley -nor allow his mother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him and -Susan had been 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 doctor a pie for -weeks. - -She had taken Shirley with her to her brother's home during his parents' -absence, while all the other children had gone to Avonlea, and she had -three blessed months of him all to herself. Nevertheless, Susan was very -glad to find herself back at Ingleside, with all her darlings around her -again. Ingleside was her world and in it she reigned supreme. Even Anne -seldom questioned her decisions, much to the disgust of Mrs. Rachel -Lynde of Green Gables, who gloomily told Anne, whenever she visited Four -Winds, that she was letting Susan get to be entirely too 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 three months' gossip on -us." - -"I hope so," said Anne, hugging her knees. "I'm starving for Glen St. -Mary gossip, Susan. I hope Miss Cornelia can tell me everything that -has happened while we've been away--EVERYTHING--who has got born, or -married, or drunk; who has died, or gone away, or come, or fought, or -lost a cow, or found a beau. It's so delightful to be home again with -all the dear Glen folks, and I want to know all about them. Why, I -remember wondering, as I walked through Westminster Abbey which of her -two especial beaux Millicent Drew would finally marry. Do you know, -Susan, I have a dreadful suspicion that I love gossip." - -"Well, of course, Mrs. Dr. dear," admitted Susan, "every proper woman -likes to hear the news. I am rather interested in Millicent 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 when you get used to it. Millicent's -hair always looks to me as if she had swept it up with a broom. But the -men do not seem to mind that." - -"They see only her pretty, piquant, mocking, little face, Susan." - -"That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The Good Book says that favour is -deceitful and beauty is vain, but I should not have minded finding that -out for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we will -all be beautiful when we are angels, but what good will it do us then? -Speaking of gossip, however, they do say that poor Mrs. Harrison Miller -over harbour tried to hang herself last week." - -"Oh, Susan!" - -"Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. She did not succeed. But I really do not -blame her for trying, for her husband is a terrible man. But she was -very foolish to think of hanging herself and leaving the way clear for -him to marry some other woman. If I had been in her shoes, Mrs. Dr. -dear, I would have gone to work to worry him so that he would try -to hang himself instead of me. Not that I hold with people hanging -themselves under any circumstances, Mrs. Dr. dear." - -"What is the matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?" said Anne -impatiently. "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. It seems they cannot -make out which it is in Harrison's case. There are days when he -growls at everybody because he thinks he is fore-ordained to eternal -punishment. And then there are days when he says he does not care and -goes and gets drunk. My own opinion is that he is not sound in his -intellect, for none of that branch of the Millers were. His grandfather -went out of his mind. He thought he was surrounded by big black spiders. -They crawled over him and floated in the air about him. I hope I shall -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-wise Providence should decree -it, I hope it will not take the form of big black spiders, for I loathe -the animals. As for Mrs. Miller, I do not know whether she really -deserves pity or not. There are some 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 will put this blessed brown baby on his bed and get my knitting." - - - -CHAPTER II. SHEER GOSSIP - -"Where are the other children?" asked Miss Cornelia, when the first -greetings--cordial on her side, rapturous on Anne's, and dignified on -Susan's--were over. - -"Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down in their -beloved Rainbow Valley," said Anne. "They just came home this afternoon, -you know, and they could hardly wait until supper was over before -rushing down to the valley. They love it above every spot on earth. Even -the maple grove doesn't rival it in their affections." - -"I am afraid they love it too well," said Susan gloomily. "Little Jem -said once he would rather go to Rainbow Valley than to 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, in particular, 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 with Susan. Miss Cornelia -held that the woman whose hands were employed always had the advantage -over the woman whose hands were not. - -"Marilla is eighty-five," said Anne with a sigh. "Her hair is -snow-white. But, strange to say, her eyesight is better than it was when -she was sixty." - -"Well, dearie, I'm real glad you're all back. I've been dreadful -lonesome. But we haven't been dull in the Glen, believe ME. There hasn't -been such an exciting spring in my time, as far as church 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. "He is VERY -nice--and very learned--and very spiritual. But, oh Anne dearie, 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 ever had in -Glen St. Mary church," said Miss Cornelia, veering a tack or two. "I -suppose it is because he is so moony and absent-minded that he never got -a town call. His trial sermon was 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 in Susan, 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 some talk of calling Mr. -Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, but somehow people didn't care for -his appearance. He was too dark and 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 the pulpit every -Sunday." - -"Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge--neither harm -nor good," resumed Miss Cornelia. "But if he had preached like Peter and -Paul it would have profited him nothing, for that was the day old Caleb -Ramsay's sheep strayed into church and gave a loud 'ba-a-a' just as he -announced his text. Everybody laughed, and poor Rogers had no chance -after that. Some thought we 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 to heaven -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 worst candidating text there is in the -Bible--'Curse ye Meroz.'" - -"Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible and shout -very bitterly, 'Curse ye Meroz.' Poor Meroz got thoroughly cursed that -day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. - -"The minister who is candidating can't be too careful what text he -chooses," said Miss Cornelia solemnly. "I believe Mr. Pierson would have -got the call if he had picked a different text. But when he announced 'I -will lift my eyes to the hills' HE was done for. Every one grinned, for -every one knew that those two Hill girls from the Harbour Head have been -setting their caps for every single minister who came to the Glen for -the last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too large a family." - -"He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow," said Susan. "'How many -children have you got?' I asked him. 'Nine boys and a sister for each of -them,' he said. 'Eighteen!' said I. 'Dear me, what a family!' And then -he laughed and laughed. But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am -certain that eighteen children would be too many for any manse." - -"He had only ten children, Susan," explained Miss Cornelia, with -contemptuous patience. "And ten good children would not be much worse -for the manse and congregation than the four who are there now. Though -I wouldn't say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I like -them--everybody likes them. It's impossible to help liking them. They -would be real nice little souls if there was anyone to look after their -manners and teach them what is right and proper. For instance, at school -the teacher says they are 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 had known that I don't -suppose we would have called him, for a widower is even worse in -a congregation than a single man. But he was heard to speak of his -children and we all supposed there was a mother, too. And when they came -there was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She's a cousin -of Mr. Meredith's mother, I believe, and he took her in to save her from -the poorhouse. She is seventy-five years old, half blind, and very deaf -and very cranky." - -"And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear." - -"The worst possible manager for a manse," said Miss Cornelia bitterly. -"Mr. Meredith won't get any other housekeeper because he 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 to mother them -already in her heart. - -"Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald's the oldest. -He's twelve and they call him Jerry. He's a clever boy. Faith is eleven. -She is a regular tomboy but pretty as a picture, 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 one night last week and -Mrs. James Millison was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen eggs -and a little pail of milk--a VERY little pail, Mrs. Dr. dear. Faith -took them and whisked down the cellar with them. Near the bottom of the -stairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggs -and all. You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But that child came -up laughing. 'I don't know whether I'm myself or a custard pie,' she -said. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said she would never -take another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted 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 an excuse for -curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes. She is so -heedless and impulsive." - -"Just like me. I'm going to like your Faith," said Anne decidedly. - -"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 always makes you want -to laugh too. She can't even keep a straight face in church. Una is -ten--she's a sweet little thing--not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas -Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania for -collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house." - -"I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a chair -in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gave her a turn," -said Susan, "and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no places for -dead rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who left it, there. HE is -as full of the old Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr. dear. A manse cat -should at least LOOK respectable, in my opinion, whatever he really -is. But I never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And he walks along the -ridgepole 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," sighed Miss -Cornelia. "And since the snow went they go to school barefooted. -Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn't the right thing for manse -children--especially when the Methodist minister'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," said Anne. "I've -always thought graveyards must be delightful places to play in." - -"Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear," said loyal Susan, determined to -protect Anne from herself. "You have too much good sense and decorum." - -"Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the first -place?" asked Anne. "Their lawn is so small there is no place for them -to play except in the graveyard." - -"It WAS a mistake," admitted Miss Cornelia. "But they got the lot cheap. -And no other manse children ever thought of playing there. Mr. Meredith -shouldn't allow it. But he has always got his 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't forgotten to be in church on Sundays, but -twice he has forgotten about the prayer-meeting and one of the elders -had to go over to the manse and remind him. And he forgot about Fanny -Cooper's wedding. They rang him up on the 'phone and then he rushed -right over, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One wouldn't -mind if the Methodists didn't laugh so about it. But there's one -comfort--they can't criticize his sermons. He wakes up when he's in the -pulpit, believe ME. And the Methodist minister can't preach at all--so -they tell me. _I_ have never heard him, thank goodness." - -Miss Cornelia's scorn of men had abated somewhat since her marriage, -but her scorn of Methodists remained untinged of charity. Susan smiled -slyly. - -"They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists and -Presbyterians are talking of uniting," she said. - -"Well, all I hope is that I'll be under the sod if that ever comes to -pass," retorted Miss Cornelia. "I shall never have truck or trade with -Methodists, and Mr. Meredith will find that he'd better steer clear of -them, too. He is entirely too sociable 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 Drew never did -or could carve. Well, Mr. Meredith tackled it, and in the process he -knocked it clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese's lap, 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 a Methodist." - -"But I think that is better than if she was a Presbyterian," interjected -Susan. "If she had been a Presbyterian she would mostly likely have left -the church and we cannot afford to lose our members. And Mrs. Reese is -not liked in her own church, because she gives herself such great airs, -so that the Methodists would be rather pleased that Mr. Meredith spoiled -her dress." - -"The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and _I_, for one, do not like -to see my minister made ridiculous in the eyes of the Methodists," -said Miss Cornelia stiffly. "If he had had a wife it would not have -happened." - -"I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they could have prevented Mrs. -Drew from using up her tough old gander for the wedding-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 does not -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 blame everything on the men. Mrs. Drew -is mean enough herself. They say that the only thing she was ever known -to give away was a crock of butter made out of cream a rat had fell -into. She contributed it to a church social. Nobody found out about the -rat until afterwards." - -"Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have offended so far are -Methodists," said Miss Cornelia. "That Jerry went to the Methodist -prayer-meeting one night about a fortnight ago and sat beside old -William Marsh who got up as usual and testified with fearful groans. 'Do -you feel any better now?' whispered Jerry when William sat down. Poor -Jerry meant to be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he was impertinent -and is furious at him. Of course, Jerry had no business to be in a -Methodist prayer-meeting at all. But they go where they like." - -"I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the Harbour Head," said -Susan. "She is a very touchy woman, I understand, but she is very well -off and pays the most of any one to the salary. I have heard that she -says the Merediths are the worst brought up children she ever saw." - -"Every word you say convinces me more and more that the Merediths belong -to the race that knows Joseph," said Mistress Anne decidedly. - -"When all is said and done, they DO," admitted Miss Cornelia. "And that -balances everything. Anyway, we've got them now and we must just do the -best we can by them and stick up for them to the Methodists. Well, I -suppose I must be getting down harbour. Marshall will soon be home--he -went over-harbour to-day--and wanting his super, man-like. I'm sorry I -haven't seen the other children. And where's the doctor?" - -"Up at the Harbour Head. We've only been home three days and in that -time he has spent three hours in his own bed and eaten two meals in his -own house." - -"Well, everybody who has been sick for the last six weeks has been -waiting for him to come home--and I don't blame them. When that -over-harbour doctor married the undertaker's daughter at Lowbridge -people felt suspicious of him. It didn't look well. You and the doctor -must come down soon and tell us all about your trip. I suppose you've -had a splendid time." - -"We had," agreed Anne. "It was the fulfilment of years of dreams. The -old world is very lovely and very wonderful. But we have come back very -well satisfied with our own land. Canada is the 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 Winds the -loveliest spot in P.E.I.," laughed Anne, looking adoringly out over the -sunset splendour of glen and harbour and gulf. She waved her hand at it. -"I saw nothing more beautiful than that in Europe, Miss Cornelia. Must -you go? The children will be sorry to have missed you." - -"They must come and see me soon. Tell them the doughnut jar is always -full." - -"Oh, at supper they were planning a descent on you. They'll go soon; but -they must settle down to school again now. And the twins are going to -take music lessons." - -"Not from the Methodist minister's wife, I hope?" said Miss Cornelia -anxiously. - -"No--from Rosemary West. I was up last evening to arrange it with her. -What a pretty girl she is!" - -"Rosemary holds her own well. She isn't as young as she once was." - -"I thought her very charming. I've never had any real acquaintance with -her, you know. Their house is so out of the way, and I've seldom ever -seen her except at church." - -"People always have liked Rosemary West, though they don't understand -her," said Miss Cornelia, quite unconscious of the high tribute she -was paying to Rosemary's charm. "Ellen has always 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 -were drowned. Rosemary was just a child--only seventeen. But she was -never the same afterwards. She and Ellen have stayed very close at home -since their mother's death. They don't often get to their own church at -Lowbridge and I understand Ellen doesn't approve of going too often to a -Presbyterian church. To the Methodist she NEVER goes, I'll say that much -for her. That family of Wests have always been strong Episcopalians. -Rosemary and Ellen are pretty well off. Rosemary doesn't really need to -give music lessons. She does it because she likes to. They are distantly -related to Leslie, you know. Are the Fords coming to the harbour this -summer?" - -"No. They are going on a trip to Japan and will probably be away for a -year. Owen's new novel is to have a Japanese setting. This will be the -first summer that the dear old House of Dreams will be empty since we -left it." - -"I should think Owen Ford might find enough to write about in Canada -without dragging his wife and his innocent children off to a heathen -country like Japan," grumbled Miss Cornelia. "_The Life Book_ was the -best book he's ever written and he got the material for that right here -in Four Winds." - -"Captain Jim gave him the most of that, you know. And he collected it -all over the world. But Owen's books are all delightful, I think." - -"Oh, they're well enough as far as they go. I make it a point to read -every one he writes, though I've always held, Anne dearie, that reading -novels is a sinful waste of time. I shall write and tell him my opinion -of this Japanese business, believe ME. Does he want Kenneth and Persis -to be converted into pagans?" - -With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cornelia took her departure. -Susan proceeded to put Rilla in bed and Anne sat on the veranda steps -under the early stars and dreamed her incorrigible dreams and learned -all over again for the hundredth happy time what a moonrise splendour -and sheen could be on Four Winds Harbour. - - - -CHAPTER III. THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN - -In daytime the Blythe children liked very well to play in the rich, soft -greens and glooms of the big maple grove between Ingleside and the Glen -St. Mary pond; but for evening revels there was no place like the little -valley behind the maple grove. It was a fairy realm of romance to them. -Once, looking from the attic windows of Ingleside, through the mist -and aftermath of a summer thunderstorm, they had seen the beloved spot -arched by a glorious rainbow, one end of which seemed to dip straight -down to where a corner of the pond ran up into the lower end of the -valley. - -"Let us call it Rainbow Valley," said Walter delightedly, and Rainbow -Valley thenceforth it was. - -Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be rollicking and boisterous. -Here it always went gently. Little, winding, fairy paths 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 dark spruces. A little brook with amber waters -ran through it from the Glen village. The houses of the village were -comfortably far away; only at the upper end of the valley was a little -tumble-down, deserted cottage, referred to as "the old Bailey house." It -had not been occupied for many years, but a grass-grown dyke surrounded -it and inside was an ancient garden where the Ingleside children could -find violets and daisies and June lilies still blooming in season. For -the rest, the garden was overgrown with caraway that swayed and foamed -in the moonshine of summer eves like seas of silver. - -To the sought lay the pond and beyond it the ripened distance lost -itself in purple woods, save where, on a high hill, a solitary old gray -homestead looked down on glen and harbour. There was a certain wild -woodsiness and solitude about Rainbow Valley, in spite of its nearness -to the village, which endeared it to the children of Ingleside. - -The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows and the largest of these -was their favourite stamping ground. Here they were assembled on this -particular evening. There was a grove of young spruces in this hollow, -with a tiny, grassy glade in its heart, opening on the bank of the -brook. By the brook grew a silver birch-tree, a young, incredibly -straight thing which Walter had named the "White Lady." In this glade, -too, were the "Tree Lovers," as Walter called a spruce and maple -which grew so closely together that their boughs were inextricably -intertwined. Jem had hung an old string of sleigh-bells, given him -by the Glen blacksmith, on the Tree Lovers, and every visitant breeze -called out sudden fairy tinkles from it. - -"How nice it is to be back!" said Nan. "After all, none of the Avonlea -places are quite as nice as Rainbow Valley." - -But they were very fond of the Avonlea places for all that. A visit to -Green Gables was always considered a great treat. Aunt Marilla was very -good to them, and so was Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who was spending the leisure -of her old age in knitting cotton-warp quilts 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 the spots their mother had loved so well in her girlhood at old -Green Gables--the long Lover's Lane, that was pink-hedged in wild-rose -time, the always neat yard, with its willows and poplars, the Dryad's -Bubble, lucent and lovely as of yore, the Lake of Shining Waters, and -Willowmere. The twins had their mother's old porch-gable room, and Aunt -Marilla used to come in at night, when she thought they were asleep, to -gloat over them. But they all knew she loved Jem the best. - -Jem was at present busily occupied in frying a mess of small trout which -he had just caught in the pond. His stove consisted of a circle of red -stones, with a fire kindled in it, and his culinary utensils were an -old tin can, hammered out flat, and a fork with only one tine left. -Nevertheless, ripping good meals had before now been thus prepared. - -Jem was the child of the House of Dreams. All the others had been born -at Ingleside. He had curly red hair, like his mother's, and frank hazel -eyes, like his father's; he had his mother's fine nose and his father's -steady, humorous mouth. And he was the only one of the family who had -ears nice enough to please Susan. But he had a standing feud with Susan -because she would 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, on his -eighth birthday. "I'm AWFUL big." - -Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again; and she never called him -Little Jem again--in his hearing at least. - -He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable little chap. He never -broke a promise. He was not a great talker. His teachers did not think -him brilliant, but he was a good, all-round student. He never took -things on faith; he always liked to investigate the truth of a statement -for himself. Once Susan had told him that if he touched his tongue to a -frosty latch all the skin would tear off it. Jem had promptly done it, -"just to see if it was so." He found it was "so," at the cost of a very -sore tongue for several days. But Jem did not grudge suffering in the -interests of science. By constant experiment and observation he -learned a great deal and his brothers and sisters thought his extensive -knowledge of their little world quite wonderful. Jem always knew where -the first and ripest berries grew, where the first pale violets shyly -wakened from their winter's sleep, and how many blue eggs were in a -given robin's nest in the maple grove. He could tell fortunes from daisy -petals and suck honey from red clovers, and grub up all sorts of edible -roots on the banks of the pond, while Susan went in daily fear that they -would all be poisoned. He knew where the finest spruce-gum was to be -found, in pale amber knots on the lichened bark, he knew where the nuts -grew thickest in the beechwoods around the Harbour Head, and where the -best trouting places up the brooks were. He could mimic the call of any -wild bird or beast in Four Winds and he knew the haunt of every wild -flower from spring to autumn. - -Walter Blythe was sitting under the White Lady, with a volume of poems -lying beside him, but he was not reading. He was gazing now at the -emerald-misted willows by the pond, and now at a flock of clouds, like -little silver sheep, herded by the wind, that were drifting over Rainbow -Valley, with rapture in his wide splendid eyes. Walter's eyes were -very wonderful. All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and -aspiration of many generations lying under the sod looked out of their -dark gray depths. - -Walter was a "hop out of kin," as far as looks went. He did not resemble -any known relative. He was quite the handsomest of the Ingleside -children, with straight black hair and finely modelled features. But he -had all his mother's vivid imagination and passionate love of beauty. -Frost of winter, invitation of spring, dream of summer and glamour of -autumn, all meant much to Walter. - -In school, where Jem was a chieftain, Walter was not thought highly 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 read books--especially "po'try books." Walter -loved the poets and pored over their pages from the time he could first -read. Their music was woven into his growing soul--the music of the -immortals. Walter cherished the ambition to be a poet himself some -day. The thing could be done. A certain Uncle Paul--so called out of -courtesy--who lived now in that mysterious realm called "the States," -was Walter's model. Uncle Paul had once been a little school boy in -Avonlea and now his poetry was read everywhere. But the Glen schoolboys -did not know of Walter's dreams and would not have been greatly -impressed if they had. In spite of his lack of physical prowess, -however, he commanded a certain unwilling respect because of his power -of "talking book talk." Nobody in Glen St. Mary school could talk like -him. He "sounded like a preacher," one boy said; and for this reason he -was generally left alone and not persecuted, as most boys were who were -suspected of disliking or fearing fisticuffs. - -The ten year old Ingleside twins violated twin tradition by not looking -in the least alike. Anne, who was always called Nan, was very pretty, -with velvety nut-brown eyes and silky nut-brown hair. She was a very -blithe and dainty little maiden--Blythe by name and blithe by nature, -one of her teachers had said. Her complexion was quite faultless, much -to her mother's satisfaction. - -"I'm so glad I have one daughter who can wear pink," Mrs. Blythe was -wont to say jubilantly. - -Diana Blythe, known as Di, was very like her mother, with gray-green -eyes that always shone with a peculiar lustre and brilliancy in the -dusk, and red hair. Perhaps this was why she was her father's favourite. -She and Walter were especial chums; Di was the only one to whom he would -ever read the verses he wrote himself--the only one who knew that he -was secretly hard at work on an epic, strikingly resembling "Marmion" in -some things, if not in others. She kept all his secrets, even from Nan, -and told him all hers. - -"Won't you soon have those fish ready, Jem?" said Nan, sniffing with 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 he -despised fried trout either, by any means; but with Walter food for the -soul always took first place. "The flower angel has been walking over -the world to-day, calling to the flowers. I can see his 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, just like the -haze in the valley. Oh, how I wish I could fly. It must be glorious." - -"One does fly in dreams sometimes," said Di. - -"I never dream that I'm flying exactly," said Walter. "But I often dream -that I just rise up from the ground and float over the fences and the -trees. It's delightful--and I always think, 'This ISN'T a dream like -it's always been before. THIS is real'--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 as -figuratively--from which many a feast, seasoned as no viands were -elsewhere, had been eaten in Rainbow Valley. It was converted into a -table by propping it on two large, mossy stones. Newspapers served as -tablecloth, and broken plates and handleless cups from Susan's discard -furnished the dishes. From a tin box secreted at the root of a spruce -tree Nan brought forth bread and salt. The brook gave Adam's ale of -unsurpassed crystal. For the rest, there was a certain sauce, compounded -of fresh air and appetite of youth, which gave to everything a divine -flavour. To sit in Rainbow Valley, steeped in a twilight half gold, half -amethyst, rife with the odours of balsam-fir and woodsy growing things -in their springtime prime, with the pale stars of wild strawberry -blossoms all around you, and with the sough of the wind and tinkle of -bells in the shaking tree tops, and eat fried trout and dry bread, was -something which the mighty of earth might have envied them. - -"Sit in," invited Nan, as Jem placed his sizzling tin platter of trout -on the table. "It's your turn to say grace, Jem." - -"I've done my part frying the trout," protested Jem, who hated saying -grace. "Let Walter say it. He LIKES saying grace. And cut it short, too, -Walt. I'm starving." - -But Walter said no grace, short or long, just then. An interruption -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 was something very homelike and -lovable about the Glen St. Mary manse in spite of its untidiness. Even -the critical housewives of the Glen felt it, and were unconsciously -mellowed in judgment because of it. Perhaps its charm was in part due to -accidental circumstances--the luxuriant vines clustering over its -gray, clap-boarded walls, the friendly acacias and balm-of-gileads that -crowded about it with the freedom of old acquaintance, and the beautiful -views of harbour and sand-dunes from its front windows. But these things -had been there in the reign of Mr. Meredith's predecessor, when the -manse had been the primmest, neatest, and dreariest house in the Glen. -So much of the credit must be given to the personality of its new -inmates. There was an atmosphere of laughter and comradeship about it; -the doors were always open; and inner and outer worlds joined hands. -Love was the only law in Glen St. Mary manse. - -The people of his congregation said that Mr. Meredith spoiled his -children. Very likely he did. It is certain that he could not bear to -scold them. "They have no mother," he used to say to himself, with a -sigh, when some unusually glaring peccadillo forced itself upon his -notice. But he did not know the half of their goings-on. He belonged -to the sect of dreamers. The windows of his study looked out on the -graveyard but, as he paced up and down the room, reflecting deeply on -the immortality of the soul, he was quite unaware that Jerry and Carl -were playing leap-frog hilariously over the flat stones in that abode of -dead Methodists. Mr. Meredith had occasional acute realizations that his -children were not so well looked after, physically or morally, as they -had been before his wife died, and he had always a dim sub-consciousness -that house and meals were very different under Aunt Martha's management -from what they had been under Cecilia's. For the rest, he lived in a -world of books and abstractions; and, therefore, although his clothes -were seldom brushed, and although the Glen housewives concluded, from -the ivory-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 old Methodist -graveyard at Glen St. Mary might be so called. The new graveyard, at the -other side of the Methodist church, was a neat and proper and doleful -spot; but the old one had been left so long to Nature's kindly and -gracious ministries that it had become 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 a row of tall fir -trees with thick, balsamic boughs. The dyke, which had been built by the -first settlers of the Glen, was old enough to be beautiful, with mosses -and green things growing out of its crevices, violets purpling at its -base in the early spring days, and asters and golden-rod making an -autumnal glory in its corners. Little ferns clustered companionably -between its stones, and here and there a big bracken grew. - -On the eastern side there was neither fence nor dyke. The graveyard -there straggled off into a young fir plantation, ever pushing nearer to -the graves and deepening eastward into a thick wood. The air was always -full of the harp-like voices of the sea, and the music of gray old -trees, and in the spring mornings the choruses of birds in the elms -around the two churches sang of life and not of death. The Meredith -children loved the old graveyard. - -Blue-eyed ivy, "garden-spruce," and mint ran riot over the sunken -graves. Blueberry bushes grew lavishly in the sandy corner next to the -fir wood. The varying fashions of tombstones for three generations were -to be found there, from the flat, oblong, red sandstone slabs of old -settlers, down through the days of weeping willows and clasped hands, to -the latest monstrosities of tall "monuments" and draped urns. One of -the latter, the biggest and ugliest in the graveyard, was sacred to the -memory of a certain Alec Davis who had been born a Methodist but had -taken to himself a Presbyterian bride of the Douglas clan. She had made -him turn Presbyterian and kept him toeing the Presbyterian mark all his -life. But when he died she did not dare to doom him to a lonely grave in -the Presbyterian graveyard over-harbour. His people were all buried in -the Methodist cemetery; so Alec Davis went back to his own in death and -his widow consoled herself by erecting a monument which cost more than -any of the Methodists could afford. The Meredith children hated it, -without just knowing why, but they loved the old, flat, bench-like -stones with the tall grasses growing rankly about them. They made jolly -seats for one thing. They were all sitting on one now. Jerry, tired of -leap frog, was playing on a jew's-harp. Carl was lovingly poring over a -strange beetle he had found; Una was trying to make a doll's dress, and -Faith, leaning back on her slender brown wrists, was swinging her bare -feet in lively time to the jew's-harp. - -Jerry had his father's black hair and large black eyes, but in him the -latter were flashing instead of dreamy. Faith, who came next 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 had shocked old Mrs. Taylor, -the disconsolate spouse of several departed husbands, by saucily -declaring--in the church-porch at that--"The world ISN'T a vale of -tears, Mrs. Taylor. It's a world of laughter." - -Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her braids of straight, -dead-black hair betrayed no lawless kinks, and her almond-shaped, -dark-blue eyes had something wistful and sorrowful in them. Her mouth -had a trick of falling open over her tiny white teeth, and a shy, -meditative smile occasionally crept over her small face. She was -much more sensitive to public opinion than Faith, and had an uneasy -consciousness that there was something askew in their way of living. She -longed to put it right, but did not know how. Now and then she dusted -the furniture--but it was so seldom she could find the duster because it -was never in the same place twice. And when the clothes-brush was to be -found she tried to brush her father's best suit on Saturdays, and once -sewed on a missing button with coarse white thread. When Mr. Meredith -went to church next day every female eye saw that button and the peace -of the Ladies' Aid was upset for 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 with bees and beetles. Una -never liked to sit near him because she never knew what uncanny creature -might be secreted about him. Jerry refused to sleep with him because -Carl had once taken a young garter snake to bed with him; so Carl slept -in his old cot, which was so short that he could never stretch out, and -had strange bed-fellows. Perhaps it was just as well that Aunt Martha -was half blind when she made that bed. Altogether they were a jolly, -lovable little crew, and Cecilia Meredith's heart must have ached -bitterly when she faced the knowledge that she must 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'D like that -corner near the road, I guess. I could hear the teams going 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 in the 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 be I'd -like the ant-bed. Ants are AWF'LY int'resting." - -"How very good all the people who are buried here must have been," said -Una, who had been reading the laudatory old epitaphs. "There doesn't -seem to be a single bad person in the whole graveyard. Methodists must -be better than Presbyterians after all." - -"Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just like they do cats," -suggested Carl. "Maybe they don't bother bringing them to the graveyard -at all." - -"Nonsense," said Faith. "The people that are buried here weren't any -better than other folks, Una. But when anyone is dead you mustn't say -anything of him but good or he'll come back and ha'nt you. Aunt Martha -told me that. I asked father if it was true and he just looked through -me and muttered, 'True? True? What is truth? What IS truth, O jesting -Pilate?' I concluded from that it must be true." - -"I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a -stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry. - -"Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like -a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made -one back at me and you should have seen her 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 or I'd have made a face at her, too!" - -"They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would -never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said -Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like." - -"I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the -station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "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 very handsome. - -"Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered -last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's -mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but -Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name." - -"I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to -school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of -the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins -look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think -the red-haired one is the nicest." - -"I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied -all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, -but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like -jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a -tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh. - -"They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry. - -"Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith. - -"She's taller than Mrs. Elliott." - -"Yes, yes, but it is inside--Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe just stayed a -little girl inside." - -"What do I smell?" interrupted Carl, sniffing. - -They all smelled it now. A most delectable odour came floating up on the -still evening air from the direction of the little woodsy dell below the -manse hill. - -"That makes me hungry," said Jerry. - -"We had only bread and molasses for supper and cold ditto for dinner," -said Una plaintively. - -Aunt Martha's habit was to boil a large slab of mutton early in the week -and serve it up every day, cold and greasy, as long as it lasted. To -this Faith, in a moment of inspiration, had give the name of "ditto", -and by this it was invariably known at the manse. - -"Let's go and see where that smell is coming from," said Jerry. - -They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn with the abandon of young -puppies, climbed a fence, and tore down the mossy slope, guided by the -savory lure that ever grew stronger. A few minutes later they arrived -breathlessly in the sanctum sanctorum of Rainbow Valley where the Blythe -children were just about to give thanks and eat. - -They halted shyly. Una wished they had not been so precipitate: but Di -Blythe was equal to that and any occasion. She stepped forward, with a -comrade's smile. - -"I guess I know who you are," she said. "You belong to the manse, 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 mossy stones. Merry -was that feast and long. Nan and Di would probably have died of horror -had they known what Faith and Una knew perfectly well--that Carl had -two young mice in his jacket pocket. But they never knew it, so it never -hurt them. Where can folks get better acquainted than over a meal table? -When the last trout had vanished, the manse children and the Ingleside -children were sworn friends and allies. They had always known each other -and always would. The race of Joseph recognized its own. - -They poured out the history of their little pasts. The manse children -heard of Avonlea and Green Gables, of Rainbow Valley traditions, and -of the little house by the harbour shore where Jem had been born. The -Ingleside children heard of Maywater, where the Merediths had lived -before coming to the Glen, of Una's beloved, one-eyed doll and Faith's -pet rooster. - -Faith was inclined to resent the fact that people laughed at her for -petting a rooster. She liked the Blythes because they accepted it -without question. - -"A handsome rooster like Adam is just as nice a pet as a dog or cat, _I_ -think," she said. "If he was a canary nobody would wonder. And I brought -him up from a little, wee, yellow chicken. Mrs. Johnson at Maywater gave -him to me. A weasel had killed all his brothers and sisters. I called -him after her husband. I never liked dolls or cats. Cats are too sneaky -and dolls are DEAD." - -"Who lives in that house away up there?" asked Jerry. - -"The Miss Wests--Rosemary and Ellen," answered Nan. "Di and I are going -to take music lessons from Miss Rosemary this summer." - -Una gazed at the lucky twins with eyes whose longing was too gentle for -envy. Oh, if she could only have music lessons! It was one of the dreams -of her little hidden life. But nobody ever thought 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 not resigned to her -own ruddy tresses. - -"I like Miss Ellen, too," said Nan. "She always used to give me candies -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 he was little! -Mother says the first Sunday Mrs. Ford brought him to church Miss Ellen -happened to be there, sitting right behind them. And the minute Kenneth -saw her he just screamed and screamed 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 the summer. And -they're not coming this summer. They live in that little house 'way, -'way down on the harbour shore where father and mother used to lie. I -wish you could see Persis Ford. She is just like a picture." - -"I've heard of Mrs. Ford," broke in Faith. "Bertie Shakespeare Drew told -me about her. She was married fourteen years to a dead man 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 the whole story and -I'll tell it to you some time, but not now, for it's too long and it's -time for us to go home. Mother doesn't like us to be out late these damp -evenings." - -Nobody cared whether the manse children were out in the damp or not. -Aunt Martha was already in bed and the minister was still too deeply -lost in speculations concerning the immortality of the soul 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," said Una. -"And I just love those dear Blythes. It's SO nice when you can love -people because so often you CAN'T. Father said in his sermon last Sunday -that we should love everybody. But how can we? 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 slipped away -for a few moments on a solitary expedition to a remote corner of Rainbow -Valley. Mayflowers grew there and Jem never forgot 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 might happen," said -Faith, responsive to the lure of crystal air and blue hills. She hugged -herself with delight and danced a hornpipe on old Hezekiah Pollock's -bench tombstone, much to the horror of two ancient maidens who happened -to be driving past just as Faith hopped on one foot around the stone, -waving the other and her arms in the air. - -"And that," groaned one ancient maiden, "is our minister's daughter." - -"What else could you expect of a widower's family?" groaned the other -ancient maiden. And then they both shook their heads. - -It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths were out in the -dew-drenched world with a delightful consciousness of the holiday. They -had never had anything to do on a holiday. Even Nan and Di Blythe had -certain household tasks for Saturday mornings, but the daughters of the -manse were free to roam from blushing morn to dewy eve if so it pleased -them. It DID please Faith, but Una felt a secret, bitter humiliation -because they never learned to do anything. The other girls in her class -at school could cook and sew and knit; she only was a little ignoramus. - -Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so they went lingeringly through -the fir grove, picking up Carl on the way, who was on his knees in the -dripping grass studying his darling ants. Beyond the grove they came out -in Mr. Taylor's pasture field, sprinkled over with the white ghosts of -dandelions; in a remote corner was an old tumbledown barn, where Mr. -Taylor sometimes stored his surplus hay crop but which was never used -for any other purpose. Thither the Meredith children trooped, and -prowled about the ground floor for several minutes. - -"What was that?" whispered Una suddenly. - -They all listened. There was a faint but distinct rustle in the hayloft -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 quite -dauntless, Una pale from fright, and Carl rather absent-mindedly -speculating 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 the rustle and -the sight struck them dumb for a few moments. - -In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled up, looking as if she had -just wakened from sleep. When she saw them she stood up, rather shakily, -as it seemed, and in the bright sunlight that streamed through the -cobwebbed window behind her, they saw that her thin, sunburned face was -very pale under its tan. She had two braids of lank, thick, tow-coloured -hair and very odd eyes--"white eyes," the manse children thought, as she -stared at them half defiantly, half piteously. They were really of so -pale a blue that they did seem almost white, especially when contrasted -with the narrow black ring that circled the iris. She was 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 wizened little face, but her height seemed to be -somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve. - -"Who are you?" asked Jerry. - -The girl looked about her as if seeking a way of escape. Then she 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 hay and -began to cry. Instantly Faith had flung herself down beside her and put -her arm around the thin, shaking shoulders. - -"You stop bothering her," she commanded Jerry. Then she hugged the 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 to eat since -Thursday morning, 'cept a little water from the brook out there." - -The manse children gazed at each other in horror. Faith sprang up. - -"You come right up to the manse and get something to eat before you say -another word." - -Mary shrank. - -"Oh--I can't. What will your pa and ma say? Besides, they'd send me -back." - -"We've no mother, and father won't bother about you. Neither will Aunt -Martha. Come, I say." Faith stamped her foot impatiently. Was this queer -girl going to insist on starving to death almost at their very door? - -Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could hardly climb down the -ladder, but somehow they got her down and over the field and into the -manse kitchen. Aunt Martha, muddling through her Saturday cooking, took -no notice of her. Faith and Una flew to the pantry and ransacked it for -such eatables as it contained--some "ditto," bread, butter, milk and a -doubtful pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously and uncritically, -while the manse children stood around and watched her. Jerry noticed -that she had a pretty mouth and very nice, even, white teeth. Faith -decided, with secret horror, that Mary had not one stitch on her except -that ragged, faded dress. Una was full of pure pity, 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 natural vivacity and unloosed her -by no means reluctant tongue. - -"You won't tell your pa or anybody if I tell you?" she stipulated, when -she was enthroned on Mr. Pollock's tombstone. Opposite her the manse -children lined up on another. Here was spice 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 half enough to eat, and -she used to larrup me 'most every day. Look a-here." - -Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves, and held up her scrawny arms and -thin hands, chapped almost to rawness. They were black with bruises. The -manse children shivered. Faith flushed crimson with 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 of milk. How'd I know the -darn old cow was going to kick?" - -A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners. They would never dream -of using such dubious words, but it was rather titivating to hear -someone else use them--and a girl, at that. Certainly this 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 all in 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 and give me to a cousin of hers -up Charlottetown way. I wasn't going to 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 rather live 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 up that -Mrs. John Crawford give me in the spring for planting potatoes for her. -Mrs. Wiley didn't know about it. She was away visiting her cousin when -I planted them. I thought I'd sneak up here to the Glen and buy a ticket -to Charlottetown and try to get work there. I'm a hustler, let me tell -you. There ain'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. And when I -got to the station I found I'd lost my money. Dunno how--dunno where. -Anyhow, it was gone. I didn't know what to do. 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. Now that -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. Una suddenly -slipped from the one tombstone to the other and put her arm 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 on my -trail before this. I might stay here till she finds me, I s'pose, if -your folks don't mind. I was a darn fool ever to think of skipping out. -She'd run a weasel to earth. But I was so misrebul." - -Mary's voice quivered, but she was ashamed of showing her weakness. - -"I hain't had the life of a dog for these four years," she explained -defiantly. - -"You've been four years with Mrs. Wiley?" - -"Yip. She took me out of the asylum over in Hopetown when I was eight." - -"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 Mary Martha Lucilla -Moore Ball Vance. Can you beat that? My grandfather was a rich man. I'll -bet he was richer than YOUR grandfather. 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 kind of like it." - -Mary tossed her head. She divined that the manse children were pitying -her for her many stripes and she did not want pity. She wanted to be -envied. She looked gaily about her. Her strange eyes, now that the -dullness of famine was removed from them, were brilliant. She would show -these youngsters what a personage she was. - -"I've been sick an awful lot," she said proudly. "There's not many kids -could have come through what I have. I've had scarlet fever and measles -and ersipelas and mumps and whooping cough and pewmonia." - -"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 sick you die." - -"Oh, well, I never died exactly," said Mary, "but I come blamed near it -once. They thought I was dead and they were getting ready 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 was when I had -the pewmonia. Mrs. Wiley wouldn't have the doctor--said she wasn't -going to no such expense for a home girl. Old Aunt Christina MacAllister -nursed me with poultices. She brung me round. But sometimes I wish I'd -just died the other half and done with it. I'd been better off." - -"If you went to heaven I s'pose you would," said Faith, rather -doubtfully. - -"Well, what other place is there to go to?" demanded Mary in a puzzled -voice. - -"There's hell, you know," said Una, dropping her voice and hugging Mary -to lessen the awfulness of the suggestion. - -"Hell? What's that?" - -"Why, it's where the devil lives," said Jerry. "You've heard of him--you -spoke about him." - -"Oh, yes, but I didn't know he lived anywhere. I thought he just roamed -round. Mr. Wiley used to mention hell when he was alive. He was always -telling folks to go there. I thought it was some place over in New -Brunswick where he come from." - -"Hell is an awful place," said Faith, with the dramatic enjoyment that -is born of telling dreadful things. "Bad people go there when 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 the church and knew all -about it. But you needn't worry. If you're good you'll go to heaven and -if you're bad I guess you'd rather go to hell." - -"I wouldn't," said Mary positively. "No matter how bad I was I wouldn'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 do to be good?" - -"You must go to church and Sunday School and read your Bible and pray -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 sin any way?" - -"Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does. Did you never tell a lie?" - -"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 to hell for -telling a lie now and then? Why, I HAD to. Mr. Wiley would have broken -every bone in my body one time if I hadn't told him 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. Very likely she would -have lied too. She squeezed Mary's little calloused hand. - -"Is that the only dress you've got?" asked Faith, whose joyous nature -refused to dwell on disagreeable subjects. - -"I just put on this dress because it was no good," cried Mary flushing. -"Mrs. Wiley'd bought my clothes and I wasn't going to be beholden to her -for anything. And I'm honest. If I was going to run away I wasn't going -to take what belong to HER that was worth anything. When I grow up -I'm going to have a blue sating dress. Your own clothes don't look so -stylish. I thought ministers' children were always dressed up." - -It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on some points. -But there was a queer, wild charm about her which captivated them all. -She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to the -Blythes as "a friend of ours from over-harbour who is visiting us." The -Blythes accepted her unquestioningly, 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 while brooding -his Sunday sermon--Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of her -dresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing. With her hair -neatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an acceptable -playmate, for she knew several new and exciting games, and her -conversation lacked not spice. In fact, some of her expressions made Nan -and Di look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure what their -mother would have thought of her, but they knew quite well what Susan -would. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be all -right. - -When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary should sleep. - -"We can't put her in the spare room, you know," said Faith perplexedly -to Una. - -"I haven't got anything in my head," cried Mary in an injured tone. - -"Oh, I didn't mean THAT," protested Faith. "The spare room is all torn -up. The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tick and made a nest -in it. We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisher -from Charlottetown there to sleep last week. HE soon found it out. -Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on the study lounge. Aunt -Martha hasn't had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she says; -so NOBODY can sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are. And our -room is so small, 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'll lend -me a quilt," said Mary philosophically. "It was kind of chilly 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 a plan, -Faith. You know that little trestle bed in the garret room, with the -old mattress on it, that the last minister left there? Let's take up the -spare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed 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 sleep in 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 in in winter. My bed was a -straw tick on the floor. You won't find me a mite huffy about where _I_ -sleep." - -The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gable -end partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of the dainty -hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had -once so proudly made for her spare-room, and which still survived Aunt -Martha's uncertain washings. The good nights were said and silence fell -over the manse. Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound in -the room just above that made her sit up suddenly. - -"Listen, Faith--Mary's crying," she whispered. Faith replied not, being -already asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made her way in her little -white gown down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking floor -gave ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner room -all was moonlit silence and the trestle 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, I know 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 the chilly air, -for the little garret window was open and the keen breath 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 here alone 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. I thought -of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley--and of being licked for running -away--and--and--and of going to hell for telling lies. It all worried me -something scandalous." - -"Oh, Mary," said poor Una in distress. "I don't believe God will send -you to hell for telling lies when you didn't know it was wrong. He -COULDN'T. Why, He's kind and good. Of course, you mustn'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 a sob. -"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 me that he isn't more'n -about half there. But anyway he doesn't lick you, and you get enough to -eat such as it is--though that old aunt of yours doesn't know ANYTHING -about cooking. Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling -'sif I'd enough to eat. I've been knocked about all of my life, 'cept -for the two years I was at the asylum. They didn't lick me there and it -wasn't too bad, though the matron was cross. She always looked ready to -bite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that's what -SHE is, and I'm just scared stiff when I think of going back to her." - -"Perhaps you won't have to. Perhaps we'll be able to think of a way out. -Let's both ask God to keep you from having to go back to 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 anything in particular -though. Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about me so I -didn't s'pose God would. He MIGHT take more 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 ask Him--and I will, -too." - -"All right," agreed Mary. "It won't do any harm if it doesn't do much -good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you wouldn't think God -would want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won't cry any more about it. -This is a big sight better'n last night down in that old barn, with the -mice running about. Look at the Four Winds light. Ain't it pretty?" - -"This is the only window we can see it from," said Una. "I love to watch -it." - -"Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley loft and it was the only -comfort I had. When I was all sore from being licked I'd watch it and -forget about the places that hurt. I'd think of the ships sailing -away and away from it and wish I was on one of them sailing far away -too--away from everything. On winter nights 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 a stranger?" - -"Because it's right to be. The bible tells us to be kind to everybody." - -"Does it? Well, I guess most folks don't mind it much then. I never -remember of any one being kind to me before--true's you live 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 I don't like that Nan. She's a proud one." - -"Oh, no, Mary, she isn't a bit proud," said Una eagerly. "Not a single -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 a few -hours," stammered Una. - -"So you do like her better then?" said Mary in a rage. "All right! Like -her all you want to. _I_ don't care. _I_ can get along without you." - -She flung herself over against the wall of the garret with a slam. - -"Oh, Mary," said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary's uncompromising -back, "don't talk like that. I DO like you ever so much. And you make me -feel so bad." - -No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmed around -again and engulfed Una in a bear's hug. - -"Hush up," she ordered. "Don't go crying over what I said. I was as mean -as the devil to talk that way. I orter to be skinned alive--and you -all so good to me. I should think you WOULD like any 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 the harbour in this night-dress and drown -myself." - -This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tears were wiped -away by Mary with the lace frill of the spare-room pillow and forgiver -and forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch the -shadows of the vine leaves on the moonlit wall until they fell asleep. - -And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor with rapt -face and shining eyes, thinking out his message of the morrow, and knew -not that under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, stumbling -in darkness and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed about with -difficulties too great for it to grapple 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 next day. 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 went every Sunday -I could get off. I was mighty thankful to go to some place where I -could sit down for a spell. But I can't go to church in this old ragged -dress." - -This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the loan of her second -best dress. - -"It's faded a little and two of the buttons are off, but I guess it'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 a needle -and thread and look the other way if you're squeamish." - -Faith's school boots, and an old black velvet cap that had once been -Cecilia Meredith's, completed Mary's costume, and to church she went. -Her behaviour was quite conventional, and though some wondered who the -shabby little girl with the manse children was she did not attract much -attention. She listened to the sermon with 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 manse pew, turned -suddenly and looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere -superfluity of naughtiness, stuck out her tongue at Mrs. Milgrave, much -to Una's horror. - -"I couldn't help it," she declared after church. "What'd she want to -stare at me like that for? Such manners! I'm GLAD stuck my tongue out -at her. I wish I'd stuck it farther out. Say, I saw Rob MacAllister from -over-harbour there. Wonder if he'll tell Mrs. Wiley on me." - -No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few day the children forgot -to look for her. Mary was apparently a fixture at the manse. But she -refused to go to school with the others. - -"Nope. I've finished my education," she said, when Faith urged her 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 of being everlastingly -jawed at 'cause I didn't get my home-lessons done. 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 to fractions. -That's all I want. You fellows go and I'll stay home. You needn't be -scared I'll steal anything. I swear I'm honest." - -Mary employed herself while the others were at school in cleaning up -the manse. In a few days it was a different place. Floors were swept, -furniture dusted, everything straightened out. She mended the spare-room -bed-tick, she sewed on missing buttons, she patched clothes neatly, she -even invaded the study with broom and dustpan and ordered Mr. Meredith -out while she put it to rights. But there was one department with which -Aunt Martha refused to let her interfere. Aunt Martha might be deaf -and half blind and very childish, but she was resolved to keep the -commissariat in her 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 some decent -meals," she told the manse children indignantly. "There'd be no more -'ditto'--and no more lumpy porridge and blue milk either. 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 for cats -anyhow. They belong to the old Nick. You can tell that by their eyes. -Well, if old Martha won't, she won't, I s'pose. But it gits on my nerves -to see good vittles spoiled." - -When school came out they always went to Rainbow Valley. Mary refused to -play in the graveyard. She declared she was afraid of ghosts. - -"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 and heads," -said Mary. - -"What did you do?" asked Una. - -"Run like the devil," said Mary. Then she caught Walter's eyes and -blushed. Mary was a good deal in awe of Walter. She declared 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 at Ingleside and -showed her the museum of curios that Captain Jim Boyd had bequeathed to -him she was immensely pleased and flattered. She also won Carl's heart -entirely by her interest in his beetles and ants. It could not be denied -that Mary got on rather better with the boys than with the girls. She -quarrelled bitterly with Nan Blythe the second day. - -"Your mother is a witch," she told Nan scornfully. "Red-haired women -are always witches." Then she and Faith fell out about the rooster. Mary -said its tail was too short. Faith angrily retorted that she guessed God -know what length to make a rooster's tail. They did not "speak" for -a day over this. Mary treated Una's hairless, one-eyed doll with -consideration; but when Una showed her other prized treasure--a picture -of an angel carrying a baby, presumably to heaven, Mary declared that -it looked too much like a ghost for her. Una crept away to her room and -cried over this, but Mary hunted her out, hugged her repentantly and -implored forgiveness. No one could keep up a quarrel long with Mary--not -even Nan, who was rather prone to hold grudges and never quite forgave -the insult to her mother. Mary was jolly. She could and did tell the -most thrilling ghost stories. Rainbow Valley seances were undeniably -more exciting after Mary came. She learned to play on the jew's-harp and -soon eclipsed 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 leaves of 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 make the most wonderful shadow -pictures on the walls with her long, flexible fingers. And when they all -went picking gum in Rainbow Valley Mary always got "the biggest chew" -and bragged about it. There were times when they hated her and times -when they loved her. But at all times they found her interesting. -So they submitted quite meekly to her bossing, and by the end of a -fortnight had come to feel that she must always have been with them. - -"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," said Mary -darkly. "It's a very fine thing to have enough to eat--I've often -wondered what it would be like--but I'm p'ticler about my cooking. And -Mrs. Wiley'll be here yet. SHE'S got a rod in pickle for me all right. I -don't think about it so much in daytime but say, girls, up there in that -garret at night I git to thinking and thinking of it, till I just almost -wish she'd come and have it over with. I dunno's one real good whipping -would be much worse'n all the dozen I've lived through in my mind ever -since I run away. Were any of you ever licked?" - -"No, of course not," said Faith indignantly. "Father would never do such -a thing." - -"You don't know you're alive," said Mary with a sigh half of envy, half -of superiority. "You don't know what I've come through. And I s'pose the -Blythes were never licked either?" - -"No-o-o, I guess not. But I THINK they were sometimes spanked when they -were small." - -"A spanking doesn't amount to anything," said Mary contemptuously. "If -my folks had just spanked me I'd have thought they were petting -me. Well, it ain't a fair world. I wouldn't mind taking my share of -wallopings but I've had a darn sight 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 COULD say if I -liked you wouldn't make such a fuss over darn. And you know 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't believe -them yarns and I didn't intend you to. And I really did see something -queer one night when I was passing the over-harbour graveyard, true's -you live. I dunno whether 'twas a ghost or Sandy Crawford's old white -nag, but it looked blamed queer and I tell 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, through the -main "street" of the Glen and up the manse hill, carefully carrying -a small basketful of early strawberries, which Susan had coaxed into -lusciousness in one of the sunny nooks of Ingleside. Susan had charged -Rilla to give the basket to nobody except Aunt Martha or Mr. Meredith, -and Rilla, very proud of being entrusted with such an errand, was -resolved to carry out her instructions to the letter. - -Susan had dressed her daintily in a white, starched, and embroidered -dress, with sash of blue and beaded slippers. Her long ruddy curls -were sleek and round, and Susan had let her put on her best hat, out -of compliment to the manse. It was a somewhat elaborate affair, wherein -Susan's taste had had more to say than Anne's, and Rilla's small soul -gloried in its splendours of silk and lace and flowers. She was very -conscious of her hat, and I am afraid she strutted up the manse hill. -The strut, or the hat, or both, got on the nerves of Mary Vance, who was -swinging on the lawn gate. Mary's temper was somewhat ruffled just then, -into the bargain. Aunt Martha had refused to let her peel the potatoes -and had ordered her out of the kitchen. - -"Yah! You'll bring the potatoes to the table with strips of skin hanging -to them and half boiled as usual! My, but it'll be nice to go to your -funeral," shrieked Mary. She went out of the kitchen, giving the door -such a bang that even Aunt Martha heard it, and Mr. Meredith in his -study felt the vibration and thought absently 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-span damsel 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 but Mithter -Mer'dith or Aunt Martha," insisted Rilla. - -Mary eyed her sourly. - -"You think you're something, don't you, all dressed up like a doll! Look -at me. My dress is all rags and _I_ don't care! I'd rather be ragged -than a doll baby. Go home and tell them to put you in a glass case. Look -at me--look at me--look at me!" - -Mary executed a wild dance around the dismayed and bewildered Rilla, -flirting her ragged skirt and vociferating "Look at me--look at me" -until poor Rilla was dizzy. But as the latter tried to edge away towards -the gate Mary pounced on her again. - -"You give me that basket," she ordered with a grimace. Mary was past -mistress in the art of "making faces." She could give her countenance -a most grotesque and unearthly appearance out of which her strange, -brilliant, white eyes gleamed with weird effect. - -"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 the gate -was a small "flake," on which a half a dozen large codfish were drying. -One of Mr. Meredith's parishioners had presented him with them one -day, perhaps in lieu of the subscription he was supposed to pay to the -stipend and never did. Mr. Meredith had thanked him and then forgotten -all about the fish, which would have promptly spoiled had not the -indefatigable Mary prepared them for drying and rigged up the "flake" -herself on which to dry them. - -Mary had a diabolical inspiration. She flew to the "flake" and seized -the largest fish there--a huge, flat thing, nearly as big as herself. -With a whoop she swooped down on the terrified Rilla, brandishing her -weird missile. Rilla's courage gave way. To be lambasted with a dried -codfish was such an unheard-of thing that Rilla could not face it. With -a shriek she dropped her basket and fled. The beautiful berries, which -Susan had so tenderly selected for the minister, rolled in a rosy -torrent over the dusty road and were trodden on by the flying feet of -pursuer and pursued. The basket and contents were no longer in Mary's -mind. She thought only of the delight of giving Rilla Blythe the scare -of her life. She would teach HER to come giving herself airs because of -her fine clothes. - -Rilla flew down the hill and along the street. Terror lent wings to -her feet, and she just managed to keep ahead of Mary, who was somewhat -hampered by her own laughter, but who had breath enough to give -occasional blood-curdling whoops as she ran, flourishing her codfish in -the air. Through the Glen street they swept, while everybody ran to the -windows and gates to see them. Mary felt she was making a tremendous -sensation and enjoyed it. Rilla, blind with terror and spent of breath, -felt that she could run no longer. In another instant that terrible girl -would be on her with the codfish. At this point the poor mite stumbled -and fell into the mud-puddle at the end of the street just as Miss -Cornelia came out of Carter Flagg's store. - -Miss Cornelia took the whole situation in at a glance. So did Mary. The -latter stopped short in her mad career and before Miss Cornelia could -speak she had whirled around and was running up as fast as she had run -down. Miss Cornelia's lips tightened ominously, but she knew it was no -use to think of chasing her. So she picked up poor, sobbing, dishevelled -Rilla instead and took her home. Rilla was heart-broken. Her dress and -slippers and hat were ruined and her six year old pride had received -terrible bruises. - -Susan, white with indignation, heard Miss Cornelia's story of Mary -Vance's exploit. - -"Oh, the hussy--oh, the littly hussy!" she said, as she carried Rilla -away for purification and comfort. - -"This thing has gone far enough, Anne dearie," said Miss Cornelia -resolutely. "Something must be done. WHO is this creature who is staying -at the manse and where does she come from?" - -"I understood she was a little girl from over-harbour who was visiting -at the manse," answered Anne, who saw the comical side of the codfish -chase and secretly thought Rilla was rather vain and needed a lesson or -two. - -"I know all the over-harbour families who come to our church and that -imp doesn't belong to any of them," retorted Miss Cornelia. "She is -almost in rags and when she goes to church she wears Faith Meredith's -old clothes. There's some mystery here, and I'm going to investigate -it, since it seems nobody else will. I believe she was at the bottom of -their goings-on in Warren Mead's spruce bush the other day. Did you hear -of their frightening his mother into a fit?" - -"No. I knew Gilbert had been called to see her, but I did not hear 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 awful shrieks of -'murder' and 'help' coming from the bush--positively frightful sounds, -Anne dearie. Her heart gave out at once. Warren heard them himself at -the barn, and went straight to the bush to investigate, and there he -found all the manse children sitting on a fallen tree and screaming -'murder' at the top of their lungs. They told him they were only in fun -and didn't think anyone would hear them. They were just playing -Indian ambush. Warren went back to the house and found his poor mother -unconscious on the veranda." - -Susan, who had returned, sniffed contemptuously. - -"I think she was very far from being unconscious, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, -and that you may tie to. I have been hearing of Amelia Warren's weak -heart for forty years. She had it when she was twenty. She enjoys making -a fuss and having the doctor, and any excuse will do." - -"I don't think Gilbert thought her attack very serious," said Anne. - -"Oh, that may very well be," said Miss Cornelia. "But the matter has -made an awful lot of talk and the Meads being Methodists makes it that -much worse. What is going to become of those children? Sometimes I -can't sleep at nights for thinking about them, Anne dearie. I really do -question if they get enough to eat, even, for their father is so lost -in dreams that he doesn't often remember he has a stomach, and that lazy -old woman doesn't bother cooking what she ought. They are just running -wild and now that school is closing they'll be worse than ever." - -"They do have jolly times," said Anne, laughing over the recollections -of some Rainbow Valley happenings that had come to her ears. "And they -are all brave and frank and loyal and truthful." - -"That's a true word, Anne dearie, and when you come to think of all the -trouble in the church those two tattling, deceitful youngsters of -the last minister's made, I'm inclined to overlook a good deal in the -Merediths." - -"When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. dear, they are very nice children," -said Susan. "They have got plenty of original sin in them and that I -will admit, but maybe it is just as well, for if they had not they might -spoil from over-sweetness. Only I do think it is not proper for them to -play in a graveyard and that I will maintain." - -"But they really play quite quietly there," excused Anne. "They don't -run and yell as they do elsewhere. Such howls as drift up here from -Rainbow Valley sometimes! Though I fancy my own small fry bear a valiant -part in them. They had a sham battle there last night and had to 'roar' -themselves, because they had no artillery to do it, so Jem says. Jem is -passing through the stage where all boys hanker to be soldiers." - -"Well, thank goodness, he'll never be a soldier," said Miss Cornelia. "I -never approved of our boys going to that South African fracas. But it's -over, and not likely anything of the kind will ever happen again. I -think the world is getting more sensible. As for the Merediths, I've -said many a time and I say it again, if Mr. Meredith had a wife all -would be well." - -"He called twice at the Kirks' last week, so I am told," said Susan. - -"Well," said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully, "as a rule, I don't approve of -a minister marrying in his congregation. It generally spoils him. But -in this case it would do no harm, for every one likes Elizabeth Kirk and -nobody else is hankering for the job of stepmothering those youngsters. -Even the Hill girls balk at that. They haven't been found laying traps -for Mr. Meredith. Elizabeth would make him a good wife if he only -thought so. But the trouble is, she really is homely and, Anne dearie, -Mr. Meredith, abstracted as he is, has an eye for a good-looking woman, -man-like. He isn't SO other-worldly when it comes to that, believe ME." - -"Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but they do say that people have -nearly frozen to death in her mother's spare-room bed before now, Mrs. -Dr. dear," said Susan darkly. "If I felt I had any right to express an -opinion concerning such a solemn matter as a minister's marriage I would -say that I think Elizabeth's cousin Sarah, over-harbour, would make Mr. -Meredith a better wife." - -"Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist," said Miss Cornelia, much as if Susan -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 a -Methodist, always a Methodist. - -"Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question," she said positively. "And -so is Emmeline Drew--though the Drews are all trying to make the match. -They are literally throwing poor Emmeline at his head, and he hasn't the -least idea of it." - -"Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow," said Susan. "She is the -kind of woman, Mrs. Dr. dear, who would put a hot-water bottle in your -bed on a dog-night and then have her feelings hurt because you were not -grateful. And her mother was a very poor housekeeper. Did you ever hear -the story of her dishcloth? She lost her dishcloth one day. But the next -day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, she found it, in the goose at -the dinner-table, mixed up with the stuffing. Do you think a woman like -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's trousers than in -talking gossip about my neighbours. He tore them 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 attic writing -something in an exercise book. And he has not done as well in arithmetic -this term as he should, so the teacher tells me. Too well I know the -reason why. He has been writing silly rhymes when he should have been -doing his sums. I am afraid that boy 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 the best -way, when a person has the strength. I had an uncle who began by being -a poet and ended up by being a tramp. Our family were 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, and Shakespeare -was no more than respectable by times. As for the Bible, of course -things were different in those sacred days--although I never had a high -opinion of King David, say what you will. I never knew any good to come -of writing poetry, and I hope and pray that blessed boy will outgrow -the tendency. If he does 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 and cross-questioned -Mary, who, being a young person of considerable discernment and -astuteness, told her story simple and truthfully, with an entire absence -of complaint or bravado. Miss Cornelia was more favourably impressed -than she had expected to be, but deemed it her duty to be severe. - -"Do you think," she said sternly, "that you showed your gratitude to -this family, who have been far too kind to you, by insulting and chasing -one of their little friends as you did yesterday?" - -"Say, it was rotten mean of me," admitted Mary easily. "I dunno what -possessed me. That old codfish seemed to come in so blamed handy. But I -was awful sorry--I cried last night after I went to bed about it, honest -I did. You ask Una if I didn't. I wouldn't tell 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. What worries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain't been hunting -for me. It ain't like her." - -Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but she merely -admonished Mary sharply not to take any further liberties with the -minister's codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside. - -"If the child's story is true the matter ought to be looked into," she -said. "I know something about that Wiley woman, believe ME. Marshall -used to be well acquainted with her when he lived over-harbour. I heard -him say something last summer about her and a home child she had--likely -this very Mary-creature. He said some one told him she was working the -child to death and not half feeding and clothing it. You know, Anne -dearie, it has always been my habit neither to make nor meddle with -those over-harbour folks. But I shall send Marshall over to-morrow -to find out the rights of this if he can. And THEN I'll speak to the -minister. Mind you, Anne dearie, the Merediths found this girl literally -starving in James Taylor's old hay barn. She had been there all night, -cold and hungry and alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after good -suppers." - -"The poor little thing," said Anne, picturing one of her own dear -babies, cold and hungry and alone in such circumstances. "If she has -been ill-used, Miss Cornelia, she mustn't be taken back to such a place. -_I_ was an orphan once in a very similar situation." - -"We'll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks," said Miss Cornelia. -"Anyway, she can't be left at the manse. Dear knows what those poor -children might learn from her. I understand that she has been known to -swear. But just think of her being there two whole weeks and Mr Meredith -never waking up to it! What business 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 found dead in -her bed the very morning after this Mary-creature ran away. She has had -a bad heart for years and the doctor had warned her it might happen at -any time. She had sent away her hired man and there was nobody in the -house. Some neighbours found her the next day. They missed the child, -it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her to her cousin near -Charlottetown as she had said she was going to do. The cousin didn't -come to the funeral and so nobody ever knew that Mary wasn't with her. -The people Marshall talked to told him some things about the way Mrs. -Wiley used this Mary that made his blood boil, so he declares. You know, -it puts Marshall in a regular fury to hear of a child being ill-used. -They said she whipped her mercilessly for every little fault or mistake. -Some folks talked of writing to the asylum authorities but everybody's -business is nobody's business and it was never done." - -"I am sorry that Wiley person is dead," said Susan fiercely. "I should -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 hold with lawful -spanking, but I go no further. And what is to become of this poor child -now, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?" - -"I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown," said Miss Cornelia. "I -think every one hereabouts who wants a home child has one. I'll see Mr. -Meredith to-morrow and tell him my opinion of the whole affair." - -"And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, after Miss Cornelia -had gone. "She would stick at nothing, not even at shingling the church -spire if she took it into her head. But I cannot understand how even -Cornelia Bryant can talk to a minister as she does. You would think he -was just any common person." - -When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled herself from the -hammock where she had been studying her lessons and slipped away to -Rainbow Valley. The others were already there. Jem and Jerry were -playing quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the Glen blacksmith. -Carl was stalking ants on a sunny hillock. Walter, lying on his stomach -among the fern, was reading aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una from -a wonderful book of myths wherein were fascinating accounts of Prester -John and the Wandering Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir, -the worm that split rocks and opened the way to golden treasure, of -Fortunate Isles and swan-maidens. It was a great shock to Walter to -learn that William Tell and Gelert were myths also; and the story of -Bishop Hatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best of all he -loved the stories of the Pied Piper and the San Greal. He read them -thrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled in the summer -wind and the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the valley. - -"Say, ain't them in'resting lies?" said Mary admiringly when Walter 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, so they 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 him from -everywhere when they want to dig a well. And I believe I know the -Wandering Jew." - -"Oh, Mary," said Una, awe-struck. - -"I do--true's you're alive. There was an old man at Mrs. Wiley's one day -last fall. He looked old enough to be ANYTHING. She was asking 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 years old who was he but your Wandering Jew?" - -"I don't believe the Wandering Jew would associate with a person like -Mrs. Wiley," said Faith decidedly. - -"I love the Pied Piper story," said Di, "and so does mother. I always -feel so sorry for the poor little lame boy who couldn't keep up with -the others and got shut out of the mountain. He must have been so -disappointed. I think all the rest of his life he'd be wondering what -wonderful thing he had missed and wishing he could have got in with the -others." - -"But how glad his mother must have been," said Una softly. "I think she -had been sorry all her life that he was lame. Perhaps she even used to -cry about it. But she would never be sorry again--never. She would be -glad he was lame because that was why she hadn't lost him." - -"Some day," said Walter dreamily, looking afar into the sky, "the Pied -Piper will come over the hill up there and down Rainbow Valley, piping -merrily and sweetly. And I will follow him--follow him down to the -shore--down to the sea--away from you all. I don't think I'll want to -go--Jem will want to go--it will be such an adventure--but I won't. -Only I'll HAVE to--the music will call and call and call me until I MUST -follow." - -"We'll all go," cried Di, catching fire at the flame of Walter's fancy, -and half-believing she could see the mocking, retreating figure of the -mystic piper in the far, dim end of the valley. - -"No. You'll sit here and wait," said Walter, his great, splendid eyes -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 Piper plays. He may pipe us -round the world. And still you'll sit here 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 me bawling? I could -just see that horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys following -him, and us girls sitting here waiting all alone. I dunno why it is--I -never was one of the blubbering kind--but as soon as you start your -spieling I always want to cry." - -Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this power of his over -his companions--to play on their feelings, waken their fears, thrill -their souls. It satisfied some dramatic instinct in him. But under his -triumph was a queer little chill of some mysterious dread. The Pied -Piper had seemed very real to him--as if the fluttering veil that hid -the future had for a moment been blown aside in the starlit dusk of -Rainbow Valley and some dim glimpse of coming years granted to him. - -Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the doings in ant-land, -brought them all back to the realm of facts. - -"Ants ARE darned in'resting," exclaimed Mary, glad to escape the shadowy -Piper's thrall. "Carl and me watched that bed in the graveyard all -Saturday afternoon. I never thought there was so much in bugs. Say, but -they're quarrelsome little cusses--some of 'em like to start a fight -'thout any reason, far's we could see. And some of 'em are cowards. They -got so scared they just doubled 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 lazy and won't work. We watched 'em shirking. And there was one ant -died 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 not started -out to say "goodness." Faith and Di exchanged glances that would -have done credit to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter and Carl 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 here are mighty -squeamish seems to me. Wish you could have heard the Wileys 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 being a lady? -But I won't say that again if I can help it. I promise you." - -"Besides," said Una, "you can't expect God to answer your prayers if you -take His name in vain, Mary." - -"I don't expect Him to answer 'em anyhow," said Mary of little faith. -"I've been asking Him for a week to clear up this Wiley affair 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-harbour and -what do you think she found out? Mrs. Wiley is dead--she was found dead -in bed the morning after you ran away. So you'll never 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?" she cried -imploringly to Una. "If it had I'll never pray again as long 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 tell you it -gave me a start. I wouldn't like to think I'd prayed anybody to death. -I never thought of such a thing as her dying when 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 give me out -again--likely to some one just like Mrs. Wiley. Well, I s'pose I can -stand it. I'm tough." - -"I'm going to pray that you won't have to go back," whispered Una, 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's come of it. If Mrs. -Wiley HAD died after I started praying it would have been my doings." - -"Oh, no, it wouldn't," said Una. "I wish I could explain things -better--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 the long and -short of it. He goes by me and never sees me in broad daylight. 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 never sees us, -either. He is thinking deeply, that is all. And I AM going to pray that -God will keep you in Four Winds--because I like you, Mary." - -"All right. Only don't let me hear of any more people dying on account -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 and the Blythes. You're -the only friends I ever had and I'd hate to leave you." - - - -CHAPTER IX. UNA INTERVENES - -Miss Cornelia had an interview with Mr. Meredith which proved something -of a shock to that abstracted gentleman. She pointed out to him, none -too respectfully, his dereliction of duty in allowing a waif like Mary -Vance to come into his family and associate with his children without -knowing or learning anything about 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 is said and done. -I've been questioning your children and the Blythes, and from what I can -make out there's nothing much to be said against the child except that -she's slangy and doesn't use very refined language. But think what might -have happened if she'd been like some of those home children we know of. -You know yourself 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 own carelessness -in the matter. - -"But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?" he asked helplessly. "We can't -turn the poor child out. She must be cared for." - -"Of course. We'd better write to the Hopetown authorities at once. -Meanwhile, I suppose she might as well stay here for a few more days -till we hear from them. But keep your eyes and ears open, Mr. Meredith." - -Susan would have died of horror on the spot if she had heard Miss -Cornelia so admonishing a minister. But Miss Cornelia departed in a warm -glow of satisfaction over duty done, and that night Mr. Meredith asked -Mary to come into his study with him. Mary obeyed, looking literally -ghastly with fright. But she got the surprise of her poor, battered -little life. This man, of whom she had stood so terribly in awe, was the -kindest, gentlest soul she had ever met. Before she knew what happened -Mary found herself pouring all her troubles into his ear and receiving -in return such sympathy and tender understanding as it had never -occurred to her to imagine. Mary left the study with her face and eyes -so softened that Una hardly knew her. - -"Your father's all right, when he does wake up," she said with a sniff -that just escaped being a sob. "It's a pity he doesn't wake 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 her bad ones. I dunno what -good points she had, unless it was keeping her house clean and making -first-class butter. I know I 'most wore my arms out scrubbing her old -kitchen floor with the knots in it. But anything your father says goes -with me after this." - -Mary proved a rather dull companion in the following days, however. She -confided to Una that the more she thought of going back to the asylum -the more she hated it. Una racked her small brains for some way of -averting it, but it was Nan Blythe who came to the rescue with a -somewhat startling suggestion. - -"Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She has a great big house and Mr. -Elliott is always wanting her to have help. It would be just a splendid -place for Mary. Only she'd have to behave herself." - -"Oh, Nan, do you think Mrs. Elliott would take her?" - -"It wouldn't do any harm if you asked her," said Nan. At first Una did -not think she could. She was so shy that to ask a favour of anybody was -agony to her. And she was very much in awe of the bustling, energetic -Mrs. Elliott. She liked her very much and always enjoyed a visit to her -house; but to go and ask her to adopt Mary Vance seemed such a height of -presumption that Una's timid spirit quailed. - -When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr. Meredith to send Mary to them -without delay Mary cried herself to sleep in the manse attic that night -and Una found a desperate courage. The next evening she slipped away -from the manse to the harbour road. Far down in Rainbow Valley she heard -joyous laughter but her way lay not there. She was terribly pale and -terribly in earnest--so much so that she took no notice of the people -she met--and old Mrs. Stanley Flagg was quite huffed and said Una -Meredith would be as absentminded as her father when she grew up. - -Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen and Four Winds Point, in a -house whose original glaring green hue had mellowed down to an agreeable -greenish gray. Marshall Elliott had planted trees about it and set out a -rose garden and a spruce hedge. It was 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 was always a well-filled cooky jar at the end. - -The misty sea was lapping softly far down on the sands. Three big boats -were skimming down the harbour like great white sea-birds. A schooner -was coming up the channel. The world of Four Winds was steeped in -glowing colour, and subtle music, and strange glamour, and everybody -should have been happy in it. But when Una turned in at Miss Cornelia's -gate her very legs had almost 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 twinkly that there would be -encouragement in his presence. She sat on the little stool Miss Cornelia -brought out and tried to eat the doughnut Miss Cornelia gave her. It -stuck in her throat, but she swallowed desperately lest Miss Cornelia be -offended. She could not talk; she was still pale; and her big, dark-blue -eyes looked so piteous that Miss Cornelia concluded the child was in -some trouble. - -"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 said beseechingly. - -Miss Cornelia stared blankly. - -"Me! Take Mary Vance! Do you mean keep her?" - -"Yes--keep her--adopt her," said Una eagerly, gaining courage now that -the ice was broken. "Oh, Mrs. Elliott, PLEASE do. She doesn't want to go -back to the asylum--she cries every night about 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 know you wouldn't be sorry if you took her." - -"I never thought of such a thing," said Miss Cornelia rather helplessly. - -"WON'T you think of it?" implored Una. - -"But, dearie, I don't want help. I'm quite able to do all the work here. -And I never thought I'd like to have a home girl if I did need help." - -The light went out of Una's eyes. Her lips trembled. She sat down on her -stool again, a pathetic little figure of disappointment, and began to -cry. - -"Don't--dearie--don't," exclaimed Miss Cornelia in distress. She could -never bear to hurt a child. "I don't say I WON'T take her--but the idea -is so new it has just kerflummuxed me. I must think it over." - -"Mary is SO smart," said Una again. - -"Humph! So I've heard. I've heard she swears, too. Is that true?" - -"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 look after her, -Mrs. Elliott." - -"That's true. Perhaps it IS my duty to do it," said Miss Cornelia with -a sigh. "Well, I'll have to talk it over with Mr. Elliott. So don't say -anything about it just yet. Take another doughnut, dearie." - -Una took it and ate it with a better appetite. - -"I'm very fond of doughnuts," she confessed "Aunt Martha never makes -any. But Miss Susan at Ingleside does, and sometimes she lets us have -a plateful in Rainbow Valley. Do you know what I do when 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 doughnut recipe--and -the other recipes. They sound SO nice. I always do that when I'm -hungry--especially after we've had ditto for dinner. THEN I read the -fried chicken and the roast goose recipes. Mother could make all those -nice things." - -"Those manse children will starve to death yet if Mr. Meredith doesn't -get married," Miss Cornelia told her husband indignantly after Una -had gone. "And he won't--and what's to be done? And SHALL we take this -Mary-creature, Marshall?" - -"Yes, take her," said Marshall laconically. - -"Just like a man," said his wife, despairingly. "'Take her'--as if that -was all. There are a hundred things to be considered, believe ME." - -"Take her--and we'll consider them afterwards, Cornelia," said her -husband. - -In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and went up to announce her -decision to the Ingleside people first. - -"Splendid!" said Anne delightedly. "I've been hoping you would do that -very thing, Miss Cornelia. I want that poor child to get a 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 like you," -retorted Miss Cornelia gloomily. "She's a cat of another colour. But -she's also a human being with an immortal soul to save. I've got a -shorter catechism and a small tooth comb and I'm going to do my duty by -her, now that I've set my hand to the plough, 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," said Nan. - -"Well, I can do that," flashed Mary. "I know how to behave when I 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 white eyes -shining with unholy glee over the idea. "But you needn't worry, Una. -Butter won't melt in my mouth after this. I'll be all 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 a place -where I ain't licked I'll think it's heaven all right. No fear of me -telling lies then. I ain't fond of telling 'em--I'd ruther not, if it -comes to that." - -The day before Mary's departure from the manse they had a picnic in her -honour in Rainbow Valley, and that evening all the manse children -gave her something from their scanty store of treasured things for -a keepsake. Carl gave her his Noah's ark and Jerry his second best -jew's-harp. Faith gave her a little hairbrush with a mirror in the back -of it, which Mary had always considered very wonderful. Una hesitated -between an old beaded purse and a gay picture of Daniel in the lion's -den, and finally offered Mary her choice. Mary really hankered after the -beaded purse, but she knew 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 more exciting." - -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 account of that -graveyard. I don't mind it on fine nights, but a night like this I can't -see anything but the rain pouring down on them old white stones, and the -wind round the window sounds as if them dead people were trying to get -in and crying 'cause they couldn't." - -"I like rainy nights," said Una, when they were cuddled down together 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. I feel awful bad -to be leaving you all." - -"Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rainbow Valley quite -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 to be -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 bad ones," -argued Una. "You must live up to them and never mind their bad ones." - -"I don't believe they had any good qualities," said Mary gloomily. "I -never heard of any. My grandfather had money, but they say he was a -rascal. No, I'll just have to start out on my own 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 He did." - -"I don't see what He had to do with it," retorted Mary. "It was you put -it into Mrs. Elliott's head." - -"But God put it into her HEART to take you. All my putting it into her -HEAD wouldn't have done any good if He hadn't." - -"Well, there may be something in that," admitted Mary. "Mind you, I -haven't got anything against God, Una. I'm willing to give Him a -chance. But, honest, I think He's an awful lot like your father--just -absent-minded and never taking any notice of a body most of the time, -but sometimes waking up all of a suddent and being awful good and kind -and sensible." - -"Oh, Mary, no!" exclaimed horrified Una. "God isn't a bit like father--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 be bad any more." - -"I wish you'd talk to father about Him," sighed Una. "He can explain it -all so much better than I can." - -"Why, so I will, next time he wakes up," promised Mary. "That night he -talked to me in the study he showed me real clear that my praying didn't -kill Mrs. Wiley. My mind's been easy since, but I'm real cautious about -praying. I guess the old rhyme is the safest. Say, Una, it seems to me -if one has to pray to anybody it'd be better to pray to the devil than -to God. God's good, anyhow so you say, so He won't do you any harm, -but from all I can make out the devil needs to be pacified. I think the -sensible way would be to say to HIM, 'Good devil, please don't tempt 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 the devil. -And it wouldn't do any good because he's bad. It might aggravate him and -he'd be worse than ever." - -"Well, as to this God-matter," said Mary stubbornly, "since you and I -can't settle it, there ain't no use in talking more about it until we've -a chanct to find out the rights of it. I'll do the best I can alone till -then." - -"If mother was alive she could tell us everything," said Una with a -sigh. - -"I wisht she was alive," said Mary. "I don't know what's going to become -of you youngsters when I'm gone. Anyhow, DO try and keep the house a -little tidy. The way people talks about it is scandalous. And the first -thing you know your father will be getting married again and then your -noses will be out of joint." - -Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying again had never -presented itself to her before. She did not like it and she lay silent -under the chill of it. - -"Stepmothers are AWFUL creatures," Mary went on. "I could make your -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 be awful if you get a stepmother." - -"I'm sure we won't," said Una tremulously. "Father won't marry anybody -else." - -"He'll be hounded into it, I expect," said Mary darkly. "All the old -maids in the settlement are after him. There's no being up to them. And -the worst of stepmothers is, they always set your father 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 me feel so -unhappy." - -"I only wanted to warn you," said Mary, rather repentantly. "Of course, -your father's so absent-minded he mightn't happen to think of getting -married again. But it's better to be prepared." - -Long after Mary slept serenely little Una lay awake, her eyes smarting -with tears. On, how dreadful it would be if her father should marry -somebody who would make him hate her and Jerry and Faith and Carl! She -couldn't bear it--she couldn't! - -Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind Miss Cornelia had feared -into the manse children's minds. Yet she had certainly contrived to do a -little mischief with the best of intentions. But she slept dreamlessly, -while Una lay awake and the rain fell and the wind wailed around the -old gray manse. And the Rev. John Meredith forgot to go to bed at all -because he was absorbed in reading a life of St. Augustine. It was gray -dawn when he finished it and went upstairs, wrestling with the problems -of two thousand years ago. The door of the girls' room was open and he -saw Faith lying asleep, rosy and beautiful. He wondered where Una was. -Perhaps she had gone over to "stay all night" with the Blythe girls. She -did this occasionally, deeming it a great treat. John Meredith sighed. -He felt that Una's whereabouts ought not to be a mystery to him. Cecelia -would have looked after her better than that. - -If only Cecelia were still with him! How pretty and gay she had been! -How the old manse up at Maywater had echoed to her songs! And she -had gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter and music and leaving -silence--so suddenly that he had never quite got over his feeling of -amazement. How could SHE, the beautiful and vivid, have died? - -The idea of a second marriage had never presented itself seriously to -John Meredith. He had loved his wife so deeply that he believed he could -never care for any woman again. He had a vague idea that before very -long Faith would be old enough to take her mother's place. Until then, -he must do the best he could alone. He sighed and went to his room, -where the bed was still unmade. Aunt Martha had forgotten it, and Mary -had not dared to make it because Aunt Martha had forbidden her to meddle -with anything in the minister's room. But Mr. Meredith did not notice -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's raining. I do -hate a rainy Sunday. Sunday is dull enough even when it's fine." - -"We oughtn't to find Sunday dull," said Una sleepily, trying to pull her -drowsy wits together with an uneasy conviction that they had overslept. - -"But we DO, you know," said Faith candidly. "Mary Vance says most -Sundays are so dull she could hang herself." - -"We ought to like Sunday better than Mary Vance," said Una remorsefully. -"We're the minister's children." - -"I wish we were a blacksmith's children," protested Faith angrily, -hunting for her stockings. "THEN people wouldn't expect us to be better -than other children. JUST look at the holes in my heels. Mary darned -them all up before she went away, but they're as bad as ever now. Una, -get up. I can't get the breakfast alone. Oh, dear. I wish father and -Jerry were home. You wouldn't think we'd miss father much--we don't see -much of him when he is home. And yet EVERYTHING seems gone. I must run -in 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 we ought to -tell Dr. Blythe. But she says not--she never had a doctor in her -life and she isn't going to begin now. She says doctors just live by -poisoning people. Do you suppose they do?" - -"No, of course not," said Una indignantly. "I'm sure Dr. Blythe wouldn't -poison anybody." - -"Well, we'll have to rub Aunt Martha's back again after breakfast. We'd -better not make the flannels as hot as we did yesterday." - -Faith giggled over the remembrance. They had nearly scalded the skin off -poor Aunt Martha's back. Una sighed. Mary Vance would have known just -what the precise temperature of flannels for a misery back should be. -Mary knew everything. They knew nothing. And how could they learn, -save by bitter experience for which, in this instance, unfortunate Aunt -Martha had paid? - -The preceding Monday Mr. Meredith had left for Nova Scotia to spend -his short vacation, taking Jerry with him. On Wednesday Aunt Martha was -suddenly seized with a recurring and mysterious ailment which she always -called "the misery," and which was tolerably certain to attack her -at the most inconvenient times. She could not rise from her bed, any -movement causing agony. A doctor she flatly refused to have. Faith and -Una cooked the meals and waited on her. The less said about the meals -the better--yet they were not much worse than Aunt Martha's had been. -There were many women in the village who would have been glad to come -and help, but Aunt Martha refused to let her plight be known. - -"You must worry on till I kin git around," she groaned. "Thank goodness, -John isn't here. There's a plenty o' cold biled meat and 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 that you could cut -it in slices. And both days it had been burned. - -"I hate porridge," said Faith viciously. "When I have a house of my own -I'm NEVER going to have a single bit of porridge in it." - -"What'll your children do then?" asked Una. "Children have to have -porridge or they won't grow. Everybody says so." - -"They'll have to get along without it or stay runts," retorted Faith -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 half past nine. We'll be -late for Sunday School." - -"I haven't seen anyone going past yet," said Una. "There won't likely be -many out. Just see how it's pouring. And when there's no preaching the -folks won't come from a distance to bring the children." - -"Go and call Carl," said Faith. - -Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced by getting wet in the -Rainbow Valley marsh the previous evening while pursuing dragon-flies. -He had come home with dripping stockings and boots and had sat out the -evening in them. He could not eat any breakfast and Faith made him go -back to bed again. She and Una left the table as it was and went to -Sunday School. There was no one in the school room when they got there -and no one came. They waited until eleven and then went home. - -"There doesn't seem to be anybody at the Methodist Sunday School -either," said Una. - -"I'm GLAD," said Faith. "I'd hate to think the Methodists were better -at going to Sunday School on rainy Sundays than the Presbyterians. 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 had she -learned from Mary Vance. Faith swept the floor after a fashion and -peeled the potatoes for dinner, cutting her finger in the 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 ditto is. And we NEVER -have any pudding. Nan says Susan would faint if they had no pudding on -Sundays. Why aren't we like other people, Faith?" - -"I don't want to be like other people," laughed Faith, tying up her -bleeding finger. "I like being myself. It's more interesting. 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 people talk -about it being so untidy." - -Faith had an inspiration. - -"We'll clean it all up," she cried. "We'll go right to work to-morrow. -It's a real good chance when Aunt Martha is laid up and can't interfere -with us. We'll have it all lovely and clean when father comes home, just -like it was when Mary went away. ANY ONE can sweep and dust and wash -windows. People won't be able to talk about us any more. Jem Blythe -says it's only old cats that talk, but their talk hurts just as much as -anybody's." - -"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," said Una, fired with enthusiasm. -"Oh, Faith, it will be splendid to be all cleaned up and like other -people." - -"I hope Aunt Martha's misery will last over to-morrow," said Faith. "If -it doesn't we won't get a single thing done." - -Faith's amiable wish was fulfilled. The next day found Aunt Martha still -unable to rise. Carl, too, was still sick and easily prevailed on to -stay in bed. Neither Faith nor Una had any idea how sick the boy really -was; a watchful mother would have had a doctor without delay; but there -was no mother, and poor little Carl, with his sore throat and aching -head and crimson cheeks, rolled himself up in his twisted bedclothes and -suffered alone, somewhat comforted by the companionship of a small green -lizard in the pocket of his ragged nighty. - -The world was full of summer sunshine after the rain. It was a peerless -day for house-cleaning and Faith and Una went gaily to work. - -"We'll clean the dining-room and the parlour," said Faith. "It wouldn't -do to meddle with the study, and it doesn't matter much about the -upstairs. The first thing is to take everything out." - -Accordingly, everything was taken out. The furniture was piled on the -veranda and lawn and the Methodist graveyard fence was gaily draped with -rugs. An orgy of sweeping followed, with an attempt at dusting on Una's -part, while Faith washed the windows of the dining-room, breaking one -pane and cracking two in the process. Una surveyed the streaked result -dubiously. - -"They don't look right, somehow," she said. "Mrs. Elliott's and Susan's -windows just shine and sparkle." - -"Never mind. They let the sunshine through just as well," said Faith -cheerfully. "They MUST be clean after all the soap and water I've used, -and that's the main thing. Now, it's past eleven, so I'll wipe up this -mess on the floor and we'll go outside. You dust the furniture and I'll -shake the rugs. I'm going to do it in the graveyard. I don't want to -send dust flying all over the lawn." - -Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, -flapping and shaking rugs, was real fun. To be sure, Elder Abraham -Clow and his wife, driving past in their capacious double-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 own eyes," -said Mrs. Elder Abraham, more solemnly still. - -Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow party. It did not worry her -that the elder and his wife did not return her greeting. Everybody -knew that Elder Abraham had never been known to smile since he had been -appointed Superintendent of the Sunday School fourteen years previously. -But it hurt her that Minnie and Adella Clow did not wave back. Faith -liked Minnie and Adella. Next to the Blythes, they were her best friends -in school and she always helped Adella with her sums. This was gratitude -for you. Her friends cut her because she was shaking rugs in an old -graveyard where, as Mary Vance said, not a living soul had been buried -for years. Faith flounced around to the veranda, where she found Una -grieved in spirit because the Clow girls had not waved to her, either. - -"I suppose they're mad over something," said Faith. "Perhaps they're -jealous because we play so much in Rainbow Valley with the Blythes. -Well, just wait till school opens and Adella wants me to show her how to -do her sums! We'll get square then. Come on, let's put the things back -in. I'm tired to death and I don't believe the rooms will look much -better than before we started--though I shook out pecks of dust in the -graveyard. I HATE house-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 the dishes at -once. But Faith happened to pick up a new story-book Di 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; so she curled herself up on Jerry's bed -and went to sleep too. Meanwhile, a weird story flew through Glen St. -Mary and folks asked each other seriously what was to be done with those -manse youngsters. - -"That is past laughing at, believe ME," said Miss Cornelia to her -husband, with a heavy sigh. "I couldn't believe it at first. Miranda -Drew brought the story home from the Methodist Sunday School this -afternoon and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. Elder Abraham says she -and the Elder saw it with their own eyes." - -"Saw what?" asked Marshall. - -"Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from Sunday School this morning and -CLEANED HOUSE," said Miss Cornelia, in accents of despair. "When Elder -Abraham went home from the church--he had stayed behind to straighten -out the library books--he saw them shaking rugs in the Methodist -graveyard. I can never look a Methodist in the face again. Just think -what a scandal it will make!" - -A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more scandalous as it spread, -until the over-harbour people heard that the manse children had not only -cleaned house and put out a washing on Sunday, but had wound up with an -afternoon picnic in the graveyard while the Methodist Sunday School was -going on. The only household which remained in blissful ignorance of -the terrible thing was the manse itself; on what Faith and Una fondly -believed to be Tuesday it rained again; for the next three days it -rained; nobody came near the manse; the manse folk went nowhere; they -might have waded through the misty Rainbow Valley up to Ingleside, but -all the Blythe family, save Susan and the doctor, were away on a visit -to Avonlea. - -"This is the last of our bread," said Faith, "and the ditto is done. If -Aunt Martha doesn't get better soon WHAT will we do?" - -"We can buy some bread in the village and there's the codfish Mary -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 it beforehand -it was too salty to eat. That night they were very hungry; but by the -following day their troubles were over. Sunshine returned to the world; -Carl was well and Aunt Martha's misery left her as suddenly as it had -come; the butcher called at the manse and chased famine away. To crown -all, the Blythes returned home, and that evening they and the manse -children and Mary Vance kept sunset tryst once more in Rainbow Valley, -where the daisies were floating upon the grass like spirits of the dew -and the bells on the Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in the scented -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 at Ingleside, holding -agonized conclave with Anne and Susan, and Mary hoped that the session -might be a long one, for it was all of two weeks since she had been -allowed to revel with her chums in the dear valley of rainbows. - -"Done what?" demanded everybody but Walter, who was day-dreaming as -usual. - -"It's you manse young ones, I mean," said Mary. "It was just awful 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 up ANYWHERE--just COME up." - -"What have WE done?" asked Faith blankly. - -"Done! You'd BETTER ask! The talk is something terrible. I expect it's -ruined your father in this congregation. He'll never be able to live it -down, poor man! Everybody blames him for it, and that isn't fair. But -nothing IS fair in this world. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." - -"What HAVE we done?" asked Una again, despairingly. Faith said nothing, -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 me catch you -making Una cry, Mary Vance. What are you talking about?" - -"I s'pose you don't know, since you're just back from up west," said -Mary, somewhat subdued. Jem could always manage her. "But everybody else -knows, you'd better believe." - -"Knows what?" - -"That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday School last Sunday and -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 ME down for -lying," she said. "What's the good of saying you didn't? Everybody knows -you DID. Elder Clow and his wife saw you. Some people say it will break -up the church, but _I_ don't go that far. You ARE nice ones." - -Nan Blythe stood up and put her arms around the dazed Faith and Una. - -"They were nice enough to take you in and feed you and clothe you when -you were starving in Mr. Taylor's barn, Mary Vance," she said. "You are -VERY grateful, I must say." - -"I AM grateful," retorted Mary. "You'd know it if you'd heard me -standing up for Mr. Meredith through thick and thin. I've blistered -my tongue talking for him this week. I've said again and again that -he isn't to blame if his young ones did clean house 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 to Sunday -School in spite of the rain--and no one came--not even Elder Abraham, -for all his talk about fair-weather Christians." - -"It was Saturday it rained," said Mary. "Sunday was as fine as silk. I -wasn't at Sunday School because I had toothache, but every one else was -and they saw all your stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham and Mrs. -Elder Abraham saw you shaking rugs in the 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 could you have -thought Saturday was Sunday?" - -"Prayer-meeting was Thursday night," cried Faith, "and Adam flew into -the soup-pot on Friday when Aunt Martha's cat chased him, and spoiled -our dinner; and Saturday there was a snake in the cellar 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 Baxter was to -lead and he couldn't go Thursday night and it was changed to Wednesday. -You were just a day out, Faith Meredith, and you DID 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, "but a 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've disgraced -your father." - -Una's evening was spoiled by this dire reflection, but Faith refused to -be made uncomfortable. Besides, she had a plan that would put everything -right. So she put the past with its mistake behind her and gave herself -over to enjoyment of the present. Jem went away to fish and Walter came -out of his reverie and proceeded to describe the woods of heaven. Mary -pricked up her ears and listened respectfully. Despite her awe of -Walter she revelled in his "book talk." It always gave her a delightful -sensation. Walter had been reading his Coleridge that day, and he -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 a long -breath. "I thought it was all streets--and streets--AND streets." - -"Of course there are woods," said Nan. "Mother can't live without -trees and I can't, so what would be the use of going to heaven if there -weren't any trees?" - -"There are cities, too," said the young dreamer, "splendid -cities--coloured just like the sunset, with sapphire towers and rainbow -domes. They are built of gold and diamonds--whole streets of diamonds, -flashing like the sun. In the squares there are crystal fountains kissed -by the light, and everywhere the asphodel blooms--the flower of heaven." - -"Fancy!" said Mary. "I saw the main street in Charlottetown once and I -thought it was real grand, but I s'pose it's nothing to heaven. Well, it -all sounds gorgeous the way you tell it, but won't it be kind of dull, -too?" - -"Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the angels' backs are turned," -said Faith comfortably. - -"Heaven is ALL fun," declared Di. - -"The Bible doesn't say so," cried Mary, who had read so much of the -Bible on Sunday afternoons under Miss Cornelia's eye that she now -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 just like -what you'd like it to be." - -"I'd like it to be just like Rainbow Valley," said Mary, "with all 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 trout and it's my turn to fry -them." - -"We ought to know more about heaven than Walter does when we're the -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 explain so that -everybody will know," said Faith. "Just wait till to-morrow night." - - - -CHAPTER XII. AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE - -The Rev. Dr. Cooper preached in Glen St. Mary the next evening and -the Presbyterian Church was crowded with people from near and far. The -Reverend Doctor was reputed to be a very eloquent speaker; and, bearing -in mind the old dictum that a minister should take his best clothes -to the city and his best sermons to the country, he delivered a very -scholarly and impressive discourse. But when the folks went home that -night it was not of Dr. Cooper's sermon they talked. They had completely -forgotten all about it. - -Dr. Cooper had concluded with a fervent appeal, had wiped the -perspiration from his massive brow, had said "Let us pray" as he was -famed for saying it, and had duly prayed. There was a slight pause. In -Glen St. Mary church the old fashion of taking the collection after the -sermon instead of before still held--mainly because the Methodists had -adopted the new fashion first, and Miss Cornelia and Elder Clow would -not hear of following where Methodists had led. Charles Baxter and -Thomas Douglas, whose duty it was to pass the plates, were on the point -of rising to their feet. The organist had got out the music of her -anthem and the choir had cleared its throat. Suddenly Faith Meredith -rose in the manse pew, walked up to the pulpit platform, and faced the -amazed audience. - -Miss Cornelia half rose in her seat and then sat down again. Her pew was -far back and it occurred to her that whatever Faith meant to do or say -would be half done or said before she could reach her. There was no use -making the exhibition worse than it had to be. With an anguished glance -at Mrs. Dr. Blythe, and another at Deacon Warren of the Methodist -Church, Miss Cornelia resigned herself to another scandal. - -"If the child was only dressed decently itself," she groaned in spirit. - -Faith, having spilled ink on her good dress, had serenely put on an -old one of faded pink print. A caticornered rent in the skirt had -been darned with scarlet tracing cotton and the hem had been let down, -showing a bright strip of unfaded pink around the skirt. But Faith was -not thinking of her clothes at all. She was feeling suddenly nervous. -What had seemed easy in imagination was rather hard in reality. -Confronted by all those staring questioning eyes Faith's courage almost -failed her. The lights were so bright, the silence so awesome. She -thought she could not speak after all. But she MUST--her father MUST be -cleared of suspicion. Only--the words would NOT come. - -Una's little pearl-pure face gleamed up at her beseechingly from the -manse pew. The Blythe children were lost in amazement. Back under the -gallery Faith saw the sweet graciousness of Miss Rosemary West's smile -and the amusement of Miss Ellen's. But none of these helped her. It was -Bertie Shakespeare Drew who saved the situation. Bertie Shakespeare sat -in the front seat of the gallery and he made a derisive face at Faith. -Faith promptly made a dreadful one back at him, and, in her anger over -being grimaced at by Bertie Shakespeare, forgot her stage fright. She -found her voice and spoke out clearly and bravely. - -"I want to explain something," she said, "and I want to do it now -because everybody will hear it that heard the other. People are saying -that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of -going to Sunday School. Well, we did--but we didn't mean to. We -got mixed up in the days of the week. It was all Elder Baxter's -fault"--sensation in Baxter's pew--"because he went and changed the -prayer-meeting to Wednesday night and then we thought Thursday was -Friday and so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday. Carl was laid up -sick and so was Aunt Martha, so they couldn't put us right. We went to -Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we -thought we'd clean house on Monday and stop old cats from talking about -how dirty the manse was"--general sensation all over the church--"and we -did. I shook the rugs in the Methodist graveyard because it was such -a convenient place and not because I meant to be disrespectful of the -dead. It isn't the dead folks who have made the fuss over this--it's the -living folks. And it isn't right for any of you to blame my father for -this, because he was away and didn't know, and anyhow we thought it was -Monday. He's just the best father that ever lived in the world and we -love him with all our hearts." - -Faith's bravado ebbed out in a sob. She ran down the steps and flashed -out of the side door of the church. There the friendly starlit, summer -night comforted her and the ache went out of her eyes and throat. She -felt very happy. The dreadful explanation was over and everybody knew -now that her father wasn't to blame and that she and Una were not so -wicked as to have cleaned house knowingly on Sunday. - -Inside the church people gazed blankly at each other, but Thomas Douglas -rose and walked up the aisle with a set face. HIS duty was clear; the -collection must be taken if the skies fell. Taken it was; the choir sang -the anthem, with a dismal conviction that it fell terribly flat, and Dr. -Cooper gave out the concluding hymn and pronounced the benediction with -considerably less unction than usual. The Reverend Doctor had a sense of -humour and Faith's performance tickled him. Besides, John Meredith was -well known in Presbyterian circles. - -Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon, but before his coming -Faith contrived to scandalize Glen St. Mary again. In the reaction from -Sunday evening's intensity and strain she was especially full of what -Miss Cornelia would have called "devilment" on Monday. This led her to -dare Walter Blythe to ride through Main Street on a pig, while she rode -another one. - -The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals, supposed to belong to -Bertie Shakespeare Drew's father, which had been haunting the roadside -by the manse for a couple of weeks. Walter did not want to ride a pig -through Glen St. Mary, but whatever Faith Meredith dared him to do must -be done. They tore down the hill and through the village, Faith bent -double with laughter over her terrified courser, Walter crimson with -shame. They tore past the minister himself, just coming home from the -station; he, being a little less dreamy and abstracted than usual--owing -to having had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia who always wakened -him up temporarily--noticed them, and thought he really must speak to -Faith about it and tell her that such conduct was not seemly. But he had -forgotten the trifling incident by the time he reached home. They passed -Mrs. Alec Davis, who shrieked in horror, and they passed Miss Rosemary -West who laughed and sighed. Finally, just before the pigs swooped into -Bertie Shakespeare Drew's back yard, never to emerge therefrom again, so -great had been the shock to their nerves--Faith and Walter jumped off, -as Dr. and Mrs. Blythe drove swiftly by. - -"So that is how you bring up your boys," said Gilbert with mock -severity. - -"Perhaps I do spoil them a little," said Anne contritely, "but, oh, -Gilbert, when I think of my own childhood before I came to Green Gables -I haven't the heart to be very strict. How hungry for love and fun I -was--an unloved little drudge with never a chance to play! They do have -such good times with the manse children." - -"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 think anything -could hurt those animals. They've been the plague of the 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 do it." - -Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening to relieve her feelings -over Sunday night. To her surprise she found that Anne did not view -Faith's performance in quite the same light as she did. - -"I thought there was something brave and pathetic in her getting up -there before that churchful of people, to confess," she said. "You could -see she was frightened to death--yet she was bound to clear 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 making more talk -than the house-cleaning on Sunday. THAT had begun to die away, and this -has started it all up again. Rosemary West is like you--she said last -night as she left the church that it was a plucky thing for Faith to do, -but it made her feel sorry for the child, too. Miss Ellen thought it all -a good joke, and said she hadn't had as much fun in church for years. -Of course THEY don't care--they are Episcopalians. But we Presbyterians -feel it. And there were so many hotel people there that night and scores -of Methodists. Mrs. Leander Crawford cried, she felt so bad. And Mrs. -Alec Davis said the little hussy ought to be spanked." - -"Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in church," said Susan -contemptuously. "She cries over every affecting thing the minister says. -But you do not often see her name on a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. dear. -Tears come cheaper. She tried to talk to me one day about Aunt Martha -being such a dirty housekeeper; and I wanted to say, 'Every one knows -that YOU have been seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen wash-pan, Mrs. -Leander Crawford!' But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because I have -too much respect for myself to condescend to argue with the likes of -her. But I could tell worse things than THAT of Mrs. Leander Crawford, -if I was disposed to gossip. And as for Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said -that to me, Mrs. Dr. dear, do you know what I would have said? I would -have said, 'I have no doubt you would like to spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, -but you will never have the chance to spank a minister's daughter either -in this world or in that which is to come.'" - -"If poor Faith had only been decently dressed," lamented Miss Cornelia -again, "it wouldn't have been quite that bad. But that dress looked -dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform." - -"It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "They ARE clean -children. They may be very heedless and reckless, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I -am not saying they are not, but they NEVER forget to wash behind their -ears." - -"The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sunday," persisted Miss -Cornelia. "She will grow up just as careless and impractical as her -father, believe ME. I suppose Carl would have known better if he hadn't -been sick. I don't know what was wrong with him, but I think it very -likely he had been eating those blueberries that grew in the graveyard. -No wonder they made him sick. If I was a Methodist I'd try to keep my -graveyard cleaned up at least." - -"I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours that grow on the -dyke," said Susan hopefully. "I do not think ANY minister's son would -eat blueberries that grew on the graves of dead people. You know it -would not be so bad, Mrs. Dr. dear, to eat things that grew on the -dyke." - -"The worst of last night's performance was the face Faith made made at -somebody in the congregation before she started in," said Miss Cornelia. -"Elder Clow declares she made it at him. And DID you hear that she was -seen riding on a pig to-day?" - -"I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave him a little--a VERY -little--scolding about it. He did not say much, but he gave me the -impression that it had been his idea and that Faith was not to blame." - -"I do not not believe THAT, Mrs. Dr. dear," cried Susan, up in arms. -"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 blessed child would never have -thought of riding on a pig, even if he does write poetry." - -"Oh, there's no doubt the notion was hatched in Faith Meredith's brain," -said Miss Cornelia. "And I don't say that I'm sorry that Amos Drew's old -pigs did get their come-uppance for once. But the minister's daughter!" - -"AND the doctor's son!" said Anne, mimicking Miss Cornelia's tone. Then -she laughed. "Dear Miss Cornelia, they're only little children. And -you KNOW they've never yet done anything bad--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 YOUR -soberness is put on like a garment and you're really aching to do -something 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 Samson wouldn't be exactly cheering." - -"It is a very strange thing to think that she married Joe Samson after -all her chances," remarked Susan. "She was much sought after when she -was a girl. She used to boast to me that she had twenty-one beaus and -Mr. Pethick." - -"What was Mr. Pethick?" - -"Well, he was a sort of hanger-on, Mrs. Dr. dear, but you could -not exactly call him a beau. He did not really have any intentions. -Twenty-one beaus--and me that never had one! But Barbara went through -the woods and picked up the crooked stick after all. And yet they say -her husband can make better baking powder biscuits than she can, and she -always gets him to make them when company comes to tea." - -"Which reminds ME that I have company coming to tea to-morrow and I must -go home and set my bread," said Miss Cornelia. "Mary said she could set -it and no doubt she could. But while I live and move 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 rather -gloomily. "She's getting some flesh on her bones and she's clean and -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't get 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 may have been cruel to her, but folks -needn't say she made Mary work. Mary's a born worker. Sometimes I wonder -which will wear out first--her legs or her tongue. I don't have enough -to do to keep me out of mischief these days. I'll be real glad when -school opens, for then I'll have something to do again. Mary doesn't -want to go to school, but I put my foot down and said that go she must. -I shall NOT have the Methodists saying that I kept her out of school -while I lolled in idleness." - - - -CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL - -There was a little unfailing spring, always icy cold and crystal pure, -in a certain birch-screened hollow of Rainbow Valley in the lower corner -near the marsh. Not a great many people knew of its existence. The manse -and Ingleside children knew, of course, as they knew everything else -about the magic valley. Occasionally they went there to get a drink, -and it figured in many of their plays as a fountain of old romance. Anne -knew of it and loved it because it somehow reminded her of the beloved -Dryad's Bubble at Green Gables. Rosemary West knew of it; it was her -fountain of romance, too. Eighteen years ago she had sat behind it one -spring twilight and heard young Martin Crawford stammer out a confession -of fervent, boyish love. She had whispered her own secret in return, -and they had kissed and promised by the wild wood spring. They had never -stood together by it again--Martin had sailed on his fatal voyage soon -after; but to Rosemary West it was always a sacred spot, hallowed by -that immortal hour of youth and love. Whenever she passed near it she -turned aside to hold a secret tryst with an old dream--a dream from -which the pain had long gone, leaving only its unforgettable sweetness. - -The spring was a hidden thing. You might have passed within ten feet of -it and never have suspected its existence. Two generations past a huge -old pine had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left of the tree but -its crumbling trunk out of which the ferns grew thickly, making a green -roof and a lacy screen for the water. A maple-tree grew beside it with -a curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping along the ground for -a little way before shooting up into the air, and so forming a quaint -seat; and September had flung a scarf of pale smoke-blue asters around -the hollow. - -John Meredith, taking the cross-lots road through Rainbow Valley on -his way home from some pastoral visitations around the Harbour head one -evening, turned aside to drink of the little spring. Walter Blythe had -shown it to him one afternoon only a few days before, and they had had -a long talk together on the maple seat. John Meredith, under all his -shyness and aloofness, had the heart of a boy. He had been called Jack -in his youth, though nobody in Glen St. Mary would ever have believed -it. Walter and he had taken to each other and had talked unreservedly. -Mr. Meredith found his way into some sealed and sacred chambers of the -lad's soul wherein not even Di had ever looked. They were to be -chums from that friendly hour and Walter knew that he would never be -frightened of the minister again. - -"I never believed before that it was possible to get really acquainted -with a minister," he told his mother that night. - -John Meredith drank from his slender white hand, whose grip of steel -always surprised people who were unacquainted with it, and then 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 round of rather uninspiring -conversations with many good and stupid people. The moon was rising. -Rainbow Valley was wind-haunted and star-sentinelled only where he was, -but afar from the upper end came the gay notes of children's laughter -and voices. - -The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight, the glimmer of the -little spring, the soft croon of the brook, the wavering grace of -the brackens all wove a white magic round John Meredith. He forgot -congregational worries and spiritual problems; the years slipped away -from him; he was a young divinity student again and the roses of June -were blooming red and fragrant on the dark, queenly head of his Cecilia. -He sat there and dreamed like any boy. And it was at this propitious -moment that Rosemary West stepped aside from the by-path and stood -beside him in that dangerous, spell-weaving place. John Meredith stood -up as she came in and saw her--REALLY saw her--for the first time. - -He had met her in his church once or twice and shaken hands with her -abstractedly as he did with anyone he happened to encounter on his -way down the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, for the Wests were -Episcopalians, with church affinities in Lowbridge, and no occasion for -calling upon them had ever arisen. Before to-night, if anyone had asked -John Meredith what Rosemary West looked like he would not have had the -slightest notion. But he was never to forget her, as she appeared to him -in the glamour of kind moonlight by the spring. - -She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who had always been -his ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia had been small and dark 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 in sleek, close coils -over her head; she had large, tranquil, blue eyes that always seemed -full of friendliness, a high white forehead and a finely shaped face. - -Rosemary West was always called a "sweet woman." She was so sweet that -even her high-bred, stately air had never gained for her the reputation -of being "stuck-up," which it would inevitably have done in the case -of anyone else in Glen St. Mary. Life had taught her to be brave, to -be patient, to love, to forgive. She had watched the ship on which -her lover went sailing out of Four Winds Harbour into the sunset. But, -though she watched long, she had never seen it coming sailing back. -That vigil had taken girlhood from her eyes, yet she kept her youth to -a marvellous degree. Perhaps this was because she always seemed to -preserve that attitude of delighted surprise towards life which most of -us leave behind in childhood--an attitude which not only made Rosemary -herself seem young, but flung a pleasing illusion of youth over the -consciousness of every one who talked to her. - -John Meredith was startled by her loveliness and Rosemary was startled -by his presence. She had never thought she would find anyone by that -remote spring, least of all the recluse of Glen St. Mary manse. She -almost dropped the heavy armful of books she was carrying home from the -Glen lending library, and then, to cover her confusion, she told one of -those small fibs which even the best of women do tell at times. - -"I--I came for a drink," she said, stammering a little, in answer to -Mr. Meredith's grave "good evening, Miss West." She felt that she was -an unpardonable goose and she longed to shake herself. But John Meredith -was not a vain man and he knew she would likely have been as much -startled had she met old Elder Clow in that unexpected fashion. Her -confusion put him at ease and he forgot to be shy; besides, even the -shyest of men can sometimes be quite audacious in moonlight. - -"Let me get you a cup," he said smiling. There was a cup near by, if -he had only known it, a cracked, handleless blue cup secreted under -the maple by the Rainbow Valley children; but he did not know it, so he -stepped out to one of the birch-trees and stripped a bit of its white -skin away. Deftly he fashioned this into a three-cornered cup, filled it -from the spring, and handed it to Rosemary. - -Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish herself for her fib, for -she was not in the least thirsty, and to drink a fairly large cupful of -water when you are not thirsty is somewhat of an ordeal. Yet the memory -of that draught was to be very pleasant to Rosemary. In after years it -seemed to her that there was something sacramental about it. Perhaps -this was because of what the minister did when she handed him back the -cup. He stooped again and filled it and drank of it himself. It was only -by accident that he put his lips just where Rosemary had put hers, and -Rosemary knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curious significance for her. -They two had drunk of the same cup. She remembered idly that an old -aunt of hers used to say that when two people did this their after-lives -would be linked in some fashion, whether for good or ill. - -John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He did not know what to do with -it. The logical thing would have been to toss it away, but somehow he -was disinclined to do this. Rosemary held out her hand 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 brother used to make them -long ago--before he died." - -"I learned how to make them when _I_ was a boy, camping out one summer. -An old hunter taught me," said Mr. Meredith. "Let me carry your books, -Miss West." - -Rosemary was startled into another fib and said oh, they were not heavy. -But the minister took them from her with quite a masterful air and they -walked away together. It was the first time Rosemary had stood by the -valley spring without thinking of Martin Crawford. The mystic tryst had -been broken. - -The little by-path wound around the marsh and then struck up the long -wooded hill on the top of which Rosemary lived. Beyond, through the -trees, they could see the moonlight shining across the level summer -fields. But the little path was shadowy and narrow. Trees crowded -over it, and trees are never quite as friendly to human beings after -nightfall as they are in daylight. They wrap themselves away from us. -They whisper and plot furtively. If they reach out a hand to us it has -a hostile, tentative touch. People walking amid trees after night -always draw closer together instinctively and involuntarily, making an -alliance, physical and mental, against certain alien powers around them. -Rosemary's dress brushed against John Meredith as they walked. Not even -an absent-minded minister, who was after all a young man still, though -he firmly believed he had outlived romance, could be insensible to the -charm of the night and the path and the companion. - -It is never quite safe to think we have done with life. When we imagine -we have finished our story fate has a trick of turning the page and -showing us yet another chapter. These two people each thought their -hearts belonged irrevocably to the past; but they both found their walk -up that hill very pleasant. Rosemary thought the Glen minister was by -no means as shy and tongue-tied as he had been represented. He seemed to -find no difficulty in talking easily and freely. Glen housewives would -have been amazed had they heard him. But then so many Glen housewives -talked only gossip and the price of eggs, and John Meredith was not -interested in either. He talked to Rosemary of books and music and -wide-world doings and something of his own history, and found that she -could understand and respond. Rosemary, it appeared, possessed a book -which Mr. Meredith had not read and wished to read. She offered to lend -it to him and when they reached 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 friendly fashion. It -looked down the Glen, over the harbour, silvered in the moonlight, to -the sand-dunes and the moaning ocean. They walked in through a garden -that always seemed to smell of roses, even when no roses were in bloom. -There was a sisterhood of lilies at the gate and a ribbon of asters on -either side of the broad walk, and a lacery of fir trees on the hill's -edge beyond the house. - -"You have the whole world at your doorstep here," said John Meredith, -with a long breath. "What a view--what an outlook! At times I feel -stifled down there in the Glen. You can breathe up here." - -"It is calm to-night," said Rosemary laughing. "If there were a wind it -would blow your breath away. We get 'a' the airts the wind can blow' up -here. This place should be called Four Winds instead of the Harbour." - -"I like wind," he said. "A day when there is no wind seems to me DEAD. A -windy day wakes me up." He gave a conscious laugh. "On a calm day I fall -into day dreams. No doubt you know my reputation, Miss West. If I cut -you dead the next time we meet don't put it down to bad manners. Please -understand that it is only abstraction and forgive me--and speak to me." - -They found Ellen West in the sitting room when they went in. She laid -her glasses down on the book she had been reading and looked at them -in amazement tinctured with something else. But she shook hands amiably -with Mr. Meredith and he sat down and talked to her, while Rosemary -hunted out his book. - -Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary, and so different from her -that it was hard to believe they were sisters. She was dark and massive, -with black hair, thick, black eyebrows and eyes of the clear, slaty blue -of the gulf water in a north wind. She had a rather stern, forbidding -look, but she was in reality very jolly, with a hearty, gurgling laugh -and a deep, mellow, pleasant voice with a suggestion of masculinity -about it. She had once remarked to Rosemary that she would really like -to have a talk with that Presbyterian minister at the Glen, to see if -he could find a word to say to a woman when he was cornered. She had her -chance now and she tackled him on world politics. Miss Ellen, who was -a great reader, had been devouring a book on the Kaiser of 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 ACHING to. He is going to set -the world on fire." - -"If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate a great war I hardly -think so," said Mr. Meredith. "The day has gone by for that sort of -thing." - -"Bless you, it hasn't," rumbled Ellen. "The day never goes by for men -and nations to make asses of themselves and take to the fists. The -millenniun isn't THAT near, Mr. Meredith, and YOU don't think it is any -more than I do. As for this Kaiser, mark my words, he is going to make a -heap of trouble"--and Miss Ellen prodded her book emphatically with -her long finger. "Yes, if he isn't nipped in the bud he's going to -make trouble. WE'LL live to see it--you and I will live to see it, Mr. -Meredith. And who is going to nip him? England should, but she won't. -WHO is going to nip him? Tell me that, Mr. Meredith." - -Mr. Meredith couldn't tell her, but they plunged into a discussion of -German militarism that lasted long after Rosemary had found the book. -Rosemary said nothing, but sat in a little rocker behind Ellen and -stroked an important black cat meditatively. John Meredith hunted big -game in Europe with Ellen, but he looked oftener at Rosemary than at -Ellen, and Ellen noticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the door with -him and come 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. It rubbed all -the bloom off the pleasant evening. But she would not let Ellen see how -it hurt her. - -"Nonsense," she said, and laughed, a little too carelessly. "You see -a beau for me in every bush, Ellen. Why he told me all about his wife -to-night--how much she was to him--how empty her death had left the -world." - -"Well, that may be HIS way of courting," retorted Ellen. "Men have all -kinds of ways, I understand. But don't forget your promise, Rosemary." - -"There is no need of my either forgetting or remembering it," said -Rosemary, a little wearily. "YOU forget that I'm an old maid, Ellen. It -is only your sisterly delusion that I am still young and blooming and -dangerous. Mr. Meredith merely wants to be a friend--if he wants that -much itself. He'll forget us both long before he gets back to the -manse." - -"I've no objection to your being friends with him," conceded Ellen, -"but it musn't go beyond friendship, remember. I'm always suspicious of -widowers. They are not given to romantic ideas about friendship. They're -apt to mean business. As for this Presbyterian man, what do they call -him shy for? He's not a bit shy, though he may be absent-minded--so -absent-minded that he forgot to say goodnight to ME when you started to -go to the door with him. He's got brains, too. There's so few men round -here that can talk sense to a body. I've enjoyed the evening. I wouldn't -mind seeing more of him. But no philandering, Rosemary, mind you--no -philandering." - -Rosemary was quite used to being warned by Ellen from philandering if -she so much as talked five minutes to any marriageable man under eighty -or over eighteen. She had always laughed at the warning with unfeigned -amusement. This time it did not amuse her--it irritated her a little. -Who wanted to philander? - -"Don't be such a goose, Ellen," she said with unaccustomed shortness as -she took her lamp. She went upstairs without saying goodnight. - -Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked at the black cat. - -"What is she so cross about, St. George?" she asked. "When you howl -you're hit, I've always heard, George. But she promised, Saint--she -promised, and we Wests always keep our word. So it won'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 out of the -window across the moonlit garden to the distant, shining harbour. She -felt vaguely upset and unsettled. She was suddenly tired of outworn -dreams. And in the garden the petals of the last red rose were scattered -by a sudden little wind. Summer was over--it was autumn. - - - -CHAPTER XIV. MRS. ALEC DAVIS MAKES A CALL - -John Meredith walked slowly home. At first he thought a little about -Rosemary, but by the time he reached Rainbow Valley he had forgotten all -about her and was meditating on a point regarding German theology which -Ellen had raised. He passed through Rainbow Valley and knew it not. The -charm of Rainbow Valley had no potency against German theology. When he -reached the manse he went to his study and took down a bulky volume in -order to see which had been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed in -its mazes until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation and pursued it -like a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly lost to the world, his -parish and his family. He read day and night; he forgot to go to his -meals when Una was not there to drag him to them; he never thought about -Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall, over-harbour, was very ill -and sent for him, but the message lay unheeded on his desk and gathered -dust. Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave him. A young couple came -to the manse to be married and Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, in -carpet slippers and faded dressing gown, married them. To be sure, he -began by reading the funeral service to them and got along as far as -"ashes to ashes and dust to dust" before he vaguely 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. He turned -up the marriage service and got through with it, but the bride never -felt quite properly married for the rest of her life. - -He forgot his prayer-meeting again--but that did not matter, for it was -a wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgotten his Sunday -service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on -Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour and -wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in -Glen St. Mary church whom he positively detested. Unfortunately, she -was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith -against offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldly -matter as his stipend; but the managers were more practical. Also, they -were astute. Without mentioning money, they contrived to instil into -Mr. Meredith's mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis. -Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt -Martha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling -of annoyance and went across the hall to the parlour. - -Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air of -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 down the day before to -use as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten to put them -up again, but she could not have accused those windows more fiercely -if she had known. The blinds were cracked and torn. The pictures on the -walls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the vases were full of faded -flowers; the dust lay in heaps--literally in heaps. - -"What are we coming to?" Mrs. Davis asked herself, and then primmed up -her unbeautiful mouth. - -Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banisters as she -came through the hall. They did not see her and continued whooping and -sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith's -pet rooster ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway and -looked at her. Not liking her looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis -gave a scornful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters paraded -the halls and stared people out 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 the necks -of so many roosters with her own fair hands in the course of her fifty -years that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adam -scuttled through the hall as the minister came in. - -Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hair -still fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But he looked the -gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumed -bonnet, and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souled -woman she was. Each felt the antagonisn of the other's personality. Mr. -Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. She -had come to the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister and -she meant to lose 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 the -better. She had been thinking about it all summer and had come to a -decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When -she decided a thing it WAS decided. Nobody else had any say in the -matter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made her mind up -to marry Alec Davis she had married him and that was the end to it. Alec -had never known how it happened, but what odds? So in this case--Mrs. -Davis had arranged everything to her own satisfaction. Now it only -remained to inform Mr. Meredith. - -"Will you please shut that door?" said Mrs. Davis, unprimming her -mouth slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity. "I have something -important to say, and I can't say it with that racket in 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 still wrestling with -Ewald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment 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, not understanding -in the least. - -"Yes. I've been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought of -adopting a child, since my husband's death. But it seemed so hard to -get a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into MY -home. I wouldn't think of taking a home child--some outcast of the slums -in all probability. And there is hardly ever any other child to be got. -One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left six -youngsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave them -to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that. Their -grandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted a -girl--a quiet, obedient girl that I could train up to be a lady. Una -will suit me exactly. She would be a nice little thing if she was -properly looked after--so different from Faith. I would never dream of -adopting Faith. But I'll take 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 money when I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of it -in any case, I'm determined on that. It was the idea of aggravating them -that set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as anything in the -first place. Una shall be well dressed and educated and trained, Mr. -Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons and treat her -as if she was my own." - -Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint flush -in his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his fine dark eyes. Was this -woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed out of her at -every pore, actually asking him to give her Una--his dear little wistful -Una with Cecilia's own dark-blue eyes--the child whom the dying mother -had clasped to her heart after the other children had been led weeping -from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of death -had shut between them. She had looked over the little dark head to her -husband. - -"Take good care of her, John," she had entreated. "She is so small--and -sensitive. The others can fight their way--but the world will hurt HER. -Oh, John, I don't know what you and she are going to do. You both need -me so much. But keep her close to you--keep her close to you." - -These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettable ones for -him alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announced -her intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at Mrs. -Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed slippers there -was something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old -reverence for "the cloth" in which she had been brought up. After all, -there WAS a certain 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 I cannot give you my -child." - -Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing. - -"Why, Mr. Meredith," she said in astonishment. "You must be cr--you -can't mean it. You must think it over--think of all the advantages I can -give her." - -"There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out of -the question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow -on her could not compensate for the loss of a father's love and care. I -thank you again--but it is not to be thought of." - -Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to -control. Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled. - -"I thought you'd be only too glad to let me have her," she sneered. - -"Why did you think that?" asked Mr. Meredith quietly. - -"Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your -children," retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. "You neglect them -scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fed and dressed -properly, and they're not trained at all. They have no more manners than -a pack of wild Indians. You never think of doing your duty as a father. -You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and never -took any notice of her--a child that swore like a trooper I'm told. YOU -wouldn't have cared if they'd caught small-pox from her. And Faith made -an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech! -And she rid a pig down the street--under your very eyes I understand. -The way they act is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop them -or try to teach them anything. And now when I offer one of them a good -home and good prospects you refuse it and insult me. A pretty father -you, to talk of loving and caring for your children!" - -"That will do, woman!" said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at Mrs. -Davis with eyes that made her quail. "That will do," he repeated. "I -desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may be -that I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but it -is not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used. Let us -say good afternoon." - -Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, but -she took her departure. As she swept past the minister a large, plump -toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost under -her feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading on -the awful thing, lost her balance and her parasol. She did not exactly -fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignified -fashion and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her from -head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if she -had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic 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 some more -of your children's doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for a decent -woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'll never darken the doors of -your manse or your church again." - -Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it to -her. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl had given up -banister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda with Faith. -Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their healthy young -voices "There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night." Mrs. Davis -believed the song was meant for her and her only. She stopped and shook -her parasol at them. - -"Your father is a fool," she said, "and you are three young varmints -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 not return to his German -theology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis had -wakened him up with a vengeance. WAS he such a remiss, careless father -as she had accused him of being? HAD he so scandalously neglected the -bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless creatures -dependent on him? WERE his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davis -had declared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una in -the full and confident belief that he would hand the child over to her -as unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcome -kitten. And, if so, what then? - -John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty, -disordered room. What could he do? He loved his children as deeply as -any father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of her -ilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved him devotedly. But WAS -he fit to have charge of them? He knew--none better--his weaknesses and -limitations. What was needed was a good woman's presence and influence -and common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he able -to get such a housekeeper it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She -believed she could still do all that was meet and necessary. He could -not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind to him -and his. How devoted she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had asked -him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he suddenly -remembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to marry -again. He felt she would not resent a wife as she would a housekeeper. -But that was out of the question. He did not wish to marry--he did -not and could not care for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly -occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside and talk over his -difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women he -never felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always so sympathetic and -refreshing. It might be that she could suggest some solution of his -problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt that he needed -a little decent human companionship after his dose of Mrs. -Davis--something to take the taste of her out of his soul. - -He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual. It -occurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked at his children; they -were rosy and healthy looking enough--except Una, and she had never been -very strong even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing and -talking--certainly they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy because -he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate. -Their voices were pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they were -considerate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their -behaviour was the talk of the congregation. - -As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove -past on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister's face fell. Mrs. -Blythe was going away--there was no use in going to Ingleside. And -he craved a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed rather -hopelessly over the landscape the sunset light struck on a window of the -old West homestead on the hill. It flared out rosily like a beacon of -good hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought -that he would relish some of Ellen's pungent conversation. He thought it -would be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm, -heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney's -say?--"continual comfort in a face"--that just suited her. And he needed -comfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had asked him to -drop in sometimes and there was Rosemary's book to take back--he ought -to take it back before he forgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that there -were a great many books in his library which he had borrowed at sundry -times and in divers places and had forgotten to take back. It was surely -his duty to guard against that in this case. He went back into his -study, got the book, and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley. - - - -CHAPTER XV. MORE GOSSIP - -On the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the over-harbour section had -been buried Miss Cornelia and Mary Vance came up to Ingleside. There -were several things concerning which Miss Cornelia wished to unburden -her soul. The funeral had to be all talked over, of course. Susan and -Miss Cornelia thrashed this out between them; Anne took no part or -delight in such goulish conversations. She sat a little apart and -watched the autumnal flame of dahlias in the garden, and the dreaming, -glamorous harbour 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's laughter, but her -fingers were under Miss Cornelia's eye. She had to knit so many rounds -of her stocking before she might go to the valley. Mary knit and held -her tongue, but used her ears. - -"I never saw a nicer looking corpse," said Miss Cornelia judicially. -"Myra Murray was always a pretty woman--she was a Corey from Lowbridge -and the Coreys were noted for their good looks." - -"I said to the corpse as I passed it, 'poor woman. I hope you are as -happy as you look.'" sighed Susan. "She had not changed much. That dress -she wore was the black satin she got for her daughter's wedding fourteen -years ago. Her Aunt told her then to keep it for her funeral, but Myra -laughed and said, 'I may wear it to my funeral, Aunty, but I will have a -good time out of it first.' And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not a -woman to attend her own funeral before she died. Many a time afterwards -when I saw her enjoying herself out in company I thought to myself, 'You -are a handsome woman, Myra Murray, and that dress becomes you, but it -will likely be your shroud at last.' And you see my words have come -true, Mrs. Marshall Elliott." - -Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying herself hugely. A funeral -was really a delightful subject of conversation. - -"I always liked to meet Myra," said Miss Cornelia. "She was always so -gay and cheerful--she made you feel better just by her handshake. Myra -always made the best of things." - -"That is true," asserted Susan. "Her sister-in-law told me that when the -doctor told her at last that he could do nothing for her and she would -never rise from that bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, 'Well, if -that is so, I'm thankful the preserving is all done, and I will not -have to face the fall house-cleaning. I always liked house-cleaning in -spring,' she says, 'but I always hated it in the fall. I will get clear -of it this year, thank goodness.' There are people who would call that -levity, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and I think her sister-in-law was a -little ashamed of it. She said perhaps her sickness had made Myra a -little light-headed. But I said, 'No, Mrs. Murray, do not worry over 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 and shades of gray. -For years she used always to be declaring she was going to die in a week -or so. 'I won't be here to burden you long,' she would tell her family -with a groan. And if any of them ventured to talk about their little -future plans she'd groan also and say, 'Ah, _I_ won't be here then.' -When I went to see her I always agreed with her and it made her so mad -that she was always quite a lot better for several days afterwards. She -has better health now but no more cheerfulness. Myra was so different. -She was always doing or saying something to make some one feel good. -Perhaps the men they married had something to do with it. Luella's man -was a Tartar, believe ME, while Jim Murray was decent, as men go. He -looked heart-broken to-day. It isn't often I feel sorry for a man at his -wife's funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray." - -"No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife like Myra again in a -hurry," said Susan. "Maybe he will not try, since his children are all -grown up and Mirabel is able to keep house. But there 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. "She was -such a worker. Nothing ever stumped HER. If she couldn't get over a -difficulty she'd get around it, and if she couldn't get around it she'd -pretend it wasn't there--and generally it wasn't. 'I'll keep a stiff -upper lip to my journey's end,' said she to me once. Well, she has ended -her journey." - -"Do you think so?" asked Anne suddenly, coming back from dreamland. "I -can't picture HER journey as being ended. Can YOU think of her sitting -down and folding her hands--that eager, asking spirit of hers, with its -fine adventurous outlook? No, I think in death she just opened a gate -and went through--on--on--to new, shining adventures." - -"Maybe--maybe," assented Miss Cornelia. "Do you know, Anne dearie, I -never was much taken with this everlasting rest doctrine myself--though -I hope it isn't heresy to say so. I want to bustle round in heaven the -same as here. And I hope there'll be a celestial substitute for pies and -doughnuts--something that has to be MADE. Of course, one does get awful -tired at times--and the older you are the tireder you get. But the -very tiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you'd -think--except, perhaps, a lazy man." - -"When I meet Myra Murray again," said Anne, "I want to see her coming -towards me, brisk and laughing, just as she always did here." - -"Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, in a shocked tone, "you surely do 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 think we 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 solemn enough, -"that either Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holy all the -time--ALL the time, Susan?" - -"Well," admitted Susan reluctantly, "I might go so far as to say that -you both would have to smile now and again, but I can never admit that -there will be laughing in heaven. The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs. -Dr. dear." - -"Well, to come back to earth," said Miss Cornelia, "who can we get to -take Myra's class in Sunday School? Julia Clow has been teaching it -since Myra took ill, but she's going to town for the winter and we'll -have to get somebody else." - -"I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it," said Anne. "The Jamiesons -have come to church very regularly since they moved to the Glen from -Lowbridge." - -"New brooms!" said Miss Cornelia dubiously. "Wait till they've gone -regularly for a year." - -"You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan -solemnly. "She died once and when they were measuring her for her -coffin, after laying her out just beautiful, did she not go and come -back to life! Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you CANNOT 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 Lowbridge quite as often as to -the Presbyterian. I haven't caught them at it here yet, but I would not -approve of taking Mrs. Jamieson into the Sunday School. Yet we must not -offend them. We are losing too many people, by death or bad temper. Mrs. -Alec Davis has left the church, no one knows why. She told the managers -that she would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith's salary. Of -course, most people say that the children offended her, but somehow I -don't think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I could get out of her -was that Mrs. Davis had come, seemingly in high good humour, to see her -father, and had left in an awful rage, calling them all 'varmints!'" - -"Varmints, indeed!" said Susan furiously. "Does Mrs. Alec Davis forget -that her uncle on her mother's side was suspected of poisoning 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 an uncle whose wife died without -any satisfactory reason, _I_ would not go about the country calling -innocent children varmints." - -"The point is," said Miss Cornelia, "that Mrs. Davis paid a large -subscription, and how its loss is going to be made up is a problem. -And if she turns the other Douglases against Mr. Meredith, as she will -certainly try to do, he will just have to go." - -"I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well liked by the rest of the -clan," said Susan. "It is not likely she will be able to influence -them." - -"But those Douglases all hang together so. If you touch one, you touch -all. We can't do without them, so much is certain. They pay half the -salary. They are not mean, whatever else may be said of them. Norman -Douglas used to give a hundred a year long ago 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 come regular -while she was alive, poor thing, but he never would let her pay -anything, except one red cent every Sunday. She felt dreadfully -humiliated. I don't know that he was any too good a husband to her, -though she was never heard to complain. But she always had a cowed look. -Norman Douglas didn't get the woman he wanted thirty years ago and the -Douglases never liked to put up with second best." - -"Who was the woman he did want." - -"Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I believe, but they went -about together for two years. And then they just broke off--nobody -ever know why. Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went and -married Hester Reese before his temper had time 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 had much spirit and he broke what little she -had. She was too meek for Norman. He needed a woman who could stand up -to him. Ellen would have kept him in fine order and he would have liked -her all the better for it. He despised Hester, that is the truth, just -because she always gave in to him. I used to hear him say many a time, -long ago when he was a young fellow 'Give me a spunky woman--spunk for -me every time.' And then he went and married a girl who couldn't say boo -to a goose--man-like. That family of Reeses were just vegetables. They -went through the motions of living, but they didn't LIVE." - -"Russell Reese used his first wife's wedding-ring to marry his second," -said Susan reminiscently. "That was TOO economical in my opinion, Mrs. -Dr. dear. And his brother John has his own tombstone put up in the -over-harbour graveyard, with everything on it but the date of death, and -he goes and looks at it every Sunday. Most folks would not consider that -much fun, but it is plain he does. People do have such different ideas -of enjoyment. As for Norman Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When the -last minister asked him why he never went to church he said 'Too many -ugly women there, parson--too many ugly women!' I should like to go to -such a man, Mrs. Dr. dear, and say to him solemnly, 'There is a hell!'" - -"Oh, Norman doesn't believe there is such a place," said Miss Cornelia. -"I hope he'll find out his mistake when he comes to die. There, Mary, -you've knit your three inches and you can go and play with the children -for half an hour." - -Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rainbow Valley with a heart -as light as her heels, and in the course of conversation told Faith -Meredith all about Mrs. Alec Davis. - -"And Mrs. Elliott says that she'll turn all the Douglases against your -father and then he'll have to leave the Glen because his salary won't -be paid," concluded Mary. "_I_ don't know what is to be done, honest to -goodness. If only old Norman Douglas would come back to church and pay, -it wouldn't be so bad. But he won't--and the Douglases will leave--and -you all will have to go." - -Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that night. The thought of -leaving the Glen was unbearable. Nowhere else in the world were there -such chums as the Blythes. Her little heart had been wrung when they -had left Maywater--she had shed many bitter tears when she parted with -Maywater chums and the old manse there where her mother had lived and -died. She could not contemplate calmly the thought of such another and -harder wrench. She COULDN'T leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valley -and that delicious graveyard. - -"It's awful to be minister's family," groaned Faith into her pillow. -"Just as soon as you get fond of a place you are torn up by the roots. -I'll never, never, NEVER marry a minister, no matter how nice he is." - -Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vine-hung window. The -night was very still, the silence broken only by Una's soft breathing. -Faith felt terribly alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary -lying under the starry blue meadows of the autumn night. Over the -valley a light shone from the girls' room at Ingleside, and another from -Walter's room. Faith wondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Then -she sighed, with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan and Di. They had a -mother and a settled home--THEY were not at the mercy of people who got -angry without any reason and called you a varmint. Away beyond the Glen, -amid fields that were very quiet with sleep, another light was burning. -Faith knew it shone in the house where Norman Douglas lived. He was -reputed to sit up all hours of the night reading. Mary had said if he -could only be induced to return to the church all would be well. And -why not? Faith looked at a big, low star hanging over the tall, pointed -spruce at the gate of the Methodist Church and had an inspiration. She -knew 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 beside Una. - - - -CHAPTER XVI. TIT FOR TAT - -With Faith, to decide was to act. She lost no time in carrying out the -idea. As soon as she came home from school the next day she left the -manse and made her way down the Glen. Walter Blythe joined 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 felt rather snubbed. -They walked on in silence for a little while. It was a warm, windy -evening with a sweet, resinous air. Beyond the sand dunes were gray -seas, soft and beautiful. The Glen brook bore down a freight of gold -and crimson leaves, like fairy shallops. In Mr. James Reese's buckwheat -stubble-land, with its beautiful tones of red and brown, a crow -parliament was being held, whereat solemn deliberations regarding the -welfare of crowland were in progress. Faith cruelly broke up the august -assembly by climbing up on the fence and hurling a broken rail at it. -Instantly the air was filled with flapping black wings and indignant -caws. - -"Why did you do that?" said Walter reproachfully. "They were having such -a good time." - -"Oh, I hate crows," said Faith airily. "The are so black and sly I feel -sure they're hypocrites. They steal little birds' eggs out of their -nests, you know. I saw one do it on our lawn last spring. Walter, what -makes you so pale to-day? Did you have the toothache again last night?" - -Walter shivered. - -"Yes--a raging one. I couldn't sleep a wink--so I just paced up and down -the floor and imagined I was an early Christian martyr being tortured -at the command of Nero. That helped ever so much for 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--and that made -it worse--Di made me hold a swallow of cold water in my mouth--and I -couldn't stand it, so they called Susan. Susan said it served me right -for sitting up in the cold garret yesterday writing poetry trash. But -she started up the kitchen fire and got me a hot-water bottle and it -stopped the toothache. As soon as I felt better I told Susan my poetry -wasn't trash and she wasn't any judge. And she said no, thank goodness -she was not and she did not know anything about poetry except that it -was mostly a lot of lies. Now you know, Faith, that isn't so. That is -one reason why I like writing poetry--you can say so many things in it -that are true in poetry but wouldn't be true in prose. I told Susan -so, but she said to stop my jawing and go to sleep before the water got -cold, or she'd leave me to see if rhyming would cure toothache, and she -hoped it would be a lesson to me." - -"Why don't you go to the dentist at Lowbridge and get the tooth out?" - -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 he wouldn't -insist on my going--he'd wait until I'd made up my own mind 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 have it 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 the bleeding." - -"The bleeding is worst of all--it's so ugly," cried Walter. "It just -made me sick when Jem cut his foot last summer. Susan said I looked more -like fainting than Jem did. But I couldn't hear to see Jem hurt, either. -Somebody is always getting hurt, Faith--and it's awful. I just can't -BEAR to see things hurt. It makes me just want to run--and run--and -run--till I can't hear or see them." - -"There's no use making a fuss over anyone getting hurt," said Faith, -tossing her curls. "Of course, if you've hurt yourself very bad, you -have to yell--and blood IS messy--and I don't like seeing other people -hurt, either. But I don't want to run--I want to go to work and help -them. Your father HAS to hurt people lots 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 a different -thing. I want to help people, too. But oh, I wish there weren't any -ugly, dreadful things in the world. I wish everything 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 toothache if you were -dead, but still, wouldn't you lots rather be alive than 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 and never take -the least notice of him. You watch me!" - -Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her chin out and an expression -of scorn that bit into his soul. He turned and shouted after her. - -"Pig-girl! Pig-girl!! Pig-girl!!!" in a crescendo of insult. - -Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But her lip trembled slightly with -a sense of outrage. She knew she was no match for Dan Reese when it -came to an exchange of epithets. She wished Jem Blythe had been with -her instead of Walter. If Dan Reese had dared to call her a pig-girl in -Jem's hearing, Jem would have wiped up the dust with him. But it never -occurred to Faith to expect Walter to do it, or blame him for not doing -it. Walter, she knew, never fought other boys. Neither did Charlie Clow -of the north road. The strange part was that, while she despised Charlie -for a coward, it never occurred to her to disdain Walter. It was -simply that he seemed to her an inhabitant of a world of his own, where -different traditions prevailed. Faith would as soon have expected a -starry-eyed young angel to pummel dirty, freckled Dan Reese for her as -Walter Blythe. She would not have blamed the angel and she did not blame -Walter Blythe. But she wished that sturdy Jem or Jerry had been there -and Dan's insult continued to rankle in her soul. - -Walter was pale no longer. He had flushed crimson and his beautiful eyes -were clouded with shame and anger. He knew that he ought to have avenged -Faith. Jem would have sailed right in and made Dan eat his words with -bitter sauce. Ritchie Warren would have overwhelmed Dan with worse -"names" than Dan had called Faith. But Walter could not--simply could -not--"call names." He knew he would get the worst of it. He could never -conceive or utter the vulgar, ribald insults of which Dan Reese had -unlimited command. 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 an occasional -conflict. But he wished he COULD fight Dan Reese. He was horribly -ashamed because Faith Meredith had been insulted in his presence and he -had not tried to punish her insulter. He felt sure she must despise him. -She had not even spoken to him since Dan had called her pig-girl. He was -glad when they came to the parting of the ways. - -Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different reason. She wanted -to be alone because she suddenly felt rather nervous about her errand. -Impulse had cooled, especially since Dan had bruised her self-respect. -She must go through with it, but she no longer had enthusiasm to sustain -her. She was going to see Norman Douglas and ask him to come back to -church, and she began to be afraid of him. What had seemed so easy and -simple up at the Glen seemed very different down here. She had heard a -good deal about Norman Douglas, and she knew that even the biggest boys -in school were afraid of him. Suppose he called her something nasty--she -had heard he was given to that. Faith could not endure being called -names--they subdued her far more quickly than a physical blow. But she -would go on--Faith Meredith always went on. If she 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 marching past -it. On the back veranda Norman Douglas himself was sitting, reading a -newspaper. His big dog was beside him. Behind, in the kitchen, where -his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was getting supper, there was a clatter of -dishes--an angry clatter, for Norman Douglas had just had a quarrel with -Mrs. Wilson, and both were in a very bad temper over it. Consequently, -when Faith stepped on the veranda and Norman Douglas lowered his -newspaper she found herself 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 mane of red hair, -ungrizzled by the years, on his massive head. His high, white forehead -was unwrinkled and his blue eyes could flash still with all the fire of -his tempestuous youth. He could be very amiable when he liked, and he -could be very terrible. Poor Faith, so anxiously bent on retrieving the -situation in regard to the 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. At this moment -Faith was very pale. She was of the type to which colour means -everything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemed meek 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?" he demanded in his -great resounding voice, with a fierce scowl. - -For once in her life Faith had nothing to say. She had never supposed -Norman Douglas was like THIS. She was paralyzed with terror of him. He -saw it and it made him worse. - -"What's the matter with you?" he boomed. "You look as if you wanted to -say something and was scared to say it. What's troubling you? Confound -it, speak up, can't you?" - -No. Faith could not speak up. No words would come. But her lips began to -tremble. - -"For heaven's sake, don't cry," shouted Norman. "I can't stand -snivelling. If you've anything to say, say it and have done. Great -Kitty, is the girl possessed of a dumb spirit? Don't look at me like -that--I'm human--I haven't got a tail! Who are you--who are you, I say?" - -Norman's voice could have been heard at the harbour. Operations in the -kitchen were suspended. Mrs. Wilson was listening open-eared and eyed. -Norman put his huge brown hands on his knees and leaned forward, staring -into Faith's pallid, shrinking face. He seemed to loom over her like -some evil giant out of a fairy tale. She felt as if he would eat her up -next thing, body and bones. - -"I--am--Faith--Meredith," she said, in little more than a whisper. - -"Meredith, hey? One of the parson's youngsters, hey? I've heard of -you--I've heard of you! Riding on pigs and breaking the Sabbath! A nice -lot! What do you want here, hey? What do you want of the old pagan, -hey? _I_ don't ask favours of parsons--and I don't give any. What do you -want, I say?" - -Faith wished herself a thousand miles away. She stammered out her -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 put you up to -it?" - -"Nobody," said poor Faith. - -"That's a lie. Don't lie to me! Who sent you here? It wasn't your -father--he hasn't the smeddum of a flea--but he wouldn't send you to do -what he dassn't do himself. I suppose it was some of 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, and certainly -without any thought of being sarcastic. - -Norman bounced up. - -"Mind your own business. I don't want to hear another word from you. If -you wasn't such a kid I'd teach you to interfere in what doesn't concern -you. When I want parsons or pill-dosers I'll send for them. Till I -do I'll have no truck with them. Do you understand? Now, get out, -cheese-face." - -Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the steps, out of the yard gate -and into the lane. Half way up the lane her daze of fear passed away and -a reaction of tingling anger possessed her. By the time she reached -the end of the lane she was in such a furious temper as she had never -experienced before. Norman Douglas' insults burned in her soul, kindling -a scorching flame. Go home! Not she! She would go straight back and -tell that old ogre 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 was deserted and -the kitchen door shut. Faith opened the door without knocking, and went -in. Norman Douglas had just sat down at the supper table, but he still -held his newspaper. Faith walked inflexibly across the room, caught the -paper from his hand, flung it on the floor and stamped on it. Then she -faced him, with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was such a -handsome young fury that Norman Douglas hardly recognized her. - -"What's brought you back?" he growled, but more in bewilderment than -rage. - -Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes against which so few -people could hold their own. - -"I have come back to tell you exactly what I think of you," said Faith -in clear, ringing tones. "I am not afraid of you. You are a rude, -unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old man. Susan says you are sure to go -to hell, and I was sorry for you, but I am not now. Your wife never had -a new hat for ten years--no wonder she died. I am going to make faces at -you whenever I see you after this. Every time I am behind you you will -know what is happening. Father has a picture of the devil in a book in -his study, and I mean to go home and write your name under it. You are -an old vampire and I hope you'll have the Scotch fiddle!" - -Faith did not know what a vampire meant any more than she knew what the -Scotch fiddle was. She had heard Susan use the expressions and gathered -from her tone that both were dire things. But Norman Douglas knew -what the latter meant at least. He had listened in absolute silence to -Faith's tirade. When she paused for breath, with a stamp of her foot, he -suddenly burst into loud laughter. With a mighty slap of hand on knee he -exclaimed, - -"I vow you've got spunk, after all--I like spunk. Come, sit down--sit -down!" - -"I will not." Faith's eyes flashed more passionately. She thought she -was being made fun of--treated contemptuously. She would have enjoyed -another explosion of rage, but this cut deep. "I will not sit down in -your house. I am going home. But I am glad I came back here and told you -exactly what my opinion of you is." - -"So am I--so am I," chuckled Norman. "I like you--you're fine--you're -great. Such roses--such vim! Did I call her cheese-face? Why, she never -smelt a cheese. Sit down. If you'd looked like that at the first, girl! -So you'll write my name under the devil's picture, will you? But he's -black, girl, he's black--and I'm red. It won't do--it won't do! And you -hope I'll have the Scotch fiddle, do you? Lord love you, girl, I had -IT when 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--I apologize. I -made a fool of myself and I'm sorry. Man can't say fairer. Forget and -forgive. Shake hands, girl--shake hands. She won't--no, she won't! But -she must! Look-a-here, girl, if you'll shake hands and break bread with -me I'll pay what I used to to the salary and I'll go to church the first -Sunday in every month and I'll make Kitty Alec hold her jaw. I'm the -only one in the clan can do it. Is it a bargain, girl?" - -It seemed a bargain. Faith found herself shaking hands with the ogre and -then sitting at his board. Her temper was over--Faith's tempers never -lasted very long--but its excitement still sparkled in her eyes and -crimsoned her cheeks. Norman Douglas looked at her admiringly. - -"Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson," he ordered, "and stop -sulking, woman, stop sulking. What if we did have a quarrel, woman? A -good squall clears the air and briskens things up. But no drizzling and -fogging afterwards--no drizzling and fogging, woman. I can't stand that. -Temper in a woman but no tears for me. Here, girl, is some messed up -meat and potatoes for you. Begin on that. Wilson has some fancy name for -it, but I call lit macanaccady. Anything I can't analyze in the -eating line I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me I call -shallamagouslem. Wilson's tea is shallamagouslem. I swear she makes it -out of burdocks. Don't take any of the ungodly black liquid--here's some -milk for you. What did you say your name was?" - -"Faith." - -"No name that--no name that! I can't stomach such a name. Got any -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 her three girls Faith, -Hope, and Charity. Faith didn't believe in anything--Hope was a born -pessimist--and Charity was a miser. You ought to be called Red Rose--you -look like one when you're mad. I'LL call you Red Rose. And you've roped -me into promising to go to church? But only once a month, remember--only -once a month. Come now, girl, will you let me off? I used to pay a -hundred to the salary every year and go to church. If I promise to 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 go to -church, too." - -"Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon I can stand it twelve times 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 believe I'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 a reason, -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 to laugh. -Norman eyed her approvingly. - -"See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you--you're great. About this 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 be careful -what he says before ME. I'll catch him--I'll trip him up--I'll keep tabs -on his arguments. I'm bound to have some fun out 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 if he wants -to keep me in good humour to preach a good rip-roaring sermon on hell -once every six months--and the more brimstone the better. I like 'em -smoking. And think of all the pleasure he'd give the old maids, too. -They'd all keep looking at old Norman Douglas and thinking, 'That's for -you, you old reprobate. That's what's in store for YOU!' I'll give an -extra ten dollars every time you get your father to preach on hell. -Here's Wilson and the jam. Like that, hey? IT isn't macanaccady. Taste!" - -Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful Norman held out to her. -Luckily it WAS good. - -"Best plum jam in the world," said Norman, filling a large saucer and -plumping it down before her. "Glad you like it. I'll give you a couple -of jars to take home with you. There's nothing mean about 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 for ten years. It was her own--she pinched -on hats to save money to give yellow fellows over in China. _I_ never -gave a cent to missions in my life--never will. Never you try to -bamboozle me into that! A hundred a year to the salary and church once a -month--but no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians! Why, -girl, they wouldn't be fit for heaven or hell--clean spoiled for either -place--clean spoiled. Hey, Wilson, haven't you got a smile on yet? Beats -all how you women can sulk! _I_ never sulked in my life--it's just one -big flash and crash with me and then--pouf--the squall's over and the -sun is out and you could eat out of my hand." - -Norman insisted on driving Faith home after supper and he filled the -buggy up with apples, cabbages, potatoes and pumpkins and jars of jam. - -"There's a nice little tom-pussy out in the barn. I'll give you that -too, if you'd like it. Say the word," he said. - -"No, thank you," said Faith decidedly. "I don't like cats, and besides, -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. I want 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 an exciting -drive home, behind his wild two-year old, and when he had let her out at -the kitchen door of the manse and dumped his cargo 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, as if she -had just escaped from the grasp of a genial whirlwind. She was happy -and thankful. No fear now that they would have to leave the Glen and -the graveyard and Rainbow Valley. But she fell asleep troubled by a -disagreeable subconsciousness that Dan Reese had called her pig-girl and -that, having stumbled on such a congenial epithet, he would continue to -call her so whenever opportunity offered. - - - -CHAPTER XVII. A DOUBLE VICTORY - -Norman Douglas came to church the first Sunday in November and made all -the sensation he desired. Mr. Meredith shook hands with him 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, but I -reckon she has better health now," boomed Norman, to the horror -and amusement of every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbed in -wondering if he had made the last head of his sermon as clear as he -might have, and hadn't the least idea what Norman had said to him or he -to Norman. - -Norman intercepted Faith at the gate. - -"Kept my word, you see--kept my word, Red Rose. I'm free now till the -first Sunday in December. Fine sermon, girl--fine sermon. Your father -has more in his head than he carries on his face. But he contradicted -himself once--tell him he contradicted himself. And tell him I want that -brimstone sermon in December. Great way to wind up the old year--with -a taste of hell, you know. And what's the matter with a nice tasty -discourse on heaven for New Year's? Though it wouldn't be half as -interesting as hell, girl--not half. Only I'd like to know what your -father thinks about heaven--he CAN think--rarest thing in the world--a -person 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've stumped many a minister with that, girl." - -Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan Reese, standing among the -crowd of boys at the gate, looked at her and shaped his mouth into -"pig-girl," but dared not utter it aloud just there. Next day in school -was a different matter. At noon recess Faith encountered Dan in the -little spruce 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 little clump -of firs where he had been reading. He was very pale, but his eyes -blazed. - -"You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!" he said. - -"Oh, hello, Miss Walter," retorted Dan, not at all abashed. He vaulted -airily to the top of the rail fence and chanted insultingly, - - "Cowardy, cowardy-custard - Stole a pot of mustard, - Cowardy, cowardy-custard!" - -"You are a coincidence!" said Walter scornfully, turning still whiter. -He had only a very hazy idea what a coincidence was, but Dan had none at -all and thought it must be something peculiarly opprobrious. - -"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 the intervening -space and knocked Dan off the fence backward with one well-directed -blow. Dan's sudden inglorious sprawl was greeted with a burst of -laughter and a clapping of hands from Faith. Dan sprang up, purple with -rage, and began to climb the fence. But just then the school-bell rang -and Dan knew what happened to boys who 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 like of HIM." - -"He insulted you and he insulted my mother," said Walter, with the same -deadly calm. "Tonight after school, Dan." - -"I've got to go right home from school to pick taters after the harrows, -dad says," answered Dan sulkily. "But to-morrow night'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 from repulsion -over the ugliness and vulgarity of it. But he held his head high and -marched into school. Faith followed in a conflict of emotions. She -hated to think of Walter fighting that little sneak, but oh, he had been -splendid! And he was going to fight for HER--Faith Meredith--to punish -her insulter! Of course he would win--such eyes spelled victory. - -Faith's confidence in her champion had dimmed a little by evening, -however. Walter had seemed so very quiet and dull the rest of the day in -school. - -"If it were only Jem," she sighed to Una, as they sat on Hezekiah -Pollock's tombstone in the graveyard. "HE is such a fighter--he could -finish Dan off in no time. But Walter doesn't know much about fighting." - -"I'm so afraid he'll be hurt," sighed Una, who hated fighting and -couldn't understand the subtle, secret exultation she divined in Faith. - -"He oughtn't to be," said Faith uncomfortably. "He's every bit as big as -Dan." - -"But Dan's so much older," said Una. "Why, he's nearly a year older." - -"Dan hasn't done much fighting when you come to count up," said Faith. -"I believe he's really a coward. He didn't think Walter would fight, -or he wouldn't have called names before him. Oh, if you could just have -seen Walter's face when he looked at him, Una! It made me shiver--with a -nice shiver. He looked just like Sir Galahad in that poem father read us -on Saturday." - -"I hate the thought of them fighting and I wish it could be stopped," -said Una. - -"Oh, it's got to go on now," cried Faith. "It's a matter of honour. -Don't you DARE tell anyone, Una. If you do I'll never tell you secrets -again!" - -"I won't tell," agreed Una. "But I won't stay to-morrow to watch the -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 on his -arm--that's the thing to do when he's my knight. How lucky Mrs. 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 I was sure Walter would win. -It will be so--so HUMILIATING if he doesn't." - -Faith would have been yet more dubious if she could have seen her -champion just then. Walter had gone home from school with all his -righteous anger at a low ebb and a very nasty feeling in its place. He -had to fight Dan Reese the next night--and he didn't want to--he hated -the thought of it. And he kept thinking of it all the time. Not for a -minute could he get away from the thought. Would it hurt much? He was -terribly afraid that it would hurt. And would he be defeated and shamed? - -He could not eat any supper worth speaking of. Susan had made a big -batch of his favourite monkey-faces, but he could choke only one down. -Jem ate four. Walter wondered how he could. How could ANYBODY eat? And -how could they all talk gaily as they were doing? There was mother, with -her shining eyes and pink cheeks. SHE didn't know her son had to fight -next day. Would she be so gay if she knew, Walter wondered darkly. Jem -had taken Susan's picture with his new camera and the result was passed -around the table and Susan was terribly indignant over it. - -"I am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. dear, and well I know it, and have always -known it," she said in an aggrieved tone, "but that I am as ugly as that -picture makes me out I will never, no, never believe." - -Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again with him. Walter couldn't -endure it. He got up and fled to his room. - -"That child has got something on his mind, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. -"He has et next to nothing. Do you suppose he is plotting another poem?" - -Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit from the starry realms of -poesy just then. He propped his elbow on his open window-sill and leaned -his head drearily on his hands. - -"Come on down to the shore, Walter," cried Jem, busting in. "The boys -are going to burn the sand-hill grass to-night. Father says we can go. -Come on." - -At any other time Walter would have been delighted. He gloried in the -burning of the sand-hill grass. But now he flatly refused to go, and no -arguments or entreaties could move him. Disappointed Jem, who did not -care for the long dark walk to Four Winds Point alone, retreated to his -museum in the garret and buried himself in a book. He soon forgot his -disappointment, revelling with the heroes of old romance, and pausing -occasionally to picture himself a famous general, leading his troops to -victory on some great battlefield. - -Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di crept in, hoping to be told -what was wrong, but Walter could not talk of it, even to Di. Talking -of it seemed to give it a reality from which he shrank. 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, silvery sky, and the full moon was rising gloriously over -Rainbow Valley. Afar off, a ruddy woodfire was painting a page of glory -on the horizon beyond the hills. It was a sharp, clear evening when -far-away sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking across the -pond; an engine was puffing down at the Glen station; a blue-jay was -screaming madly in the maple grove; there was laughter over on the manse -lawn. How could people laugh? How could foxes and blue-jays and engines -behave as if nothing were going to happen on the morrow? - -"Oh, I wish it was over," groaned Walter. - -He slept very little that night and had hard work choking down his -porridge in the morning. Susan WAS rather lavish in her platefuls. Mr. -Hazard found him an unsatisfactory pupil that day. Faith Meredith's wits -seemed to be wool-gathering, too. Dan Reese kept drawing surreptitious -pictures of girls, with pig or rooster heads, on his slate and holding -them up for all to see. The news of the coming battle had leaked out -and most of the boys and many of the girls were in the spruce plantation -when Dan and Walter sought it after school. Una had gone home, but Faith -was there, having tied her blue ribbon around Walter's arm. Walter -was thankful that neither Jem nor Di nor Nan were among the crowd of -spectators. Somehow they had not heard of what was in the wind and had -gone home, too. Walter faced Dan quite undauntedly now. At the last -moment all his fear had vanished, but he still felt disgust at the idea -of fighting. Dan, it was noted, was really paler under his freckles than -Walter was. One of the older boys gave the word and Dan struck Walter in -the face. - -Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow tingled through all his -sensitive frame for a moment. Then he felt pain no longer. Something, -such as he had never experienced before, seemed to roll over him like -a flood. His face flushed crimson, his eyes burned like flame. The -scholars of Glen St. Mary school had never dreamed that "Miss Walter" -could look like that. He hurled himself forward and closed with Dan like -a young wildcat. - -There were no particular rules in the fights of the Glen school boys. It -was catch-as-catch can, and get your blows in anyhow. Walter fought with -a savage fury and a joy in the struggle against which Dan could not -hold his ground. It was all over very speedily. Walter had no clear -consciousness of what he was doing until suddenly the red mist cleared -from his sight and he found himself kneeling on the body of the -prostrate Dan whose nose--oh, horror!--was spouting blood. - -"Have you had enough?" demanded Walter through his clenched teeth. - -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 pity intervened -and he did not humiliate Dan further. Besides, that blood was so -horrible. - -"You can go, then," he said contemptuously. - -There was a loud clapping from the boys who were perched on the rail -fence, but some of the girls were crying. They were frightened. They had -seen schoolboy fights before, but nothing like Walter as he had grappled -with Dan. There had been something terrifying about him. They thought he -would kill Dan. Now that all was over they sobbed hysterically--except -Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked. - -Walter did not stay for any conqueror's meed. He sprang over the fence -and rushed down the spruce hill to Rainbow Valley. He felt none of the -victor's joy, but he felt a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and -honour avenged--mingled with a sickish qualm when he thought of Dan's -gory nose. It had been so ugly, and Walter hated ugliness. - -Also, he began to realize that he himself was somewhat sore and battered -up. His lip was cut and swollen and one eye felt very strange. In -Rainbow Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who was coming home from an -afternoon call on the Miss Wests. That reverend 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 a -pig-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," said John -Meredith. "When womenkind are insulted for instance--as in your case. My -motto, Walter, is, don't fight till you're sure you ought to, and THEN -put every ounce of you into it. In spite of 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 a fighter, -Walter." - -"I never fought before--and I didn't want to right up to the last--and -then," said Walter, determined to make a clean breast of 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 not going -to be frightened any more, sir. Being frightened of things is worse -than the things themselves. I'm going to ask father to take me over to -Lowbridge to-morrow to get my tooth out." - -"Right again. 'Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears.' Do you know -who wrote that, Walter? It was Shakespeare. Was there any feeling or -emotion or experience of the human heart that that wonderful man did not -know? When you go home tell your mother I am proud of you." - -Walter did not tell her that, however; but he told her all the rest, and -she sympathized with him and told him she was glad he had stood up for -her and Faith, and she anointed his sore spots and 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 came -downstairs, and listened to the story with much enjoyment. Susan in -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 I never, 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 I came -here and got quite warm--though I had to go to the kitchen to do it, for -there was no fire anywhere else. The kitchen looked 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, but I have an idea that he was up at -the Wests'. Do you know, Anne dearie, they say he has been going there -frequently all the fall and people are beginning to think he is going to -see Rosemary." - -"He would get a very charming wife if he married Rosemary," said Anne, -piling driftwood on the fire. "She is one of the most delightful girls -I've ever known--truly one of the race of Joseph." - -"Ye--s--only she is an Episcopalian," said Miss Cornelia doubtfully. "Of -course, that is better than if she was a Methodist--but I do think Mr. -Meredith could find a good enough wife in his own denomination. However, -very likely there is nothing in it. It's only a month ago that I said to -him, 'You ought to marry again, Mr. Meredith.' He looked as shocked as -if I had suggested something improper. 'My wife is in her grave, Mrs. -Elliott,' he said, in that gentle, saintly way of his. 'I suppose so,' -I said, 'or I wouldn't be advising you to marry again.' Then he looked -more shocked than ever. So I doubt if there is much in this Rosemary -story. If a single minister calls twice at a house where there is a -single woman all the gossips have it he is courting her." - -"It seems to me--if I may presume to say so--that Mr. Meredith is too -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 so abstracted and -dreamy he has a very good opinion of himself, man-like, and when he is -really awake he wouldn't think it much of 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 like anybody else's. He may have a notion of Rosemary West and he -may not. If he has, we must make the best of it. She is a sweet girl -and a fine housekeeper, and would make a good mother for those poor, -neglected children. And," concluded Miss Cornelia resignedly, "my own -grandmother was an Episcopalian." - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS - -Mary Vance, whom Mrs. Elliott had sent up to the manse on an errand, -came tripping down Rainbow Valley on her way to Ingleside where she was -to spend the afternoon with Nan and Di as a Saturday treat. Nan and Di -had been picking spruce gum with Faith and Una in the manse woods and -the four of them were now sitting on a fallen pine by the brook, all, -it must be admitted, chewing rather vigorously. The Ingleside twins were -not allowed to chew spruce gum anywhere but in the seclusion of Rainbow -Valley, but Faith and Una were unrestricted by such rules of etiquette -and cheerfully chewed it everywhere, at home and abroad, to the very -proper horror of the Glen. Faith had been chewing it in church one day; -but Jerry had realized the enormity of THAT, and had given her such an -older-brotherly scolding that she never did it again. - -"I was so hungry I just felt as if I had to chew something," she -protested. "You know well enough what breakfast was like, Jerry -Meredith. I COULDN'T eat scorched porridge and my stomach just felt so -queer and empty. The gum helped a lot--and I didn't chew VERY hard. I -didn't make any noise and I never cracked the gum once." - -"You mustn't chew gum in church, anyhow," insisted Jerry. "Don't let 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 on Sunday. -Besides, I sat away at the back in a dark seat and nobody saw me. You -were sitting right up front where every one saw you. And I took the gum -out of my mouth for the last hymn and stuck it on the back of the pew -right up in front where every one saw you. Then I came away and forgot -it. I went back to get it next morning, but it was gone. I suppose Rod -Warren swiped it. And it was a dandy -chew." - -Mary Vance walked down the Valley with her head held high. She had on -a new blue velvet cap with a scarlet rosette in it, a coat of navy blue -cloth and a little squirrel-fur muff. She was very conscious of her new -clothes and very well pleased with herself. Her hair was elaborately -crimped, her face was quite plump, her cheeks rosy, her white eyes -shining. She did not look much like the forlorn and ragged waif the -Merediths had found in the old Taylor barn. Una tried not to feel -envious. Here was Mary with a new velvet cap, but she and Faith had to -wear their shabby old gray tams again this winter. Nobody ever thought -of getting them new ones and they were afraid to ask their father for -them for fear that he might be short of money and then he would feel -badly. Mary had told them once that ministers were always short of -money, and found it "awful hard" to make ends meet. Since then Faith and -Una would have gone in rags rather than ask their father for anything -if they could help it. They did not worry a great deal over their -shabbiness; but it was rather trying to see Mary Vance coming out in -such style and putting on such airs about it, too. The new squirrel muff -was really the last straw. Neither Faith nor Una had ever had a muff, -counting themselves lucky if they could compass mittens without holes in -them. Aunt Martha could not see to darn holes and though Una tried to, -she made sad cobbling. Somehow, they could not make their greeting of -Mary very cordial. But Mary did not mind or notice that; she was not -overly sensitive. She vaulted lightly to a seat on the pine tree, and -laid the offending muff on a bough. Una saw that it was lined with -shirred red satin and had red tassels. She looked down at her own rather -purple, chapped, little hands and wondered if she would ever, EVER be -able to put them into a muff like that. - -"Give us a chew," said Mary companionably. Nan, Di and Faith all -produced an amber-hued knot or two from their pockets and passed them to -Mary. Una sat very still. She had four lovely big knots in the pocket of -her tight, thread-bare little jacket, but she wasn't going to give one -of them to Mary Vance--not one Let Mary pick her own gum! People with -squirrel muffs needn't expect to get 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. Una tucked HER -feet under her. There was a hole in the toe of one of her boots and both -laces were much knotted. But they were the best she had. Oh, this Mary -Vance! Why hadn't they left her in the old barn? - -Una never felt badly because the Ingleside twins were better dressed -than she and Faith were. THEY wore their pretty clothes with careless -grace and never seemed to think about them at all. Somehow, they did not -make other people feel shabby. But when Mary Vance was dressed up she -seemed fairly to exude clothes--to walk in an atmosphere of clothes--to -make everybody else feel and think clothes. Una, as she sat there in the -honey-tinted sunshine of the gracious December afternoon, was acutely -and miserably conscious of everything she had on--the faded tam, which -was yet her best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for three winters, the -holes in her skirt and her boots, the shivering insufficiency of her -poor little undergarments. Of course, Mary was going out for a visit and -she was not. But even if she had been 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't any gum -spruces down at Four Winds," said Mary. "Sometimes I just hanker after -a chew. Mrs. Elliott won't let me chew gum if she sees me. She says it -ain't lady-like. This lady-business puzzles me. I can't get on to all -its kinks. Say, Una, what's the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?" - -"No," said Una, who could not drag her fascinated eyes from that -squirrel muff. Mary leaned past her, picked it up and thrust it into -Una's hands. - -"Stick your paws in that for a while," she ordered. "They look sorter -pinched. Ain't that a dandy muff? Mrs. Elliott give it to me last week -for a birthday present. I'm to get the collar at Christmas. 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. "I work like -a nigger to make it easy for her and have everything just as she likes -it. We was made for each other. 'Tisn't every one 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't never -told a lie to her--not one, true's you live. She combs me down with her -tongue sometimes though, but that just slips off ME like water off a -duck's back. Say, Una, why didn't you hang on to 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 come back to -church as meek as Moses and nobody knows why. But everybody is saying -it was Faith brought Norman Douglas out. His housekeeper says you went -there and gave him an awful tongue-lashing. Did you?" - -"I went and asked him to come to church," said Faith uncomfortably. - -"Fancy your spunk!" said Mary admiringly. "_I_ wouldn't have dared -do that and I'm not so slow. Mrs. Wilson says the two of you jawed -something scandalous, but you come off best and then he just turned -round and like to eat you up. Say, is your father going 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 out to-night." - -"I THOUGHT there was something in the wind, though old Martha wouldn't -give me any satisfaction. But I felt sure she wouldn't have 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 took the butter -Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she'd been out to the barn 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 the Glen had -no meat this week and she had to have something and the hens 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 to have -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 just white with rage; -Una, you'd better go after her and try to peacify her." - -Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls when Una suddenly turned -and ran after her. - -"Here's some gum for you, Mary," she said, with a little repentant catch -in her voice, thrusting all her four knots into Mary's hands, "and I'm -glad you have such a pretty muff." - -"Why, thanks," said Mary, rather taken by surprise. To the Blythe girls, -after Una had gone, she said, "Ain't she a queer little 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 and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith's -passion of grief and anger not a whit. - -"We had to have something for the strange minister's dinner," she said. -"You're too big a girl to make such a fuss over an old rooster. You knew -he'd have to be killed sometime." - -"I'll tell father when he comes home what you've done," sobbed Faith. - -"Don't you go bothering your poor father. He has troubles enough. And -I'M housekeeper here." - -"Adam was MINE--Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no business to -touch him," stormed Faith. - -"Don't you get sassy now. The rooster's killed and there's an end of it. -I ain't going to set no strange minister down to a dinner of cold b'iled -mutton. I was brought up to know better than that, if I have come down -in the world." - -Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not go to -church the next morning. But at dinner time she went to the table, her -eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen. - -The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristling -white moustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He -was certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort of -person. But if he had looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with -the tongues of men and angels Faith would still have 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. Jerry and Carl giggled, and even Una smiled wanly, -because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith only scowled -darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad. Once, when -he was delivering himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith broke in -rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew his bushy eyebrows -together at her. - -"Little girls should not interrupt," he said, "and they should not -contradict people who know far more than they do." - -This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called "little girl" -as if she were no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! -It was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even -picked poor Adam's bones. Neither Faith nor Una would touch a mouthful, -and looked upon the boys as little better than cannibals. Faith felt -that if that awful repast did not soon come to an end she would wind it -up by throwing something at Mr. Perry's gleaming head. Fortunately, -Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha's leathery apple pie too much even for his -powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, after a long grace in -which Mr. Perry offered up devout thanks for the food which a kind -and beneficent Providence had provided for sustenance 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 help Aunt -Martha with the dishes--though that rather grumpy old dame never -welcomed her timid assistance--and Faith betook herself to the 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 room during the afternoon. But scarcely -had Faith settled herself in a corner, with a book, when he walked in -and, standing before the fire, proceeded to survey the disorderly study -with an air of disapproval. - -"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 NOT talk to -this--this creature. - -"You should try to put them in order," Mr. Perry went on, playing with -his handsome watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith. "You are -quite old enough to attend to such duties. MY little daughter at home -is only ten and she is already an excellent little housekeeper and the -greatest help and comfort to her mother. She is a very sweet child. I -wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you in -many ways. Of course, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a -good mother's care and training. A sad lack--a very sad lack. I have -spoken more than once to your father in this connection and pointed out -his duty to him faithfully, but so far with no effect. I trust he may -awaken to a realization of his responsibility before it is too late. In -the meantime, it is your duty and privilege to endeavour to take your -sainted mother's place. You might exercise a great influence over your -brothers and your little sister--you might be a true mother to them. I -fear that you do not think of these things as you should. My dear child, -allow me to open your eyes in regard to them." - -Mr. Perry's oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in his element. -Nothing suited him better than to lay down the law, patronize and -exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood before -the fire, his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured out a flood of -pompous platitudes. Faith heard not a word. She was really not listening -to him at all. But she was watching his long black coat-tails with -impish delight growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing VERY -near the fire. His coat-tails began to scorch--his coat-tails began -to smoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. The -coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burning wood and -alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught and spread into a -smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and broke into -a stifled giggle. - -Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly -he became conscious that a reek of burning cloth filled the room. -He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands 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 his new suit. Faith shook with -helpless laughter over his pose and expression. - -"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 you would -remember all your life, Miss," said a very angry reverend gentleman, as -he stalked out of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith's second best suit -would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to the evening service with -his singed coat-tail. But he did not walk up the aisle with his usual -consciousness of the honour he was conferring on the building. He never -would agree to an exchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again, and he -was barely civil to the latter when they met for a few minutes at the -station the next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. -Adam was partially avenged. - - - -CHAPTER XX. FAITH MAKES A FRIEND - -Next day in school was a hard one for Faith. Mary Vance had told the -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 of condolence to her. Poor Faith went home -from school feeling her very 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 I feel." - -She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment had been at work -the night before. A light snow had fallen and the powdered firs were -dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to be. The long hill beyond was -richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosy light of sunset lay over -the world like a pink kiss. Of all the airy, fairy places, full of -weird, elfin grace, Rainbow Valley that winter evening was the -most beautiful. But all its dreamlike loveliness was lost on poor, -sore-hearted little Faith. - -By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary West, who was sitting on -the old pine tree. She was on her way home from Ingleside, where she -had been giving the girls their music lesson. She had been lingering in -Rainbow Valley quite a little time, looking across its white beauty and -roaming some by-ways of dream. Judging from the expression of her face, -her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, occasional tinkle -from the bells on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking smile to -her lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned by the consciousness that John -Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in the gray house on the -white wind-swept hill. - -Into Rosemary's dreams burst Faith Meredith full of rebellious -bitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when she saw Miss West. She did not -know her very well--just well enough to speak to when they met. And she -did not want to see any one just then--except Mrs. Blythe. She knew her -eyes and nose were red and swollen and she 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 to outsiders, -don't you?" - -Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. Here was a person who -understood things. And how pretty she was! How golden her hair was under -her plumy hat! How pink her cheeks were over her velvet coat! How blue -and companionable her eyes were! Faith felt that Miss West could be a -lovely friend--if only she were a friend instead of a stranger! - -"I--I'm going up to tell Mrs. Blythe," said Faith. "She always -understands--she never laughs at us. I always talk things over with her. -It helps." - -"Dear girlie, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Blythe isn't -home," said Miss West, sympathetically. "She went to Avonlea 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 talk it over -with me instead," said Miss Rosemary gently. "It IS such a help to talk -things over. _I_ know. I don't suppose I can be as good at understanding -as Mrs. Blythe--but I promise you that I won't laugh." - -"You wouldn't laugh outside," hesitated Faith. "But you might--inside." - -"No, I wouldn't laugh inside, either. Why should I? Something has hurt -you--it never amuses me to see anybody hurt, no matter what hurts them. -If you feel that you'd like to tell me what has hurt you I'll be glad to -listen. But if you think you'd rather not--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 even far, far back. -With a little sigh she sat down on the old pine beside her new friend -and told her all about Adam and his cruel fate. - -Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She understood and -sympathized--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. He ENJOYED cutting -poor Adam to pieces. He just sliced into him as if he were any common -rooster." - -"Between you and me, Faith, _I_ don't like Mr. Perry very well myself," -said Rosemary, laughing a little--but at Mr. Perry, not at Adam, as -Faith clearly understood. "I never did like him. I went to school with -him--he was a Glen boy, you know--and he was a most detestable little -prig even then. Oh, how we girls used to hate holding his fat, clammy -hands in the ring-around games. But we must remember, dear, that he -didn't know that Adam had been 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 to think it -funny that I should have loved Adam so much, Miss West? If it had been a -horrid old cat nobody would have thought it queer. When Lottie Warren's -kitten had its legs cut off by the binder everybody was sorry for her. -She cried two days in school and nobody laughed at her, not even Dan -Reese. And all her chums went to the kitten's funeral and helped her -bury it--only they couldn't bury its poor little paws with it, because -they couldn't find them. It was a horrid thing to have happen, of -course, but I 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 funny one," -said Rosemary gravely. "There IS something in it that is comical. Now, -'chicken' is different. It doesn't sound so funny to talk of loving a -chicken." - -"Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just a little -golden ball. He would run up to me and peck out of my hand. And he was -handsome when he grew up, too--white as snow, with such a beautiful -curving white tail, though Mary Vance said it was too short. He knew -his name and always came when I called him--he was a very intelligent -rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was mine. It -wasn't fair, was it, Miss West?" - -"No, it wasn't," said Rosemary decidedly. "Not a bit fair. I remember -I had a pet hen when I was a little girl. She was such a pretty little -thing--all golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved -any pet. She was never killed--she died of old age. Mother wouldn't have -her killed because she was my pet." - -"If MY mother had been living she wouldn't have let Adam be killed," -said Faith. "For that matter, father wouldn't have either, 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 on her -face. She looked rather conscious but Faith noticed nothing. - -"Was it VERY wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coat-tails were -scorching?" she asked anxiously. - -"Oh, terribly wicked," answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. "But _I_ -would have been just as naughty, Faith--_I_ wouldn't have told him they -were scorching--and I don't believe I would ever 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 not bound -to respect his coat-tails. I know _I_ would just have loved to see Jimmy -Perry's coat-tails burning up. It must have been fun." - -Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little sigh. - -"Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am NEVER going to love anything -again." - -"Don't say that, dear. We miss so much out of life if we don't love. The -more we love the richer life is--even if it is only some little furry or -feathery pet. Would you like a canary, Faith--a little golden bit of a -canary? If you would I'll give you 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 have your 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 the cat -could harm it. I'll tell you just how to take care of it and I'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, but I 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 twilight crept softly down -over the white valley and the evening star shone over the gray maple -grove. Faith told Rosemary all her small history and hopes, her likes -and dislikes, the ins and outs of 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 that -evening, but presently a name pierced his abstraction and brought him -back to reality. Faith was telling Una of her meeting with Rosemary. - -"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. She did 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 a rather 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 of a -winter night in Rainbow Valley. The hills beyond glistened with the -chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir tree in the -long valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost. His -children and the Blythe lads and lasses were coasting down the eastern -slope and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were having a glorious -time and their gay voices and gayer laughter echoed up and down the -valley, dying away in elfin cadences among the trees. On the right the -lights of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the genial lure -and invitation which seems always to glow in the beacons of a home where -we know there is love and good-cheer and a welcome for all kin, whether -of flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very well on occasion to spend an -evening arguing with the doctor by the drift wood fire, where the famous -china dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and ward, as became deities -of the hearth, but to-night he did not look that way. Far on the western -hill gleamed a paler but more alluring star. Mr. Meredith was on his way -to see Rosemary West, and he meant to tell her something which had been -slowly blossoming in his heart since their first meeting and had sprung -into full flower on the evening when Faith had 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 entirely different. That -love of romance and dream and glamour could never, he thought, return. -But Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear--very dear. She was the -best of companions. He was happier in her company than he had ever -expected to be again. She would be an ideal mistress for his home, a -good mother to his children. - -During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith had received innumerable -hints from brother members of Presbytery and from many parishioners who -could not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from some -who could, that he ought to marry again: But these hints never made any -impression on him. It was commonly thought he was never aware of them. -But he was quite acutely aware of them. And in his own occasional -visitations of common sense he knew that the common sensible thing for -him to do was to marry. But common sense was not the strong point of -John Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and cold-bloodedly, -some "suitable" woman, as one might choose a housekeeper or a business -partner, was something he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated -that word "suitable." It reminded him so strongly of James Perry. "A -SUIT able woman of SUIT able age," that unctuous brother of the cloth -had said, in his far from subtle hint. For the moment John Meredith -had had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly away and propose -marriage to the youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible to -discover. - -Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he liked her. But when she -had bluntly told him he should marry again he felt as if she had torn -away the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his innermost life, -and he had been more or less afraid of her ever since. He knew there -were women in his congregation "of suitable age" who would marry him -quite readily. That fact had seeped through all his abstraction very -early in his ministry in Glen St. Mary. They were good, substantial, -uninteresting women, one or two fairly comely, the others not exactly so -and John Meredith would as soon have thought of marrying any one of them -as of hanging himself. He had some ideals to which no seeming necessity -could make him false. He could ask no woman to fill Cecilia's place in -his home unless he could offer her at least some of the affection and -homage he had given to his girlish bride. And where, in his limited -feminine acquaintance, was such a woman to be found? - -Rosemary West had come into his life on that autumn evening bringing -with her an atmosphere in which his spirit recognized native air. Across -the gulf of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship. He knew her -better in that ten minutes by the hidden spring than he knew Emmeline -Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or could know -them, in a century. He had fled to her for comfort when Mrs. Alec Davis -had outraged his mind and soul and had found it. Since then he had gone -often to the house on the hill, slipping through the shadowy paths of -night in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen gossip could never be -absolutely certain that he DID go to see Rosemary West. Once or twice he -had been caught in the West living room by other visitors; that was all -the Ladies' Aid had to go by. But when Elizabeth Kirk heard it she put -away a secret hope she had allowed herself to cherish, without a change -of expression on her kind plain face, and Emmeline Drew resolved that -the next time she saw a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge she would not -snub him as she had done at a previous meeting. Of course, if Rosemary -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 to propose to -Ellen by mistake," was the only malicious thing she allowed herself -to say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmeline bore no further grudge -towards Rosemary. When all was said and done, an unencumbered bachelor -was far better than a widower with four children. It had been only the -glamour of the manse that had temporarily blinded Emmeline's eyes to the -better part. - -A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. Meredith to the -pond. Faith's long curls streamed in the wind and her laughter rang -above that of the others. John Meredith looked after them kindly -and longingly. He was glad that his children had such chums as the -Blythes--glad that they had so wise and gay and tender a friend as Mrs. -Blythe. But they needed something more, and that something would be -supplied when he brought Rosemary West as a bride to the old manse. -There was in her a quality essentially maternal. - -It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturday night, -which was supposed to be dedicated to a thoughtful revision of Sunday's -sermon. But he had chosen this night because he had learned that Ellen -West was going to be away and Rosemary would be alone. Often as he had -spent pleasant evenings in the house on the hill he had never, since -that first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary alone. Ellen had always -been there. - -He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He liked Ellen -West very much and they were the best of friends. Ellen had an almost -masculine understanding and a sense of humour which his own shy, hidden -appreciation of fun found very agreeable. He liked her interest in -politics and world events. There was no man in the Glen, not even -excepting Dr. Blythe, who had a better grasp of such things. - -"I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long as you -live," she had said. "If you're not, it doesn't seem to me that there's -much difference between the quick and the dead." - -He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked the hearty laugh -with which she always ended up some jolly and well-told story. She never -gave him digs about his children as other Glen women did; she never -bored him with local gossip; she had no malice and no pettiness. She -was always splendidly sincere. Mr. Meredith, who had picked up Miss -Cornelia's way of classifying people, 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 women around -when he was proposing to another woman. And Ellen was always around. She -did not insist on talking to Mr. Meredith herself 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, and letting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk and sing and read -books together. Sometimes they quite forgot her presence. But if their -conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed the least tendency to what -Ellen considered philandering, Ellen promptly nipped that tendency in -the bud and blotted Rosemary out for the rest of the evening. But not -even the grimmest of amiable dragons can altogether prevent a certain -subtle language of eye and smile and eloquent silence; and so the -minister's courtship progressed after a fashion. - -But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax must come when Ellen -was away. And Ellen was so seldom away, especially in winter. She found -her own fireside the pleasantest place in the world, she vowed. Gadding -had no attraction for her. She was fond of company but she wanted it at -home. Mr. Meredith had almost been driven to the conclusion that he must -write to Rosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen casually announced -one evening that she was going to a silver wedding next Saturday night. -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 into his dreamy dark eyes. -Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it; and both Ellen and Rosemary felt, with a -tingling shock, that Mr. Meredith would certainly come up the hill next -Saturday night. - -"Might as well have it over with, St. George," Ellen sternly told the -black cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone home and Rosemary had silently -gone upstairs. "He means to ask her, St. George--I'm perfectly sure of -that. So he might as well have his chance to do it and find out he can't -get her, George. She'd rather like to take him, Saint. I know that--but -she promised, and she's got to 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 a brother-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 to see that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace of Europe. That's -HIS blind spot. But he's good company and I like him. A woman can say -anything she likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith's and -be sure of not being misunderstood. Such a man is more precious than -rubies, Saint--and much rarer, George. But he can't have Rosemary--and -I suppose when he finds out he can't have her he'll drop us both. And -we'll miss him, Saint--we'll miss him something scandalous, George. But -she promised, and I'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; she wanted -to, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meant -to refuse. So she wore her plain dark afternoon dress and looked like a -queen in it. Her suppressed excitement coloured her face to brilliancy, -her great blue eyes were pools of light less placid than usual. - -She wished the interview were over. She had looked forward to it all day -with dread. She felt quite sure that John Meredith cared a great deal -for her after a fashion--and she felt just as sure that he did not care -for her as he had cared for his first love. She felt that her refusal -would disappoint him considerably, but she did not think it would -altogether overwhelm him. Yet she hated to make it; hated for his sake -and--Rosemary was quite honest with herself--for her own. She knew she -could have loved John Meredith if--if it had been permissible. She -knew that life would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, he refused -longer to be a friend. She knew that she could be very happy with him -and that she could make him happy. But between her and happiness stood -the prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years ago. Rosemary -could not remember her father. He had died when she was only three years -old. Ellen, who had been thirteen, remembered him, but with no special -tenderness. He had been a stern, reserved man many years older than his -fair, pretty wife. Five years later their brother of twelve died also; -since his death the two girls had always lived alone with their mother. -They had never mingled very freely in the social life of the Glen or -Lowbridge, though where they went the wit and spirit of Ellen and the -sweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them welcome guests. Both had what -was called "a disappointment" in their girlhood. The sea had not given -up Rosemary's lover; and Norman Douglas, then a handsome, red-haired -young giant, noted for wild driving and noisy though harmless escapades, -had quarrelled with Ellen and left her in a fit of pique. - -There were not lacking candidates for both Martin's and Norman's places, -but none seemed to find favour in the eyes of the West girls, who -drifted slowly out of youth and bellehood without any seeming regret. -They were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic invalid. The three -had a little circle of home interests--books and pets and flowers--which -made them happy and contented. - -Mrs. West's death, which occurred on Rosemary's twenty-fifth birthday, -was a bitter grief to them. At first they were intolerably lonely. -Ellen, especially, continued to grieve and brood, her long, moody -musings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The old -Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he feared permanent melancholy or -worse. - -Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either to speak or eat, -Rosemary had flung herself on her knees by her sister's side. - -"Oh, Ellen, you have me yet," she said imploringly. "Am I nothing to -you? We have always loved each other so." - -"I won't have you always," Ellen had said, breaking her silence with -harsh intensity. "You will marry and leave me. I shall be left all -alone. I cannot bear the thought--I CANNOT. I would rather 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 on mother's -Bible." - -Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humour Ellen. What did it -matter? She knew quite well she would never want to marry any one. Her -love had gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the sea; and -without love she could not marry any one. So she promised readily, -though Ellen made rather a fearsome rite of it. They clasped hands over -the Bible, in their mother's vacant room, and both vowed to each other -that they would never marry and would always live together. - -Ellen's condition improved from that hour. She soon regained her normal -cheery poise. For ten years she and Rosemary lived in the old house -happily, undisturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in marriage. -Their promise sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed to remind her -sister of it whenever any eligible male creature crossed their paths, -but she had never been really alarmed until John Meredith came home that -night with Rosemary. As for Rosemary, Ellen's obsession regarding that -promise had always been a little matter of mirth to her--until lately. -Now, it was a merciless fetter, self-imposed but never to be shaken off. -Because of it to-night she must turn her face from happiness. - -It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she had given to her -boy-lover she could never give to another. But she knew now that she -could give to John Meredith a love richer and more womanly. She knew -that he touched deeps in her nature that Martin had never touched--that -had not, perhaps, been in the girl of seventeen to touch. And she must -send him away to-night--send him back to his lonely hearth and his empty -life and his heart-breaking problems, because she had promised Ellen, -ten years before, on their mother's Bible, that she would never marry. - -John Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity. On the -contrary, he talked for two good hours on the least lover-like of -subjects. He even tried politics, though politics always bored Rosemary. -The later began to think that she had been altogether mistaken, and her -fears and expectations suddenly seemed to her grotesque. She felt flat -and foolish. The glow went out of her face and the lustre out of her -eyes. John Meredith had not the slightest intention of asking her to -marry him. - -And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, and standing -by her chair, he asked it. The room had grown terribly still. Even St. -George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard her own heart beating and was sure -John Meredith must hear it too. - -Now was the time for her to say no, gently but firmly. She had been -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 that she 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 and asked him -stammeringly to give her a few days for--for consideration. - -John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not vainer than any man has -a right to be, but he had expected that Rosemary West would say yes. -He had been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this doubt--this -hesitation? She was not a school girl to be uncertain as to her own -mind. He felt an ugly shock of disappointment and dismay. But he -assented to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and went away -at once. - -"I will tell you in a few days," said Rosemary, with downcast eyes and -burning face. - -When the door shut behind him she went back into the room and wrung her -hands. - - - -CHAPTER XXII. ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL ABOUT IT - -At midnight Ellen West was walking home from the Pollock silver wedding. -She had stayed a little while after the other guests had gone, to help -the gray-haired bride wash the dishes. The distance between the two -houses was not far and the road good, so that Ellen was enjoying the -walk back home in the moonlight. - -The evening had been a pleasant one. Ellen, who had not been to a party -for years, found it very pleasant. All the guests had been members of -her old set and there was no intrusive youth to spoil the flavour, for -the only son of the bride and groom was far away at college and could -not be present. Norman Douglas had been there and they had met socially -for the first time in years, though she had seen him once or twice in -church that winter. Not the least sentiment was awakened in Ellen's -heart by their meeting. She was accustomed to wonder, when she thought -about it at all, how she could ever have fancied him or felt so badly -over his sudden marriage. But she had rather liked meeting him again. -She had forgotten how bracing and stimulating he could be. No gathering -was ever stagnant when Norman Douglas was present. Everybody had been -surprised when Norman came. It was well known he never went anywhere. -The Pollocks had invited him because he had been one of the original -guests, but they never thought he would come. He had taken his second -cousin, Amy Annetta Douglas, out to supper and seemed rather attentive -to her. But Ellen sat across the table from him and had a spirited -argument with him--an argument during which all his shouting and banter -could not fluster her and in which she came off best, flooring Norman so -composedly and so completely that he was silent for ten minutes. At -the end of which time he had muttered in his ruddy beard--"spunky as -ever--spunky as ever"--and began to hector Amy Annetta, who giggled -foolishly over his sallies where Ellen would have retorted bitingly. - -Ellen thought these things over as she walked home, tasting them with -reminiscent relish. The moonlit air sparkled with frost. The snow -crisped under her feet. Below her lay the Glen with the white harbour -beyond. There was a light in the manse study. So John Meredith had gone -home. Had he asked Rosemary to marry him? And after what fashion had -she made her refusal known? Ellen felt that she would never know this, -though she was quite curious. She was sure Rosemary would never tell -her anything about it and she would not dare to ask. She must just be -content with the fact of the refusal. After all, that was the only thing -that really mattered. - -"I hope he'll have sense enough to come back once in a while and be -friendly," she said to herself. She disliked so much to be alone that -thinking aloud was one of her devices for circumventing unwelcome -solitude. "It's awful never to have a man-body with some brains to talk -to once in a while. And like as not he'll never come near the house -again. There's Norman Douglas, too--I like that man, and I'd like to -have a good rousing argument with him now and then. But he'd never dare -come up for fear people would think he was courting me again--for fear -I'D think it, too, most likely--though he's more a stranger to me now -than John Meredith. It seems like a dream that we could ever have been -beaus. But there it is--there's only two men in the Glen I'd ever want -to talk to--and what with gossip and this wretched love-making business -it's not likely I'll ever see either of them again. I could," said -Ellen, addressing the unmoved stars with a spiteful emphasis, "I could -have made a better 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 across the window-shades -went the shadow of a woman walking restlessly up and down. What was -Rosemary doing up at this hour of the night? And why was she striding -about like a lunatic? - -Ellen went softly in. As she opened the hall door Rosemary came out of -the room. She was flushed and breathless. An atmosphere of 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 you something." - -Ellen composedly removed her wraps and overshoes, and followed her -sister into the warm, fire-lighted room. She stood with her hand on -the table and waited. She was looking very handsome herself, in her own -grim, black-browed style. The new black velvet dress, with its train and -V-neck, which she had made purposely for the party, became her stately, -massive figure. She wore coiled around her neck the rich heavy necklace -of amber beads which was a family heirloom. Her walk in the frosty air -had stung her cheeks into a glowing scarlet. But her steel-blue eyes -were as icy and unyielding as the sky of the winter night. She stood -waiting in a silence which Rosemary could break only by a 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 involuntary step -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, coldly contemptuous, -"when there is only the one answer you can make him." - -Rosemary held out her hands beseechingly. - -"Ellen," she said desperately, "I love John Meredith--I want to be 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 that promise. You -offered it." - -"I know--I know. But I did not think then that I could ever care for -anyone again." - -"You offered it," went on Ellen unmovably. "You promised it over our -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 will not do it. -Break your promise--be forsworn if you will--but it shall 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 to what my -loneliness would be here if you left me? I could not bear it--I would go -crazy. I CANNOT live alone. Haven't I been a 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't seen a -year ago?" - -"I love him, Ellen." - -"Love! You talk like a school miss instead of a middle-aged woman. He -doesn't love you. He wants a housekeeper and a governess. You don't love -him. You want to be 'Mrs.'--you are one of those weak-minded women who -think it's a disgrace to be ranked 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 and you've got -to keep your word. That's all. Go to bed. Look at the time! You're all -romantic and worked up. To-morrow you'll be more sensible. At any rate, -don't let me hear any more of this nonsense. Go." - -Rosemary went without another word, pale and spiritless. Ellen walked -stormily about the room for a few minutes, then paused before the chair -where St. George had been calmly sleeping through the whole evening. A -reluctant smile overspread her dark face. There had been only one time -in her life--the time of her mother's death--when Ellen had not been -able to temper tragedy with comedy. Even in that long ago bitterness, -when Norman Douglas had, after a fashion, jilted her, she had laughed at -herself quite as often as she had cried. - -"I expect there'll be some sulking, St. George. Yes, Saint, I expect -we are in for a few unpleasant foggy days. Well, we'll weather them -through, George. We've dealt with foolish children before, Saint. -Rosemary'll sulk a while--and then she'll get over it--and all will be -as before, George. She promised--and she's got to keep her promise. And -that's the last word on the subject 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 the next day, -but beyond that Ellen could detect no difference in her. Certainly, she -seemed to bear Ellen no grudge. It was stormy, so no mention was made of -going to church. In the afternoon Rosemary shut herself in her room and -wrote a note to John Meredith. She could not trust herself to say "no" -in person. She felt quite sure that if he suspected she was saying "no" -reluctantly he would not take it for an answer, and she could not face -pleading or entreaty. She must make him think she cared nothing at -all for him and she could do that only by letter. She wrote him the -stiffest, coolest little refusal imaginable. It was barely courteous; -it certainly left no loophole of hope for the boldest lover--and -John Meredith was anything but that. He shrank into himself, hurt and -mortified, when he read Rosemary's letter next day in his dusty study. -But under his mortification a dreadful realization presently made itself -felt. He had thought he did not love Rosemary as deeply as he had -loved Cecilia. Now, when he had lost her, he knew that he did. She -was everything to him--everything! And he must put her out of his life -completely. Even friendship was impossible now. Life stretched before -him in intolerable dreariness. He must go on--there was his work--his -children--but the heart had gone out of him. He sat alone all that -evening in his dark, cold, comfortless study with his head bowed on his -hands. Up on the hill Rosemary had a headache and went early to bed, -while Ellen remarked to St. George, purring his disdain of foolish -humankind, who did not know that a soft cushion was the only thing 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 eye for 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 of mayflowers -and wakening violets. The harbour and the gulf and the low-lying shore -fields had been dim with pearl-gray mists. But now in the evening the -rain had ceased and the mists had blown out to sea. Clouds sprinkled the -sky over the harbour like little fiery roses. Beyond it the hills were -dark against a spendthrift splendour of daffodil and crimson. A great -silvery evening star was watching over the bar. A brisk, dancing, -new-sprung wind was blowing up from Rainbow Valley, resinous with the -odours of fir and damp mosses. It crooned in the old spruces around -the graveyard and ruffled Faith's splendid curls as she sat on Hezekiah -Pollock's tombstone with her arms round Mary Vance and Una. Carl and -Jerry were sitting opposite them on another tombstone and all were -rather full of mischief after being cooped up all day. - -"The air just SHINES to-night, doesn't it? It's been washed so clean, -you see," said Faith happily. - -Mary Vance eyed her gloomily. Knowing what she knew, or fancied she -knew, Mary considered that Faith was far too light-hearted. Mary had -something on her mind to say and she meant to say it before she went -home. Mrs. Elliott had sent her up to the manse with some new-laid eggs, -and had told her not to stay longer than half an hour. The half hour -was nearly up, so Mary uncurled her cramped legs from under her and said -abruptly, - -"Never mind about the air. Just you listen to me. You manse young ones -have just got to behave yourselves better than you've been doing this -spring--that's all there is to it. I just come up to-night a-purpose to -tell you so. The way people are talking about you is awful." - -"What have we been doing now?" cried Faith in amazement, pulling her arm -away from Mary. Una's lips trembled and her sensitive little soul shrank -within her. Mary was always so brutally frank. Jerry began to whistle -out of bravado. He meant to let Mary see he didn't care for HER tirades. -Their behaviour was no business of HERS anyway. What right had SHE to -lecture them on their conduct? - -"Doing now! You're doing ALL the time," retorted Mary. "Just as soon -as the talk about one of your didos fades away you do something else -to start it up again. It seems to me you haven't any 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 behave -yourselves. The session will ask your father to resign. There now, -Master Jerry-know-it-all. Mrs. Alec Davis said so to Mrs. Elliott. I -heard her. I always have my ears pricked up when Mrs. Alec Davis comes -to tea. She said you were all going from bad to worse and that though -it was only what was to be expected when you had nobody to bring you -up, still the congregation couldn't be expected to put up with it much -longer, and something would have to be done. The Methodists just laugh -and laugh at you, and that hurts the Presbyterian feelings. SHE says you -all need a good dose of birch tonic. Lor', if that would make folks good -_I_ oughter be a young saint. I'm not telling you this because I want -to hurt YOUR feelings. I'm sorry for you"--Mary was past mistress of -the gentle art of condescension. "_I_ understand that you haven't -much chance, the way things are. But other people don't make as much -allowance as _I_ do. Miss Drew says Carl had a frog in his pocket in -Sunday School last Sunday and it hopped out while she was hearing the -lesson. She says she's going to give up the class. Why don't you keep -your insecks home?" - -"I popped it right back in again," said Carl. "It didn't hurt anybody--a -poor little frog! And I wish old Jane Drew WOULD give up our class. I -hate her. Her own nephew had a dirty plug of tobacco in his pocket and -offered us fellows a chew when Elder Clow was praying. I guess that's -worse than a frog." - -"No, 'cause frogs are more unexpected-like. They make more of a -sensation. 'Sides, he wasn't caught at it. And then that praying -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 first place. And Walter took -the prize." - -"Well, you get the credit of it any way. It wouldn't have been so 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, "and he saw -and heard you, with your hands folded over your stomach, and groaning -after every sentence. He thought you were making fun of HIM." - -"So I was," declared unabashed Jerry. "Only I didn't know he was going -by, of course. That was just a mean accident. _I_ wasn't praying in -real earnest--I knew I had no chance of winning the prize. So I was just -getting what fun I could out of it. Walter Blythe can pray bully. Why, -he can pray as well as dad." - -"Una is the only one of US who really likes praying," said Faith -pensively. - -"Well, if praying scandalizes people so much we mustn't do it any more," -sighed Una. - -"Shucks, you can pray all you want to, only not in the graveyard--and -don't make a game of it. That was what made it so bad--that, and having -a tea-party on the tombstones." - -"We hadn't." - -"Well, a soap-bubble party then. You had SOMETHING. The over-harbour -people swear you had a tea-party, but I'm willing to take your word. And -you used this tombstone as a table." - -"Well, Martha wouldn't let us blow bubbles in the house. She was awful -cross that day," explained Jerry. "And this old slab made such a jolly -table." - -"Weren't they pretty?" cried Faith, her eyes sparkling over the -remembrance. "They reflected the trees and the hills and the harbour -like little fairy worlds, and when we shook them loose they floated away -down to Rainbow Valley." - -"All but one and it went over and bust up on the Methodist spire," said -Carl. - -"I'm glad we did it once, anyhow, before we found out it was wrong," -said Faith. - -"It wouldn't have been wrong to blow them on the lawn," said Mary -impatiently. "Seems like I can't knock any sense into your heads. -You've been told often enough you shouldn't play in the graveyard. The -Methodists are sensitive about it." - -"We forget," said Faith dolefully. "And the lawn is so small--and so -caterpillary--and so full of shrubs and things. We can'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 if you 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 know that Elder Warren is -going to speak to your pa about it. Deacon Hazard 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 little more. -_I_ don't--_I_ understand him. He's a child in some ways himself--that's -what he is, and needs some one to look after him as 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, EVERYbody is -talking of it. Your pa goes to see Rosemary West. SHE is going 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 give it for -a fact. But it would be a good thing. Rosemary West'd make you toe -the mark if she came here, I'll bet a cent, for all she's so sweet and -smiley on the face of her. They're always that way till they've caught -them. But you need some one to bring 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 night he talked to me so nice. I've never said a single -swear word since, or told a lie. And I'd like to see him happy and -comfortable, with his buttons on and his meals decent, and you young -ones licked into shape, and that old cat of a Martha put in HER proper -place. The way she looked at the eggs I brought her to-night. 'I hope -they're fresh,' says she. I just wished they WAS rotten. But you just -mind that she gives you all one for breakfast, including your pa. Make -a fuss if she doesn't. That was 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 over the -graveyard. The manse children did not feel like talking. They were -digesting the new and not altogether palatable ideas Mary had suggested -to them. Jerry and Carl were somewhat startled. But, after all, what did -it matter? And it wasn't likely there was a word of truth in it. Faith, -on the whole, was pleased. Only Una was seriously upset. She felt that -she would like 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 had -increased notably since her residence with Mrs. Elliott. "Just -three--setting up on my head, like a corownet, a big one in the middle -and a small one each side." - -"Are there different sizes in souls?" asked Carl. - -"Of course. Why, little babies must have smaller ones than big men. -Well, it's getting dark and I must scoot home. Mrs. Elliott doesn't like -me to be out after dark. Laws, when I lived with 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 hundred years ago. Now, you mind what I've said -and try to behave yourselves, for you pa's sake. I'LL always back you -up and defend you--you can be dead sure of that. Mrs. Elliott says she -never saw the like of me for sticking up for my friends. I was real -sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs. Elliott combed me down for -it afterwards. The fair Cornelia has a tongue of her own 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 a rather -depressed little group behind her. - -"Mary Vance always says something that makes us feel bad when she comes -up," said Una resentfully. - -"I wish we'd left her to starve in the old barn," said Jerry -vindictively. - -"Oh, that's wicked, Jerry," rebuked Una. - -"May as well have the game as the name," retorted unrepentant Jerry. "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 the unshaded -study window they could see Mr. Meredith at his desk. He did not seem -to be either reading or writing. His head was in his hands and there was -something in his whole attitude that spoke of weariness and dejection. -The children suddenly felt it. - -"I dare say somebody's been worrying him about us to-day," said Faith. -"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 the girls. -He had been prowling about Rainbow Valley and had succeeded in finding -the first little star-white cluster of arbutus for his mother. The manse -children were rather silent after his coming. Jem was beginning to grow -away from them somewhat this spring. He was studying for the entrance -examination of Queen's Academy and stayed after school with the older -pupils for extra lessons. Also, his evenings were so full of 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's no fun in -you." - -"Not much," agreed Faith dolefully. "There wouldn't be much fun in you -either if YOU knew you were disgracing your father and making people -talk about you." - -"Who's been talking about you now?" - -"Everybody--so Mary Vance says." And Faith poured out her troubles to -sympathetic Jem. "You see," she concluded dolefully, "we've nobody to -bring us up. And so we get into scrapes and people think we're bad." - -"Why don't you bring yourselves up?" suggested Jem. "I'll tell you what -to do. Form a Good-Conduct Club and punish yourselves every time you do -anything that's not right." - -"That's a good idea," said Faith, struck by it. "But," she added -doubtfully, "things that don't seem a bit of harm to US seem simply -dreadful to other people. How can we tell? We can't be 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 over before doing -it and ask yourselves what the congregation would say about it," said -Jem. "The trouble is you just rush into things and don't think them over -at all. Mother says you're all too impulsive, just as she used to be. -The Good-Conduct Club would help you to think, if you were fair and -honest about punishing yourselves when you broke the rules. You'd have -to punish 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 of punishment -to suit the person. You wouldn't punish each other--you'd punish -YOURSELVES. I read all about such a club in a story-book. You try it and -see how it works." - -"Let's," said Faith; and when Jem was gone they agreed they would. "If -things aren't right we've just got to make them right," 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 else to do it. There's -no use in having many rules. Let's just have one 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 the club -here in the graveyard every night and talk over what we've done through -the day, and if we think we've done anything that isn't right or that -would disgrace dad the one that does it, or is responsible for it, -must be punished. That's the rule. We'll all decide on the kind of -punishment--it must be made to fit the crime, as Mr. Flagg says. And -the one that's, guilty will be bound to carry it out and no shirking. -There's going to be fun in 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 the punishment -ought to be? S'pose two of us thought of one thing and 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 in Glen St. -Mary. But I guess we can settle our own affairs mostly. 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 do the bringing up." - -"_I_ think," said Faith, "that there's no use in spoiling every day by -dragging punishments in. Let's have a punishment day." - -"We'd better choose Saturday because there is no school to interfere," -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 hate fish. We may -as well have all the disagreeable things in one day. Then other days we -can go ahead and have a good time." - -"Nonsense," said Jerry authoritatively. "Such a scheme wouldn't work at -all. We'll just punish ourselves as we go along and keep a clear slate. -Now, we all understand, don't we? This is a Good-Conduct Club, for the -purpose of bringing ourselves up. We agree to punish ourselves for bad -conduct, and always to stop before we do anything, no matter what, and -ask ourselves if it is likely to hurt dad in any way, and any one who -shirks is to be cast out of the club and never allowed to play with the -rest of us in Rainbow Valley again. Jem Blythe to be umpire in case -of disputes. No more taking bugs to Sunday School, Carl, and no more -chewing gum in public, if you please, Miss Faith." - -"No more making fun of elders praying or going to the Methodist prayer -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 no business 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 to punish -yourself." - -"Not till it's all down in black and white. We're only talking the club -over. It isn't really formed until we've written it out and 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 ourselves for, but -anything that might hurt father." - -"It won't hurt anybody. You know Mrs. Elliott is cracked on the subject -of Methodists. Nobody else makes any fuss about my going. I always -behave myself. You ask Jem or Mrs. Blythe and see what they say. I'll -abide by their opinion. I'm going for the paper now and I'll bring out -the lantern and we'll all sign." - -Fifteen minutes later the document was solemnly signed on Hezekiah -Pollock's tombstone, on the centre of which stood the smoky manse -lantern, while the children knelt around it. Mrs. Elder Clow was going -past at the moment and next day all the Glen heard that the manse -children had been having another praying competition and had wound it up -by chasing each other all over the graves with a lantern. This piece of -embroidery was probably suggested by the fact that, after the signing -and sealing was completed, Carl had taken the lantern and had walked -circumspectly to the little hollow to examine his ant-hill. The others -had gone quietly into the manse and to bed. - -"Do you think it is true that father is going to marry Miss West?" Una -had tremulously asked of Faith, after their prayers had 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 she is. But -Mary Vance says it changes people ALTOGETHER to be made stepmothers. -They get horrid cross and mean and hateful then, and turn your father -against you. She says they're sure to do that. She never knew it to fail -in a single case." - -"I don't believe Miss West would EVER try to do that," cried Faith. - -"Mary says ANYBODY would. She knows ALL about stepmothers, Faith--she -says she's seen hundreds of them--and you've never seen one. Oh, Mary -has told me blood-curdling things about them. She says she knew of one -who whipped her husband's little girls on their bare shoulders till they -bled, and then shut them up in a cold, dark coal cellar all night. She -says they're ALL aching to do things like that." - -"I don't believe Miss West would. You don't know her as well as I do, -Una. Just think of that sweet little bird she sent me. I love it far -more even than Adam." - -"It's just being a stepmother changes them. Mary says they can't help -it. I wouldn't mind the whippings so much as having father hate 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 run our club right and -bring ourselves up properly father won't think of marrying any one. And -if he does, I KNOW Miss West will be lovely 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. It seemed -to work admirably. Not once was Jem Blythe called in as umpire. Not once -did any of the manse children set the Glen gossips by the ears. As for -their minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other and -gamely underwent their self-imposed punishment--generally a voluntary -absence from some gay Friday night frolic in Rainbow Valley, or a -sojourn in bed on some spring evening when all young bones ached to be -out and away. Faith, for whispering in Sunday School, condemned herself -to pass a whole day without speaking a single word, unless it was -absolutely necessary, and accomplished it. It was rather unfortunate -that Mr. Baker from over-harbour should have chosen that evening for -calling at the manse, and that Faith should have happened to go to -the door. Not one word did she reply to his genial greeting, but -went silently away to call her father briefly. Mr. Baker was slightly -offended and told his wife when he went home that that the biggest -Meredith girl seemed a very shy, sulky little thing, without manners -enough to speak when she was spoken to. But nothing worse came of it, -and generally their penances did no harm to themselves or anybody else. -All of them were beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it was -a very easy matter to bring yourself up. - -"I guess people will soon see that we can behave ourselves properly as -well as anybody," said Faith jubilantly. "It isn't hard when we put our -minds to it." - -She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone. It had been a cold, -raw, wet day of spring storm and Rainbow Valley was out of the question -for girls, though the manse and the Ingleside boys were down there -fishing. The rain had held up, but the east wind blew mercilessly in -from the sea, cutting to bone and marrow. Spring was late in spite of -its early promise, and there was even yet a hard drift of old snow and -ice in the northern corner of the graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had come -up to bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped in through the gate -shivering. She belonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth and -her father had, for thirty years, made a practice of sending a mess from -his first spring catch to the manse. He never darkened a church door; -he was a hard drinker and a reckless man, but as long as he sent those -herring up to the manse every spring, as his father had done before him, -he felt comfortably sure that his account with the Powers That Govern -was squared for the year. He would not have expected a good mackerel -catch if he had not so sent the first fruits of the season. - -Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such a small, -wizened little creature. To-night, as she sidled boldly enough up to -the manse girls, she looked as if she had never been warm since she was -born. Her face was purple and her pale-blue, bold little eyes were -red and watery. She wore a tattered print dress and a ragged woollen -comforter, tied across her thin shoulders and under her arms. She had -walked the three miles from the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road -where there was still snow and slush and mud. Her feet and legs were -as purple as her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was used to -being cold, and she had been going barefooted for a month already, like -all the other swarming young fry of the fishing village. There was no -self-pity in her heart as she sat down on the tombstone and grinned -cheerfully at Faith and Una. Faith and Una grinned cheerfully back. They -knew Lida slightly, having met her once or twice the preceding summer -when they had gone down the 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. She shivered, -coughed, and stuck out her bare feet. Lida was not thinking about -herself or her feet, and was making no bid for sympathy. She held -her feet out instinctively to keep them from the wet grass around the -tombstone. But Faith and Una were instantly swamped with a wave of pity -for her. She looked so cold--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 fierce walking 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 time winter was -over," said Lida indifferently. - -For a moment Faith stated in horror. This was terrible. Here was a -little girl, almost a neighbour, half frozen because she had 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 them into -the hands of the astonished Lida. "Quick now. You'll catch your death of -cold. I've got others. Put them right on." - -Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered gift, with a sparkle -in her dull eyes. Sure she would put them on, and that mighty quick, -before any one appeared with authority to recall them. In a minute -she had pulled the stockings over her scrawny little legs and slipped -Faith's shoes over her thick little ankles. - -"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 I could -see any one freezing to death without helping them if I could? It -wouldn't be right, especially when my father's a minister." - -"Will you want them back? It's awful cold down at the harbour -mouth--long after it's warm up here," said Lida slyly. - -"No, you're to keep them, of course. That is what I meant when I gave -them. I have another pair of shoes and plenty of stockings." - -Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls about many things. -But now she thought she had better get away before somebody came and -made her yield up her booty. So she shuffled off through the bitter -twilight, in the noiseless, shadowy way she had slipped in. As soon as -she was out of sight of the manse she sat down, took off the shoes and -stockings, and put them in her herring basket. She had no intention of -keeping them on down that dirty harbour road. They were to be kept good -for gala occasions. Not another little girl down at the harbour mouth -had such fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost new -shoes. Lida was furnished forth for the summer. She had no qualms in the -matter. In her eyes the manse people were quite fabulously rich, and -no doubt those girls had slathers of shoes and stockings. Then Lida ran -down to the Glen village and played for an hour with the boys before Mr. -Flagg's store, splashing about 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 to wear your -good boots every day now and they'll soon scuff out." - -"I don't care," cried Faith, still in the fine glow of having done a -kindness to a fellow creature. "It isn't fair that I should have two -pairs of shoes and poor little Lida Marsh not have any. NOW we both have -a pair. You know perfectly well, Una, that father said in his sermon -last Sunday that there was no real happiness in getting or having--only -in giving. And it's true. I feel FAR happier now than I ever did in my -whole life before. Just think of Lida walking home this very minute with -her 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 Aunt Martha said she -couldn't darn them any more and she cut the legs up for stove dusters. -You've nothing but those two pairs of striped stockings you hate so." - -All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her gladness collapsed like a -pricked balloon. She sat for a few dismal minutes in silence, facing the -consequences of her rash act. - -"Oh, Una, I never thought of that," she said dolefully. "I didn't stop -to think at all." - -The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockings of -blue and red which Aunt Martha had knit for Faith in the winter. They -were undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them as she had never loathed -anything before. Wear them she certainly would 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 know how they laugh -at Mamie Warren for her striped stockings and call her barber pole and -yours are far worse." - -"I won't wear them," said Faith. "I'll go barefooted first, cold as it -is." - -"You can't go barefooted to church to-morrow. Think what people would -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 troubled herself -to insist was that they must all go to church, rain or shine. How they -were dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned her. But -go they must. That was how Aunt Martha had been brought up seventy years -ago, and that was how she meant to bring them up. - -"Haven't you got a pair you can lend me, Una?" said poor Faith -piteously. - -Una shook her head. "No, you know I only have the one black pair. And -they're so tight I can hardly get them on. They wouldn't go on you. -Neither would my gray ones. Besides, the legs 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 me feel as if my legs -were as big as barrels and they're so SCRATCHY." - -"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 pair before -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'll pretend 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 do that. You -know it would be dreadful. What would father say if he knew? Don't -you remember how he talked to us after mother died and told us we must -always be TRUE, no matter what else we failed in. He said we must never -tell or act a lie--he said he'd TRUST us not to. You CAN'T do it, Faith. -Just wear the striped stockings. It'll only be for once. Nobody will -notice them in church. It isn't like school. And your new brown dress is -so long they won't show much. Wasn't it lucky Aunt Martha made it big, -so you'd have room to grow in it, for all you hated it so when she -finished it?" - -"I won't wear those stockings," repeated Faith. She uncoiled her bare, -white legs from the tombstone and deliberately walked through the wet, -cold grass to the bank of snow. Setting her teeth, she stepped upon it -and stood there. - -"What are you doing?" cried Una aghast. "You'll catch your death of -cold, Faith Meredith." - -"I'm trying to," answered Faith. "I hope I'll catch a fearful cold 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 SOMETHING for your feet. -Oh, here's Jerry. I'm so thankful. Jerry, MAKE Faith get off that snow. -Look at her feet." - -"Holy cats! Faith, what ARE you doing?" demanded Jerry. "Are you crazy?" - -"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 she wants to -be sick so that she won't have to go to church to-morrow and wear her -striped stockings. But, Jerry, she may die." - -"Faith," said Jerry, "get off that ice-bank or I'll pull you off." - -"Pull away," dared Faith. - -Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled one way and Faith -pulled another. Una ran behind Faith and pushed. Faith stormed at Jerry -to leave her alone. Jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy idiot; -and Una cried. They made no end of noise and they were close to the road -fence of the graveyard. Henry Warren and his wife drove by and heard -and saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that the manse children had been -having an awful fight in the graveyard and using most improper language. -Meanwhile, Faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the ice because -her feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to get off any way. -They all went in amiably and went to bed. Faith slept like a cherub -and woke in the morning without a trace of a cold. She felt that she -couldn't feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that long-ago -talk with her father. But she was still as fully determined as ever that -she would not wear those abominable stockings to church. - - - -CHAPTER XXV. ANOTHER SCANDAL AND ANOTHER "EXPLANATION" - -Faith went early to Sunday School and was seated in the corner of her -class pew before any one came. Therefore, the dreadful truth did not -burst upon any one until Faith left the class pew near the door to walk -up to the manse pew after Sunday School. The church was already half -filled and all who were sitting near the aisle saw that the minister's -daughter had boots on but no stockings! - -Faith's new brown dress, which Aunt Martha had made from an ancient -pattern, was absurdly long for her, but even so it did not meet her -boot-tops. Two good inches of bare white leg showed plainly. - -Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew. Jerry had gone into the -gallery to sit with a chum and the Blythe girls had taken Una with them. -The Meredith children were given to "sitting all over the church" in -this fashion and a great many people thought it very improper. The -gallery especially, where irresponsible lads congregated and were known -to whisper and suspected of chewing tobacco 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 it whenever he could. - -Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning its web at the window, did -not notice Faith's legs. She walked home with her father after church -and he never noticed them. She got on the hated striped stockings before -Jerry and Una arrived, so that for the time being none of the occupants -of the manse knew what she had done. But nobody else in Glen St. Mary -was ignorant of it. The few who had not seen soon heard. Nothing else -was talked of on the way home from church. Mrs. Alec Davis said it was -only what she expected, and the next thing you would see some of those -young ones coming to church with no clothes on at all. The president of -the Ladies' Aid decided that she would bring the matter up at the next -Aid meeting, and suggest that they wait in a body on the minister and -protest. Miss Cornelia said that she, for her part, gave up. There was -no use worrying over the manse fry any longer. Even Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt -a little shocked, though she attributed the occurrence solely to Faith's -forgetfulness. Susan could not immediately begin knitting stockings for -Faith because it was Sunday, but she had one set up before any one else -was out of bed at Ingleside the next morning. - -"You need not tell me anything but that it was old Martha's fault, -Mrs. Dr. dear." she told Anne. "I suppose that poor little child had no -decent stockings to wear. I suppose every stocking she had was in holes, -as you know very well they generally are. And _I_ think, Mrs. Dr. dear, -that the Ladies' Aid would be better employed in knitting some for them -than in fighting over the new carpet for the pulpit platform. _I_ am not -a Ladies' Aider, but I shall knit Faith two pairs of stockings, out of -this nice black yarn, as fast as my fingers can move and that you may -tie to. Never shall I forget my sensations, Mrs. Dr. dear, when I saw -a minister's child walking up the aisle of our church with no stockings -on. I really did not know what way to look." - -"And the church was just full of Methodists yesterday, too," groaned -Miss Cornelia, who had come up to the Glen to do some shopping and run -into Ingleside to talk the affair over. "I don't know how it is, but -just as sure as those manse children do something especially awful the -church is sure to be crowded with Methodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon -Hazard's eyes would drop out of her head. When she came out of church -she said, 'Well, that exhibition was no more than decent. I do pity the -Presbyterians.' And we just had to TAKE it. There was nothing one could -say." - -"There was something _I_ could have said, Mrs. Dr. dear, if I had heard -her," said Susan grimly. "I would have said, for one thing, that in my -opinion clean bare legs were quite as decent as holes. And I would have -said, for another, that the Presbyterians did not feel greatly in -need of pity seeing that they had a minister who could PREACH and the -Methodists had NOT. I could have squelched Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs. Dr -dear, and that you may tie to." - -"I wish Mr. Meredith didn't preach quite so well and looked after his -family a little better," retorted Miss Cornelia. "He could at least -glance over his children before they went to church and see that they -were quite properly clothed. I'm tired making excuses 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. She gave Faith -to understand that she had disgraced herself and her father beyond -redemption and that she, Mary Vance, was done with her. "Everybody" was -talking, and "everybody" said the same thing. - -"I simply feel that I can't associate with you any longer," she -concluded. - -"WE are going to associate with her then," cried Nan Blythe. Nan -secretly thought Faith HAD done a awful thing, but she wasn't going 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 defiance at Mary. -The latter suddenly crumpled up, sat down on a stump and began to cry. - -"It ain't that I don't want to," she wailed. "But if I keep in with -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 have such things said of me, -now that I'm in a respectable place and trying to be a lady. And _I_ -never went bare-legged in church in my toughest days. I'd never have -thought of doing such a thing. But that hateful old Kitty Alec says -Faith has never been the same girl since that time I stayed in the -manse. She says Cornelia Elliott will live to rue the day she took me -in. It hurts my feelings, I tell you. But it's Mr. Meredith I'm really -worried over." - -"I think you needn't worry about him," said Di scornfully. "It isn't -likely necessary. Now, Faith darling, stop crying and tell us why you -did it." - -Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls sympathized with her, and -even Mary Vance agreed that it was a hard position to be in. But Jerry, -on whom the thing came like a thunderbolt, refused to be placated. So -THIS was what some mysterious hints he had got in school that day meant! -He marched Faith and Una home without ceremony, and the Good-Conduct -Club held an immediate session in the graveyard to sit in judgment on -Faith's case. - -"I don't see that it was any harm," said Faith defiantly. "Not MUCH of -my legs showed. It wasn't WRONG and it didn't hurt anybody." - -"It will hurt Dad. You KNOW it will. You know people blame him whenever -we do anything queer." - -"I didn't think of that," muttered Faith. - -"That's just the trouble. You didn't think and you SHOULD have thought. -That's what our Club is for--to bring us up and MAKE us think. We -promised we'd always stop and think before doing things. You didn't and -you've got to be punished, Faith--and real hard, too. You'll wear those -striped stockings to school for 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 Jem Blythe -if it isn't." - -Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about such -a matter. She was beginning to realize that her offence was a quite -shameful one. - -"I'll do it, then," she muttered, a little sulkily. - -"You're getting off easy," said, Jerry severely. "And no matter how we -punish you it won't help father. People will always think you just did -it for mischief, and they'll blame father for not stopping it. We can -never explain it to everybody." - -This aspect of the case weighed on Faith's mind. Her own condemnation -she could bear, but it tortured her that her father should be blamed. If -people knew the true facts of the case they would not blame him. But how -could she make them known to all the world? Getting up in church, as she -had once done, and explaining the matter was out of the question. Faith -had heard from Mary Vance how the congregation had looked upon that -performance and realized that she must not repeat it. Faith worried over -the problem for half a week. Then she had an inspiration and promptly -acted upon it. She spent that evening in 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 -put everything right and explain everything and yet cause no scandal. It -was eleven o'clock when she had finished to her satisfaction and crept -down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly happy. - -In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen under the name of -_The Journal_ came out as usual, and the Glen had another sensation. A -letter signed "Faith Meredith" occupied a prominent place 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 church without -stockings on, so that everybody will know that father was not to blame -one bit for it, and the old gossips need not say he is, because it is -not true. I gave my only pair of black stockings to Lida Marsh, because -she hadn't any and her poor little feet were awful cold and I was so -sorry for her. No child ought to have to go without shoes and stockings -in a Christian community 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 are -sending things to the little heathen children, and that is all right and -a kind thing to do. But the little heathen children have lots more warm -weather than we have, and I think the women of our church ought to look -after Lida and not leave it all to me. When I gave her my stockings I -forgot they were the only black pair I had without holes, but I am -glad I did give them to her, because my conscience would have been -uncomfortable if I hadn't. When she had gone away, looking so proud and -happy, the poor little thing, I remembered that all I had to wear were -the horrid red and blue things Aunt Martha knit last winter for me -out of some yarn that Mrs. Joseph Burr of Upper Glen sent us. It was -dreadfully coarse yarn and all knots, and I never saw any of Mrs. Burr's -own children wearing things made of such yarn. But Mary Vance says Mrs. -Burr gives the minister stuff that she can't use or eat herself, and -thinks it ought to go as part of the salary her husband signed to pay, -but never does. - -"I just couldn't bear to wear those hateful stockings. They were so ugly -and rough and felt so scratchy. Everybody would have made fun of me. I -thought at first I'd pretend to be sick and not 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 mother died that was something we must never, never -do. It is just as bad to act a lie as to tell one, though I know some -people, right here in the Glen, who act them, and never seem to feel a -bit bad about it. I will not mention any names, but I know who they are -and so does father. - -"Then I tried my best to catch cold and really be sick by standing on the -snowbank in the Methodist graveyard with my bare feet until Jerry pulled -me off. But it didn't hurt me a bit and so I couldn't get out of going -to church. So I just decided I would put my boots on and go that way. I -can't see why it was so wrong and 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 study thinking of his sermon and other heavenly things, and I -kept out of his way before I went to Sunday School. Father does not look -at 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 am writing this -letter to the _Journal_ to explain. I suppose I did very wrong, since -everybody says so, and I am sorry and I am wearing those awful stockings -to punish myself, although father bought me two nice new black pairs as -soon as Mr. Flagg's store opened on Monday morning. But it was all my -fault, and if people blame father for it after they read this they are -not Christians and 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 Baxters for stealing -potatoes out of his field last fall. They did not touch his potatoes. -They are very poor, but they are honest. It was us did it--Jerry and -Carl and I. Una was not with us at the time. We never thought it was -stealing. We just wanted a few potatoes to cook over a fire in Rainbow -Valley one evening to eat with our fried trout. Mr. Boyd's field was the -nearest, just between the valley and the village, so we climbed over his -fence and pulled up some stalks. The potatoes were awful small, because -Mr. Boyd did not put enough fertilizer on them and we had to pull up a -lot of stalks before we got enough, and then they were not much bigger -than marbles. Walter and Di Blythe helped us eat them, but they did not -come along until we had them cooked and did not know where we got them, -so they were not to blame at all, only us. We didn't mean any harm, but -if it was stealing we are very sorry and we will pay Mr. Boyd for them -if he will wait until we grow up. We never have any money now because we -are not big enough to earn any, and Aunt Martha says it takes every cent -of poor father's salary, even when it is paid up regularly--and it isn't -often--to run this house. But Mr. Boyd must not blame the Lew Baxters -any more, when they were quite innocent, and give them 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 time when -the daffodils blow in this garden," said Anne rapturously. "Nobody may -see me, but I'll be here. If anybody is in the garden at the time--I -THINK I'll come on an evening just like this, but it MIGHT be just at -dawn--a lovely, pale-pinky spring dawn--they'll just see the daffodils -nodding wildly as if an extra gust of wind had blown past them, but it -will be _I_." - -"Indeed, Mrs. Dr. dear, you will not be thinking of flaunting worldly -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 horrible sound. I -shall just be ME. And I shall run around in the twilight, whether it is -morn or eve, and see all the spots I love. Do you remember how badly I -felt when I left our little House of Dreams, Susan? I thought I could -never love Ingleside so well. But I do. I love every inch of the ground -and every stick and stone on it." - -"I am rather fond of the place myself," said Susan, who would have died -if she had been removed from it, "but we must not set our affections too -much on earthly things, Mrs. Dr. dear. There are such things as fires -and earthquakes. We should always be prepared. The Tom MacAllisters -over-harbour were burned out three nights ago. Some say Tom MacAllister -set the house on fire himself to get the insurance. That may or may not -be. But I advise the doctor to have our chimneys seen to at once. An -ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. But I see Mrs. Marshall -Elliott coming in at the gate, looking as if she had been sent for and -couldn't go." - -"Anne dearie, have you seen the _Journal_ to-day?" - -Miss Cornelia's voice was trembling, partly from emotion, partly from -the fact that she had hurried up from the store too fast and lost her -breath. - -Anne bent over the daffodils to hide a smile. She and Gilbert had -laughed heartily and heartlessly over the front page of the _Journal_ -that day, but she knew that to dear Miss Cornelia it was almost a -tragedy, and she must not wound her feelings by any display of levity. - -"Isn't it dreadful? What IS to be done?" asked Miss Cornelia -despairingly. Miss Cornelia had vowed that she was done with worrying -over the pranks of the manse children, but she went on worrying just the -same. - -Anne led the way to the veranda, where Susan was knitting, with Shirley -and Rilla conning their primers on either side. Susan was already on -her second pair of stockings for Faith. Susan never worried over poor -humanity. She did what in her lay for its 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 stew over -something. I have never thought _I_ was, and so I go calmly along. Not -but what it has sometimes occurred to me that things might be run a -little better than they are. But it is not for us poor worms to nourish -such thoughts. They only make us uncomfortable and do not get us -anywhere." - -"I don't see that anything can be done--now--" said Anne, pulling out -a nice, cushiony chair for Miss Cornelia. "But how in the world did Mr. -Vickers allow that letter to be printed? Surely he should have known -better." - -"Why, he's away, Anne dearie--he's been away to New Brunswick for a -week. And that young scalawag of a Joe Vickers is editing the _Journal_ -in his absence. Of course, Mr. Vickers would never have put it in, even -if he is a Methodist, but Joe would just think it a good joke. As you -say, I don't suppose there is anything to be done now, only live it -down. But if I ever get Joe Vickers cornered somewhere I'll give him -a talking to he won't forget in a hurry. I wanted Marshall to stop our -subscription to the _Journal_ instantly, but he only laughed and said -that to-day's issue was the only one that had had anything readable in -it for a year. Marshall never will take anything seriously--just like a -man. Fortunately, Evan Boyd is like that, too. He takes it as a joke and -is laughing all over the place about it. And he's another Methodist! As -for Mrs. Burr of Upper Glen, of course she will be furious and they will -leave the church. 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 with the -lady in question and had been hugely tickled over the reference to her -in Faith's letter. "She will find that she will not be able to cheat the -Methodist parson out of HIS salary with bad yarn." - -"The worst of it is, there's not much hope of things getting any -better," said Miss Cornelia gloomily. "As long as Mr. Meredith was -going to see Rosemary West I did hope the manse would soon have a -proper mistress. But that is all off. I suppose she wouldn't have him on -account of the children--at least, everybody seems to think so." - -"I do not believe that he ever asked her," said Susan, who could not -conceive of any one refusing a minister. - -"Well, nobody knows anything about THAT. But one thing is certain, -he doesn't go there any longer. And Rosemary didn't look well all the -spring. I hope her visit to Kingsport will do her good. She's been gone -for a month and will stay another month, I understand. I can't remember -when Rosemary was away from home before. She and Ellen could never bear -to be parted. But I understand Ellen insisted on her going this time. -And meanwhile Ellen and Norman Douglas are warming up the old soup." - -"Is that really so?" asked Anne, laughing. "I heard a rumour of it, but -I hardly believed it." - -"Believe it! You may believe it all right, Anne, dearie. Nobody is in -ignorance of it. Norman Douglas never left anybody in doubt as to his -intentions in regard to anything. He always did his courting before the -public. He told Marshall that he hadn't thought about Ellen for years, -but the first time he went to church last fall he saw her and fell in -love with her all over again. He said he'd clean forgot how handsome -she was. He hadn't seen her for twenty years, if you can believe it. Of -course he never went to church, and Ellen never went anywhere else -round here. Oh, we all know what Norman means, but what Ellen means is a -different matter. I shan't take it upon me to predict whether it will be -a match or not." - -"He jilted her once--but it seems that does not count with some people, -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-blooded jilting. For my -part, I never detested Norman as some folks do. He could never over-crow -ME. I DO wonder what started him coming to church. I have never been -able to believe Mrs. Wilsons's story that Faith Meredith went there and -bullied him into it. I've always intended to ask Faith herself, but I've -never happened to think of it just when I saw her. What influence could -SHE have over Norman Douglas? He was in the store when I left, bellowing -with laughter over that scandalous letter. You could have heard him at -Four Winds Point. 'The greatest girl in the world,' he was shouting. -'She's that full of spunk she's bursting with it. And all the old -grannies want to tame her, darn them. But they'll never be able to do -it--never! They might as well try to drown a fish. Boyd, see that you -put more fertilizer on your potatoes next year. Ho, ho, ho!' And then he -laughed 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 thousand without -blinking a lash, and roar like a Bull of Bashan if he had to pay five -cents too much for anything. Besides, he likes Mr. Meredith's sermons, -and Norman Douglas was always willing to shell out if he got his brains -tickled up. There is no more Christianity about him than there is about -a black, naked heathen in Africa and never will be. But he's clever and -well read and he judges sermons as he would lectures. Anyhow, it's well -he backs up Mr. Meredith and the children as he does, for they'll need -friends more than ever after this. I am tired of making excuses for -them, believe ME." - -"Do you know, dear Miss Cornelia," said Anne seriously, "I think we have -all been making too many excuses. It is very foolish and we 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 in Susan's eye--"it would be -too unconventional, and we must be conventional or die, after we reach -what is supposed to be a dignified age. But I'd LIKE to do it. I'd like -to call a meeting of the Ladies Aid and W.M.S. and the Girls Sewing -Society, and include in the audience all and any Methodists who have -been criticizing the Merediths--although I do think if we Presbyterians -stopped criticizing and excusing we would find that other denominations -would trouble themselves very little about our manse folks. I would -say to them, 'Dear Christian friends'--with marked emphasis on -'Christian'--I have something to say to you and I want to say it good -and hard, that you may take it home and repeat it to your families. -You Methodists need not pity us, and we Presbyterians need not pity -ourselves. We are not going to do it any more. And we are going to say, -boldly and truthfully, to all critics and sympathizers, 'We are PROUD of -our minister and his family. Mr. Meredith is the best preacher Glen -St. Mary church ever had. Moreover, he is a sincere, earnest teacher of -truth and Christian charity. He is a faithful friend, a judicious pastor -in all essentials, and a refined, scholarly, well-bred man. His family -are worthy of him. Gerald Meredith is the cleverest pupil in the Glen -school, and Mr. Hazard says that he is destined to a brilliant career. -He is a manly, honourable, truthful little fellow. Faith Meredith is -a beauty, and as inspiring and original as she is beautiful. There -is nothing commonplace about her. All the other girls in the Glen put -together haven't the vim, and wit, and joyousness and 'spunk' she has. -She has not an enemy in the world. Every one who knows her loves her. -Of how many, children or grown-ups, can that be said? Una Meredith -is sweetness personified. She will make a most lovable woman. Carl -Meredith, with his love for ants and frogs and spiders, will some day -be a naturalist whom all Canada--nay, all the world, will delight to -honour. Do you know of any other family in the Glen, or out of it, of -whom all these things 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 her vehement -speech and partly because she could not trust herself to speak further -in view of Miss Cornelia's face. That good lady was staring helplessly -at Anne, apparently engulfed in billows of new ideas. But she came up -with a gasp and struck out for shore gallantly. - -"Anne Blythe, I wish you WOULD call that meeting and say just that! -You've made me ashamed of myself, for one, and far be it from me -to refuse to admit it. OF COURSE, that is how we should have -talked--especially to the Methodists. And it's every word of it -true--every word. We've just been shutting our eyes to the big -worth-while things and squinting them on the little things that don't -really matter a pin's worth. Oh, Anne dearie, I can see a thing when -it's hammered into my head. No more apologizing for Cornelia Marshall! -_I_ shall hold MY head up after this, believe ME--though I MAY talk -things over with you as usual just to relieve my feelings if the -Merediths do any more startling stunts. Even that letter I felt so bad -about--why, it's only a good joke after all, as Norman says. Not many -girls would have been cute enough to think of writing it--and all -punctuated so nicely and not one word misspelled. Just let me hear any -Methodist say one word about it--though all the same I'll never forgive -Joe Vickers--believe ME! Where are the rest of your small fry to-night?" - -"Walter and the twins are in Rainbow Valley. Jem is studying in the -garret." - -"They are all crazy about Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance thinks it's the -only place in the world. She'd be off up here every evening if 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 never thought I'd get so fond of -her. Not but what I see her faults and try to correct them. But she has -never said one saucy word to me since she came to my house and she is -a GREAT help--for when all is said and done, Anne dearie, I am not so -young as I once was, and there is no sense denying it. I was fifty-nine -my last birthday. I don't FEEL it, but there is no gainsaying the Family -Bible." - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. A SACRED CONCERT - -In spite of Miss Cornelia's new point of view she could not help feeling -a little disturbed over the next performance of the manse children. -In public she carried off the situation splendidly, saying to all the -gossips the substance of what Anne had said in daffodil time, and saying -it so pointedly and forcibly that her hearers found themselves feeling -rather foolish and began to think that, after all, they were making too -much of a childish prank. But in private Miss Cornelia allowed herself -the relief of bemoaning it to Anne. - -"Anne dearie, they had a CONCERT IN THE GRAVEYARD last Thursday evening, -while the Methodist prayer meeting was going on. There they sat, on -Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, and sang for a solid hour. Of course, -I understand it was mostly hymns they sang, and it 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 full length--and that just when Deacon -Baxter was praying." - -"I was there that night," said Susan, "and, although I did not say -anything about it to you, Mrs. Dr. dear, I could not help thinking that -it was a great pity they picked that particular evening. It was truly -blood-curdling to hear them sitting there in that abode of the dead, -shouting that frivolous song at the tops 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 Susan -stiffly. "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 disgraceful exhibition!' _I_ said, looking her -fairly in the eye, 'They are all beautiful singers, and none of YOUR -choir, Mrs. Baxter, ever bother themselves coming out to your prayer -meeting, it seems. Their voices appear to be in tune only on Sundays!' -She was quite meek and I felt that I had snubbed her properly. But I -could have done it much more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. dear, if only they -had left out _Polly Wolly Doodle_. It is truly terrible to think of that -being sung in a graveyard." - -"Some of those dead folks sang _Polly Wolly Doodle_ when they were -living, Susan. Perhaps they like to hear it yet," suggested Gilbert. - -Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully and made up her mind that, on -some future occasion, she would hint to Anne that the doctor should -be admonished not to say such things. They might injure his practice. -People might get it into their heads that he wasn't orthodox. To be -sure, Marshall said even worse things habitually, 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 it yesterday, when he called." - -"How could you dare, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?" asked Susan rebukingly. - -"Dare! It's time somebody dared something. Why, they say he knows -nothing about that letter of Faith's to the JOURNAL because nobody -liked to mention it to him. He never looks at a JOURNAL of course. But -I thought he ought to know of this to prevent any such performances -in future. He said he would 'discuss it with them.' But of course he'd -never think of it again after he got out of our gate. That man has no -sense of humour, Anne, believe ME. He preached last Sunday on 'How to -Bring up Children.' A beautiful 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 would soon -forget what she had told him. He went home much disturbed and when the -children came from Rainbow Valley that night, at a much later hour than -they should have been prowling in it, he called them into his study. - -They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an unusual thing for their -father to do. What could he be going to say to them? They racked their -memories for any recent transgression of sufficient importance, but -could not recall any. Carl had spilled a saucerful of jam on Mrs. -Peter Flagg's silk dress two evenings before, when, at Aunt Martha's -invitation, she had stayed to supper. But Mr. Meredith had not noticed -it, and Mrs. Flagg, who was a kindly soul, had made no fuss. Besides, -Carl had been punished by having to wear Una's dress all the rest of the -evening. - -Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father meant to tell them that he -was going to marry Miss West. Her heart began to beat violently and -her legs trembled. Then she saw that Mr. Meredith looked very stern and -sorrowful. No, it could not be that. - -"Children," said Mr. Meredith, "I have heard something that has pained -me very much. Is it true that you sat out in the graveyard all last -Thursday evening and sang ribald songs while a prayer meeting was being -held in the Methodist church?" - -"Great Caesar, Dad, we forgot all about it being their prayer meeting -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 sang hymns--it -was a sacred concert, you know. What harm was that? I tell you we never -thought about it's being Methodist prayer meeting night. They used to -have their meeting Tuesday nights and 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 wind up 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 Methodists themselves had a -sacred concert in their church three Sunday nights ago. I thought -it would be good fun to get one up in imitation of it. Only they had -prayers at theirs, and we left that part out, because we heard that -people thought it awful for us to pray in a graveyard. YOU were sitting -in here all the time," 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 why did you -sing that foolish song at the end?" - -"We didn't think," muttered Jerry, feeling that it was a very -lame excuse, seeing that he had lectured Faith so strongly in the -Good-Conduct Club sessions for her lack of thought. "We're sorry, -Father--truly, we are. Pitch into us hard--we deserve a regular combing -down." - -But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching into. He sat down and -gathered his small culprits close to him and talked a little to them, -tenderly and wisely. They were overcome with remorse and shame, and felt -that they could never be so silly and thoughtless again. - -"We've just got to punish ourselves good and hard for this," whispered -Jerry as they crept upstairs. "We'll have a session of the Club first -thing tomorrow and decide how we'll do it. I never saw father so cut up. -But I wish to goodness the Methodists would stick to one night for their -prayer meeting and not wander all over the week." - -"Anyhow, I'm glad it wasn't what I was afraid it was," murmured Una to -herself. - -Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had sat down at his desk and -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 morning before -school. After various suggestions, it was decided that a fast day would -be an appropriate punishment. - -"We won't eat a single thing for a whole day," said Jerry. "I'm kind of -curious to see what fasting is like, anyhow. This will be a good chance -to find out." - -"What day will we choose for it?" asked Una, who thought it would be -quite an easy punishment and rather wondered that Jerry and Faith had -not devised something harder. - -"Let's pick Monday," said Faith. "We mostly have a pretty FILLING dinner -on Sundays, and Mondays meals never amount to much anyhow." - -"But that's just the point," exclaimed Jerry. "We mustn't take the -easiest day to fast, but the hardest--and that's Sunday, because, as -you say, we mostly have roast beef that day instead of cold ditto. It -wouldn't be much punishment to fast from ditto. Let's take next Sunday. -It will be a good day, for father is going to exchange for the morning -service with the Upper Lowbridge minister. Father will be away till -evening. If Aunt Martha wonders what's got into us, we'll tell her right -up that we're fasting for the good of our souls, and it is in the Bible -and she is not to interfere, and I guess she won't." - -Aunt Martha did not. She merely said in her fretful mumbling way, "What -foolishness are you young rips up to now?" and thought no more about it. -Mr. Meredith had gone away early in the morning before any one was up. -He went without his breakfast, too, but that was, of course, of common -occurrence. Half of the time 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 great deprivation -to abstain from the "lumpy porridge and blue milk" which had aroused -the scorn of Mary Vance. But it was different at dinner time. They were -furiously hungry then, and the odor of roast beef which pervaded the -manse, and which was wholly delightful in spite of the fact that the -roast beef was badly underdone, was almost more than they could stand. -In desperation they rushed to the graveyard where they couldn't smell -it. But Una could not keep her eyes from the dining room window, through -which the Upper Lowbridge minister could be seen, placidly eating. - -"If I could only have just a weeny, teeny piece," she sighed. - -"Now, you stop that," commanded Jerry. "Of course it's hard--but that's -the punishment of it. I could eat a graven image this very minute, 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 they had -suffered earlier in the day. - -"I suppose we're getting used to it," said Faith. "I feel an awfully -queer all-gone sort of feeling, but I can't say I'm hungry." - -"My head is funny," said Una. "It goes round and round sometimes." - -But she went gamely to church with the others. If Mr. Meredith had not -been so wholly wrapped up in and carried away with his subject he might -have noticed the pale little face and hollow eyes in the manse pew -beneath. But he noticed nothing and his sermon was something longer -than usual. Then, just before he gave out the final hymn, Una Meredith -tumbled off the seat of the manse pew and lay in a dead faint on the -floor. - -Mrs. Elder Clow was the first to reach her. She caught the thin little -body from the arms of white-faced, terrified Faith and carried it into -the vestry. Mr. Meredith forgot the hymn and everything else and rushed -madly after her. The congregation dismissed itself as best it could. - -"Oh, Mrs. Clow," gasped Faith, "is Una dead? Have we killed her?" - -"What is the matter with my child?" demanded the pale father. - -"She has just fainted, I think," said Mrs. Clow. "Oh, here's the doctor, -thank goodness." - -Gilbert did not find it a very easy thing to bring Una back to -consciousness. He worked over her for a long time before her eyes -opened. Then he carried her over to the manse, followed by Faith, -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 the graveyard," -said Faith. - -"My child, I don't want you to punish yourselves for that," said Mr. -Meredith in distress. "I gave you your little scolding--and you were all -penitent--and I forgave you." - -"Yes, but we had to be punished," explained Faith. "It's our rule--in -our Good-Conduct Club, you know--if we do anything wrong, or anything -that is likely to hurt father in the congregation, we HAVE to punish -ourselves. We are bringing ourselves up, you know, because there is -nobody to do it." - -Mr. Meredith groaned, but the doctor got up from Una's side with an air -of relief. - -"Then this child simply fainted from lack of food and all she needs is -a good square meal," he said. "Mrs. Clow, will you be kind enough to see -she gets it? And I think from Faith's story that they all would be the -better for something to eat, or we shall have more faintings." - -"I suppose we shouldn't have made Una fast," said Faith remorsefully. -"When I think of it, only Jerry and I should have been punished. WE got -up the concert and we were the oldest." - -"I sang _Polly Wolly_ just the same as the rest of you," said Una's weak -little voice, "so I had to be punished, too." - -Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith and Jerry and Carl sneaked -off to the pantry, and John Meredith went into his study, where he sat -in the darkness for a long time, alone with his bitter thoughts. So his -children were bringing themselves up because there was "nobody to do -it"--struggling along amid their little perplexities without a hand to -guide or a voice to counsel. Faith's innocently uttered phrase rankled -in her father's mind like a barbed shaft. There was "nobody" to look -after them--to comfort their little souls and care for their little -bodies. How frail Una had looked, lying there on the vestry sofa in that -long faint! How thin were her tiny hands, how pallid her little face! -She looked as if she might slip away from him in a breath--sweet little -Una, of whom Cecilia had begged him to take such special care. Since his -wife's death he had not felt such an agony of dread as when he had hung -over his little girl in her unconsciousness. He must do something--but -what? Should he ask Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? She was a good -woman--she would be kind to his children. He might bring himself to -do it if it were not for his love for Rosemary West. But until he had -crushed that out he could not seek another woman in marriage. And he -could not crush it out--he had tried and he could not. Rosemary had -been in church that evening, for the first time since her return from -Kingsport. He had caught a glimpse of her face in the back of the -crowded church, just as he had finished his sermon. His heart had given -a fierce throb. He sat while the choir sang the "collection piece," with -his bent head and tingling pulses. He had not seen her since the evening -upon which he had asked her to marry him. When he had risen to give out -the hymn his hands were trembling and his pale face was flushed. Then -Una's fainting spell had banished everything from his mind for a time. -Now, in the darkness and solitude of the study it rushed back. Rosemary -was the only woman in the world for him. It was of no use for him to -think of marrying any other. He could not commit such a sacrilege even -for his children's sake. He must take up his burden alone--he must try -to be a better, a more watchful father--he must tell his children not 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 was setting the theological -world by the ears. He would read just one chapter to compose his mind. -Five minutes later he was lost to the world and the troubles of the -world. - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. A WEIRD TALE - -On an early June evening Rainbow Valley was an entirely delightful place -and the children felt it to be so, as they sat in the open glade where -the bells rang elfishly on the Tree Lovers, and the White Lady shook -her green tresses. The wind was laughing and whistling about them like -a leal, glad-hearted comrade. The young ferns were spicy in the hollow. -The wild cherry trees scattered over the valley, among the dark firs, -were mistily white. The robins were whistling over in the maples behind -Ingleside. Beyond, on the slopes of the Glen, were blossoming orchards, -sweet and mystic and wonderful, veiled in dusk. It was spring, and young -things MUST be glad in spring. Everybody was glad in Rainbow Valley -that evening--until Mary Vance froze their blood with the story of Henry -Warren's ghost. - -Jem was not there. Jem spent his evenings now studying for his entrance -examination in the Ingleside garret. Jerry was down near the pond, -trouting. Walter had been reading Longfellow's sea poems to the others -and they were steeped in the beauty and mystery of the ships. Then they -talked of what they would do when they were grown up--where they would -travel--the far, fair shores they would see. Nan and Di meant to go to -Europe. Walter longed for the Nile moaning past its Egyptian sands, and -a glimpse of the sphinx. Faith opined rather dismally that she supposed -she would have to be a missionary--old Mrs. Taylor told her she ought -to be--and then she would at least see India or China, those mysterious -lands of the Orient. Carl's heart was set on African jungles. Una -said nothing. She thought she would just like to stay at home. It was -prettier here than anywhere else. It would be dreadful when they were -all grown up and had to scatter over the world. The very idea made Una -feel lonesome and homesick. But the others dreamed on delightedly until -Mary Vance arrived and vanished poesy and dreams at one fell swoop. - -"Laws, but I'm out of puff," she exclaimed. "I've run down that hill -like sixty. I got an awful scare up there at the old Bailey place." - -"What frightened you?" asked Di. - -"I dunno. I was poking about under them lilacs in the old garden, trying -to see if there was any lilies-of-the-valley out yet. It was dark as -a pocket there--and all at once I seen something stirring and rustling -round at the other side of the garden, in those cherry bushes. It was -WHITE. I tell you I didn't stop for a second look. I flew over the dyke -quicker than quick. 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 the Glen. -Well, wait a minute till I get by breath all back and I'll tell you." - -Walter shivered delightsomely. He loved ghost stories. Their mystery, -their dramatic climaxes, their eeriness gave him a fearful, exquisite -pleasure. Longfellow instantly grew tame and commonplace. He threw the -book aside and stretched himself out, propped upon his elbows to listen -whole-heartedly, fixing his great luminous eyes on Mary's face. Mary -wished he wouldn't look at her so. She felt she could make a better job -of the ghost story if Walter were not looking at her. She could put on -several frills and invent a few artistic details to enhance the horror. -As it was, she had to stick to the bare truth--or what had been told her -for the truth. - -"Well," she began, "you know old Tom Bailey and his wife used to live in -that house up there thirty years ago. He was an awful old rip, they say, -and his wife wasn't much better. They'd no children of their own, but a -sister of old Tom's died and left a little boy--this Henry Warren--and -they took him. He was about twelve when he came to them, and kind of -undersized and delicate. They say Tom and his wife used him awful from -the start--whipped him and starved him. Folks said they wanted him to -die so's they could 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 about eighteen. -His uncle used to thrash him in that garden up there 'cause it was back -of the house where no one could see him. But folks could hear, and they -say it was awful sometimes hearing poor Henry plead with his uncle -not to kill him. But nobody dared interfere 'cause old Tom was such a -reprobate he'd have been sure to get square with 'em some way. He burned -the barns of a man at Harbour Head who offended him. At last Henry died -and his uncle and aunt give out he died in one of his fits and that was -all anybody ever knowed, but everybody said Tom had just up and killed -him for keeps at last. And it wasn't long till it got around that Henry -WALKED. That old garden was HA'NTED. He was heard there at nights, -moaning and crying. Old Tom and his wife got out--went out West and -never came back. The place got such a bad name nobody'd buy or rent it. -That's why it's all gone to ruin. That was thirty years ago, but Henry -Warren's ghost 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 by the legs and -gibbers and moans like he did when he was alive. I thought of that as -soon as I seen that white thing in the bushes and thought if it caught -me like that and moaned I'd drop down dead on the spot. So I cut and -run. It MIGHTN'T have been his ghost, but I wasn't going to take any -chances with a ha'nt." - -"It was likely old Mrs. Stimson's white calf," laughed Di. "It pastures -in that garden--I've seen it." - -"Maybe so. But I'M not going home through the Bailey garden any more. -Here's Jerry with a big string of trout and it's my turn to cook them. -Jem and Jerry both say I'm the best cook in the Glen. And Cornelia told -me I could bring up this batch of cookies. I all but dropped them when I -saw Henry's ghost." - -Jerry hooted when he heard the ghost story--which Mary repeated as she -fried the fish, touching it up a trifle or so, since Walter had gone to -help Faith to set the table. It made no impression on Jerry, but Faith -and Una and Carl had been secretly much frightened, though they would -never have given in to it. It was 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 with remembrance. Jerry went up to Ingleside with the -Blythes to see Jem 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 a wide 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 hold which the -story of Henry Warren's ghost had taken upon their imaginations. They -had never believed in ghosts. Ghost tales they had heard a-plenty--Mary -Vance had told some far more blood-curdling than this; but those tales -were all of places and people and spooks far away and unknown. After the -first half-awful, half-pleasant thrill of awe and terror they thought -of them no more. But this story came home to them. The old Bailey garden -was almost at their very door--almost in their beloved Rainbow Valley. -They had passed and repassed it constantly; they had hunted for flowers -in it; they had made short cuts through it when they wished to go -straight from the village to the valley. But never again! After the -night when Mary Vance told them its gruesome tale they would not have -gone through or near it on pain of death. Death! What was death compared -to the unearthly possibility of falling into the clutches of Henry -Warren's grovelling ghost? - -One warm July evening the three of them were sitting under the Tree -Lovers, feeling a little lonely. Nobody else had come near the valley -that evening. Jem Blythe was away in Charlottetown, writing on his -entrance examinations. Jerry and Walter Blythe were off for a sail on -the harbour with old Captain Crawford. Nan and Di and Rilla and Shirley -had gone down the harbour road to visit Kenneth and Persis Ford, who had -come with their parents for a flying visit to the little old House of -Dreams. Nan had asked Faith to go with them, but Faith had declined. She -would never have admitted it, but she felt a little secret jealousy of -Persis Ford, concerning whose wonderful beauty and city glamour she -had heard a great deal. No, she wasn't going to go down there and play -second fiddle to anybody. She and Una took their story books to Rainbow -Valley and read, while Carl investigated bugs along the banks of the -brook, and all three were happy until they suddenly realized that it was -twilight and that the old Bailey garden was uncomfortably near by. Carl -came and sat down close to the girls. They all wished they had gone home -a little sooner, but nobody said anything. - -Great, velvety, purple clouds heaped up in the west and spread over -the valley. There was no wind and everything was suddenly, strangely, -dreadfully still. The marsh was full of thousands of fire-flies. Surely -some fairy parliament was being convened that night. Altogether, Rainbow -Valley was not a canny place just then. - -Faith looked fearfully up the valley to the old Bailey garden. Then, -if anybody's blood ever did freeze, Faith Meredith's certainly froze at -that moment. The eyes of Carl and Una followed her entranced gaze and -chills began gallopading up and down their spines also. For there, under -the big tamarack tree on the tumble-down, grass-grown dyke of the Bailey -garden, was something white--shapelessly white in the gathering gloom. -The three 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 and lips 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 creeping down over -the dyke, as no calf ever did or could creep. Reason fled before sudden, -over-mastering panic. For the moment every one of the trio was firmly -convinced that what they saw was Henry Warren's ghost. Carl sprang -to his feet and bolted blindly. With a simultaneous shriek the girls -followed him. Like mad creatures they tore up the hill, across the road -and into the manse. They had left Aunt Martha sewing in the kitchen. She -was not there. They rushed to the study. It was dark and tenantless. -As with one impulse, they swung around and made for Ingleside--but not -across Rainbow Valley. Down the hill and through the Glen street they -flew on the wings of their wild terror, Carl in the lead, Una bringing -up the rear. Nobody tried to stop them, though everybody who saw them -wondered what fresh devilment those manse youngsters were up to now. But -at the gate of Ingleside they ran into Rosemary West, who had just been -in for a moment to return some borrowed books. - -She saw their ghastly faces and staring eyes. She realized that their -poor little souls were wrung with some awful and real fear, whatever -its cause. She caught Carl with one arm and Faith with the other. Una -stumbled against her and held on desperately. - -"Children, dear, what has happened?" she said. "What has frightened -you?" - -"Henry Warren's ghost," answered Carl, through his chattering teeth. - -"Henry--Warren's--ghost!" said amazed Rosemary, who had never heard the -story. - -"Yes," sobbed Faith hysterically. "It's there--on the Bailey dyke--we -saw it--and it started to--chase us." - -Rosemary herded the three distracted creatures to the Ingleside veranda. -Gilbert and Anne were both away, having also gone to the House of -Dreams, but Susan appeared in the doorway, gaunt and practical and -unghostlike. - -"What is all this rumpus about?" she inquired. - -Again the children gasped out their awful tale, while Rosemary held 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's -intelligence after that! - -"It was bigger than a million owls," said Carl, sobbing--oh, how ashamed -Carl was of that sobbing in after days--"and it--it GROVELLED just as -Mary said--and it was crawling down over the dyke 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, calm yourselves. -Whatever you have seen, it was not a ghost. As for poor Henry Warren, -I feel sure he would be only too glad to rest quietly in his peaceful -grave once he got there. No fear of HIM venturing back, and that you may -tie to. If you can make them see reason, Miss West, I will find out the -truth of the matter." - -Susan departed for Rainbow Valley, valiantly grasping a pitchfork which -she found leaning against the back fence where the doctor had been -working in his little hay-field. A pitchfork might not be of much use -against "ha'nts," but it was a comforting sort of weapon. There was -nothing to be seen in Rainbow Valley when Susan reached it. No white -visitants appeared to be lurking in the shadowy, tangled old Bailey -garden. Susan marched boldly through it and beyond it, and rapped with -her pitchfork on the door of the little cottage on the other side, where -Mrs. Stimson lived 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 to feel a -lurking and salutary suspicion that they had made dreadful geese -of themselves. This suspicion became a certainty when Susan finally -returned. - -"I have found out what your ghost was," she said, with a grim smile, -sitting down on a rocker and fanning herself. "Old Mrs. Stimson has had -a pair of factory cotton sheets bleaching in the Bailey garden for a -week. She spread them on the dyke under the tamarack tree because the -grass was clean and short there. This evening she went out to take them -in. She had her knitting in her hands so she hung the sheets over her -shoulders by way of carrying them. And then she must have dropped one of -her needles and find it she could not and has not yet. But she went down -on her knees and crept about to hunt for it, and she was at that when -she heard awful yells down in the valley and saw the three children -tearing up the hill past her. She thought they had been bit by something -and it gave her poor old heart such a turn that she could not move or -speak, but just crouched there till they disappeared. Then she staggered -back home and they have been applying stimulants to her ever since, and -her heart is in a terrible condition and she says she will not get over -this fright all summer." - -The Merediths sat, crimson with a shame that even Rosemary's -understanding sympathy could not remove. They sneaked off home, met -Jerry at the manse gate and made remorseful confession. A session 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 so much 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 help being -frightened. And it won't do father any harm. It was just an accident." - -"You were cowards," said Jerry with judicial scorn, "and you gave way to -your cowardice. That is why you should be punished. Everybody will laugh -at you about this, and that is a disgrace to the family." - -"If you knew how awful the whole thing was," said Faith with a shiver, -"you would think we had been punished enough already. I wouldn't go -through it again for anything in the whole world." - -"I believe you'd have run yourself if you'd been there," muttered Carl. - -"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 was just a -great, big, white thing crawling about in the grass just as Mary Vance -said Henry Warren did. It's all very fine for you to laugh, Jerry -Meredith, but you'd have laughed on the other side of your mouth if -you'd been there. And how are we to be punished? _I_ don't think it's -fair, but let's know what we have to do, Judge Meredith!" - -"The way I look at it," said Jerry, frowning, "is that Carl was the most -to blame. He bolted first, as I understand it. Besides, he was a boy, -so he should have stood his ground to protect 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 sit on -Mr. Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the graveyard alone, until twelve -o'clock." - -Carl gave a little shudder. The graveyard was not so very far from the -old Bailey garden. It would be a trying ordeal, but Carl was anxious to -wipe out his disgrace and prove that he was not a coward after all. - -"All right," he said sturdily. "But how'll I know when it is twelve?" - -"The study windows are open and you'll hear the clock striking. And -mind you that you are not to budge out of that graveyard until the last -stroke. As for you girls, you've got to go without jam at supper for a -week." - -Faith and Una looked rather blank. They were inclined to think that even -Carl's comparatively short though sharp agony was lighter punishment -than this long drawn-out ordeal. A whole week of soggy bread without -the saving grace of jam! But no shirking was permitted in the club. The -girls accepted their lot with such philosophy as they could summon up. - -That night they all went to bed at nine, except Carl, who was already -keeping vigil on the tombstone. Una slipped in to bid him 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 get lonesome -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 boy when -the lights went out in the manse. He had hoped his father would be in -the study as he so often was. He would not feel alone then. But that -night Mr. Meredith had been summoned to the fishing village at the -harbour mouth to see a dying man. He would not likely be back until -after midnight. Carl must dree his weird alone. - -A Glen man went past carrying a lantern. The mysterious shadows caused -by the lantern-light went hurtling madly over the graveyard like a dance -of demons or witches. Then they passed and darkness fell again. One by -one the lights in the Glen went out. It was a very dark night, with a -cloudy sky, and a raw east wind that was cold in spite of the calendar. -Far away on the horizon was the low dim lustre of the Charlottetown -lights. The wind wailed and sighed in the old fir-trees. Mr. Alec Davis' -tall monument gleamed whitely through the gloom. The willow beside it -tossed long, writhing arms spectrally. At times, the gyrations of its -boughs made it seem as if the monument were moving, too. - -Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his legs tucked under him. -It wasn't precisely pleasant to hang them over the edge of the stone. -Just suppose--just suppose--bony hands should reach up out of Mr. -Pollock's grave under it and clutch him by the ankles. That had been one -of Mary Vance's cheerful speculations one time when they had all been -sitting there. It returned to haunt Carl now. He didn't believe those -things; he didn't even really believe in Henry Warren's ghost. As for -Mr. Pollock, he had been dead sixty years, so it wasn't likely he cared -who sat on his tombstone now. But there is something very strange and -terrible in being awake when all the rest of the world is asleep. You -are alone then with nothing but your own feeble personality to pit -against the mighty principalities and powers of darkness. Carl was only -ten and the dead were all around him--and he wished, oh, he wished that -the clock would strike twelve. Would it NEVER strike twelve? Surely Aunt -Martha must have forgotten to wind it. - -And then it struck eleven--only eleven! He must stay yet another hour in -that grim place. If only there were a few friendly stars to be seen! The -darkness was so thick it seemed to press against his face. There was -a sound as of stealthy passing footsteps all over the graveyard. Carl -shivered, partly with prickling terror, partly with real cold. - -Then it began to rain--a chill, penetrating drizzle. Carl's thin little -cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet through. He felt chilled to the -bone. He forgot mental terrors in his physical discomfort. But he must -stay there till twelve--he was punishing himself and he was on his -honour. Nothing had been said about rain--but it did not make any -difference. When the study clock finally struck twelve a drenched little -figure crept stiffly down off Mr. Pollock's tombstone, made its way into -the manse and upstairs to bed. Carl's teeth were chattering. He thought -he would never get warm again. - -He was warm enough when morning came. Jerry gave one startled look at -his crimson face and then rushed to call his father. Mr. Meredith came -hurriedly, his own face ivory white from the pallor of his long night -vigil by a death bed. He had not got home until 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. Blythe was -at the manse. Half an hour later a wire was sent to town for a trained -nurse, and all the Glen knew that Carl Meredith was very ill with -pneumonia and that Dr. Blythe had been seen to shake his head. - -Gilbert shook his head more than once in the fortnight that followed. -Carl developed double pneumonia. There was one night when Mr. Meredith -paced his study floor, and Faith and Una huddled 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 fought death gallantly until the red dawn and they won -the victory. Carl rallied and passed the crisis in safety. The news was -phoned about the waiting Glen and people found out how much they really -loved their minister and his children. - -"I haven't had one decent night's sleep since I heard the child was -sick," Miss Cornelia told Anne, "and Mary Vance has cried until those -queer eyes of hers looked like burnt holes in a blanket. Is it true that -Carl got pneumonia from straying out in the graveyard that wet night for -a dare?" - -"No. He was staying there to punish himself for cowardice in that affair -of the Warren ghost. It seems they have a club for bringing themselves -up, and they punish themselves when they do wrong. Jerry told Mr. -Meredith all about it." - -"The poor little souls," said Miss Cornelia. - -Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took enough nourishing -things to the manse to furnish forth a hospital. Norman Douglas drove -up every evening with a dozen fresh eggs and a jar of Jersey cream. -Sometimes he stayed an hour and bellowed arguments 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 a special -feast in his honour and the doctor came down and helped them with the -fireworks. Mary Vance was there, too, but she did not tell any ghost -stories. Miss Cornelia had given her a talking 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 not been there all -summer; the beautiful little spot had no longer any allurement for -her. The spirit of her young lover never came to the tryst now; and the -memories connected with John Meredith were too painful and poignant. But -she had happened to glance backward up the valley and had seen Norman -Douglas vaulting as airily as a stripling over the old stone dyke of the -Bailey garden and thought he was on his way up the hill. If he overtook -her she would have to walk home with him and she was not going to do -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 of her. He -had been wanting for some time to have talk with Rosemary, 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 always antagonized her. Long ago she had often wondered -how Ellen could possibly be attracted to him. Norman Douglas was -perfectly aware of her dislike and he chuckled over it. It never worried -Norman if people did not like him. It did not even make him dislike them -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 her brother-in-law he had -to have a talk with her, so, having seen her 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 John Meredith -had been sitting on that evening nearly a year ago. The tiny spring -shimmered and dimpled under its fringe of ferns. Ruby-red gleams of -sunset fell through the arching boughs. A tall clump of perfect asters -grew at her side. The little spot was as dreamy and witching and evasive -as any retreat of fairies and dryads in ancient forests. Into it Norman -Douglas bounced, scattering and annihilating its charm in a moment. His -personality seemed to swallow the place up. There was simply nothing -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 have a talk -with you. Bless the girl, what's she looking at me like that for? I -don't want to eat you--I've had my supper. Sit down and be civil." - -"I can hear what you have to say quite as well here," said Rosemary. - -"So you can, girl, if you use your ears. I only wanted you to be -comfortable. You look so durned uncomfortable, standing there. Well, -I'LL sit anyway." - -Norman accordingly sat down in the very place John Meredith had once -sat. The contrast was so ludicrous that Rosemary was afraid she would -go off into a peal of hysterical laughter over it. Norman cast his hat -aside, placed his huge, red hands on his knees, and looked up at her -with his eyes a-twinkle. - -"Come, girl, don't be so stiff," he said, ingratiatingly. When he liked -he could be very ingratiating. "Let's have a reasonable, sensible, -friendly chat. There's something I want to ask 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 shrunk to 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 Rosemary scornfully. - -"You know as well as I do, girl. Don't be putting on your tragedy airs. -No wonder Ellen was scared to ask you. Look here, girl, Ellen and I want -to marry each other. That's plain English, isn't it? Got that? And Ellen -says she can't unless you give her back some tom-fool promise she made. -Come now, will you 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 it would 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 live with us. We shan't leave -you to roost on that hill-top like a lonely 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'll have some spice in it after this. Ellen will -roast me and you'll freeze me. I won't have a dull moment." - -Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that nothing would ever induce -her to live in his house. She let him go striding back to the Glen, -oozing delight and complacency, and she walked slowly up the hill -home. She had known this was coming ever since she had returned from -Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas established as a frequent evening -caller. His name was never mentioned between her and Ellen, but the very -avoidance of it was significant. It was not in Rosemary's nature to -feel bitter, or she would have felt very bitter. She was coldly civil to -Norman, and she made no difference in any way with Ellen. But Ellen had -not found much comfort in her second courtship. - -She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary came home. -The two sisters met in the dahlia walk. St. George sat down on the -gravel walk between them and folded his glossy black tail gracefully -around his white paws, with all the indifference of a well-fed, -well-bred, well-groomed cat. - -"Did you ever see such dahlias?" demanded Ellen proudly. "They are just -the finest we've ever had." - -Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their presence in the garden was -her concession to Ellen's taste. She noticed one huge mottled one of -crimson and yellow that lorded it over all the others. - -"That dahlia," she said, pointing to it, "is exactly like Norman -Douglas. It might easily be his twin brother." - -Ellen's dark-browed face flushed. She admired the dahlia in question, -but she knew Rosemary did not, and that no compliment was intended. -But she dared not resent Rosemary's speech--poor Ellen dared not -resent anything just then. And it was the first time Rosemary had ever -mentioned Norman's name to her. She felt that this portended something. - -"I met Norman Douglas in the valley," said Rosemary, looking straight at -her sister, "and he told me you and he wanted to be married--if I would -give you permission." - -"Yes? What did you say?" asked Ellen, trying to speak naturally and -off-handedly, and failing completely. She could not meet Rosemary's -eyes. She looked down at St. George's sleek back and felt horribly -afraid. Rosemary had either said she would or she wouldn't. If she would -Ellen would feel so ashamed and remorseful that she would be a very -uncomfortable bride-elect; and if she wouldn't--well, Ellen had once -learned to live without Norman Douglas, but she had forgotten the lesson -and felt that she could never learn it again. - -"I said that as far as I was concerned you were at full liberty to 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--I don't -deserve it--after all I said to you--" - -"We won't speak about that," said Rosemary hurriedly and decidedly. - -"But--but," persisted Ellen, "you are free now, too--and it's not too -late--John Meredith--" - -"Ellen West!" Rosemary had a little spark of temper under all her -sweetness and it flashed forth now in her blue eyes. "Have you quite -lost your senses in EVERY respect? Do you suppose for an instant that -_I_ am going to go to John Meredith and say meekly, 'Please, sir, I've -changed my mind and please, sir, I hope you haven't changed yours.' Is -that what you want me to do?" - -"No--no--but a little--encouragement--he would come back--" - -"Never. He despises me--and rightly. No more of this, Ellen. I bear you -no grudge--marry whom you like. But no meddling in my affairs." - -"Then you must come and live with me," said Ellen. "I shall not leave -you here alone." - -"Do you really think that I would go and live in Norman Douglas's -house?" - -"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 doing it?" - -"I don't see why you wouldn't. His house is big enough--you'd have your -share of it to yourself--he wouldn't interfere." - -"Ellen, the thing is not to be thought of. Don't bring this up again." - -"Then," said Ellen coldly, and determinedly, "I shall not marry him. I -shall not leave you here alone. That is all there is to be said about -it." - -"Nonsense, Ellen." - -"It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision. It would be absurd for you -to think of living here by yourself--a mile from any other 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 have asked -you to give me back my promise--never--but I had to tell Norman why I -couldn't marry him and he said HE would ask you. I couldn't prevent him. -You need not suppose you are the only person in the world who possesses -self-respect. I never dreamed of marrying and leaving you here alone. -And you'll find I can be as determined as yourself." - -Rosemary turned away and went into the house, with a shrug of her -shoulders. Ellen looked down at St. George, who had never blinked an -eyelash or stirred a whisker during the whole interview. - -"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 right here, George--torn our -happy old life completely up by the roots, Saint. John Meredith began it -and Norman Douglas has finished it. And now both of them have to go into -limbo. Norman is the only man I ever met who agrees with me that -the Kaiser of Germany is the most dangerous creature alive on this -earth--and I can't marry this sensible person because my sister is -stubborn and I'm stubborner. Mark my words, St. George, the minister -would come back 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 dare -meddle, Saint. I won't sulk, George; Rosemary didn't sulk, so I'm -determined I won't either, Saint; Norman will tear up the turf, but the -long and short of it is, St. George, that all of us old fools must just -stop thinking of marrying. Well, well, 'despair is a free man, hope is -a slave,' Saint. So now come into the house, George, and I'll solace you -with a saucerful of cream. Then there will be one happy and contented -creature on this hill at least." - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. CARL IS--NOT--WHIPPED - -"There is something I think I ought to tell you," said Mary Vance -mysteriously. - -She and Faith and Una were walking arm in arm through the village, -having foregathered at Mr. Flagg's store. Una and Faith exchanged looks -which said, "NOW something disagreeable is coming." When Mary Vance -thought she ought to tell them things there was seldom much pleasure in -the hearing. They often wondered why they kept on liking Mary Vance--for -like her they did, in spite of everything. To be sure, she was generally -a stimulating and agreeable companion. If only she would not have those -convictions that it was her duty to tell them things! - -"Do you know that Rosemary West won't marry your pa because she thinks -you are such a wild lot? She's afraid she couldn't bring you up right -and so she turned him down." - -Una's heart thrilled with secret exultation. She was very glad to -hear that Miss West would not marry her father. But Faith was rather -disappointed. - -"How do you know?" she asked. - -"Oh, everybody's saying it. I heard Mrs. Elliott talking it over with -Mrs. Doctor. They thought I was too far away to hear, but I've got ears -like a cat's. Mrs. Elliott said she hadn't a doubt that Rosemary was -afraid to try stepmothering you because you'd got such a reputation. -Your pa never goes up the hill now. Neither does Norman Douglas. Folks -say Ellen has jilted him just to get square with him for jilting her -ages ago. But Norman is going about declaring he'll get her yet. And -I think you ought to 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 -West would 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 awful cranky, I -know. But Rosemary West couldn't be very mean to any one. I tell you if -your pa turns round and marries Emmeline Drew you'll wish you'd behaved -yourselves better and not frightened Rosemary out of it. It's awful that -you've got such a reputation that no decent woman'll marry your pa on -account of you. Of course, _I_ know that half the yarns that are told -about you ain't true. But give a dog a bad name. Why, some folks are -saying that it was Jerry and Carl that threw the stones through Mrs. -Stimson's window the other night when it was really them two Boyd boys. -But I'm afraid it was Carl that put the eel in old Mrs. Carr's buggy, -though I said at first I wouldn't believe it until 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 people say--so -there's no use in your blaming me for it--that Carl and a lot of other -boys were fishing eels over the bridge one evening last week. Mrs. Carr -drove past in that old rattletrap buggy of hers with the open back. And -Carl he just up and threw a big eel into the back. When poor old Mrs. -Carr was driving up the hill by Ingleside that eel came squirming out -between her feet. She thought it was a snake and she just give one awful -screech and stood up and jumped clean over the wheels. The horse bolted, -but it went home and no damage was done. But Mrs. Carr jarred her legs -most terrible, and has had nervous spasms ever since whenever she thinks -of the eel. Say, it was a rotten trick to play on the poor old soul. -She's a decent body, if she is as queer as Dick's hat band." - -Faith and Una looked at each other again. This was a matter for the -Good-Conduct Club. They would not talk it over with Mary. - -"There goes your pa," said Mary as Mr. Meredith passed them, "and never -seeing us no more'n if we weren't here. Well, I'm getting so's I don't -mind it. But there are folks who do." - -Mr. Meredith had not seen them, but he was not walking along in his -usual dreamy and abstracted fashion. He strode up the hill in agitation -and distress. Mrs. Alec Davis had just told him the story of Carl and -the eel. She had been very indignant about it. Old Mrs. Carr was her -third cousin. Mr. Meredith was more than indignant. He was hurt and -shocked. He had not thought Carl would do anything like this. He was not -inclined to be hard on pranks of heedlessness or forgetfulness, but -THIS was different. THIS had a nasty tang in it. When he reached home he -found Carl on the lawn, patiently studying the habits and customs of a -colony of wasps. Calling him into the study Mr. Meredith confronted him, -with a sterner face than any of his children had ever seen before, and -asked him if the story were true. - -"Yes," said Carl, flushing, but meeting his father's eyes bravely. - -Mr. Meredith groaned. He had hoped that there had been at least -exaggeration. - -"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--the biggest eel I ever -saw. He caught it right at the start and it had been lying in his basket -a long time, still as still. I thought it was dead, honest I did. Then -old Mrs. Carr drove over the bridge and she called us all young varmints -and told us to go home. And we hadn't said a word to her, father, truly. -So when she drove back again, after going to the store, the boys dared -me to put Link's eel in her buggy. I thought it was so dead it couldn't -hurt her and I threw it in. Then the eel came to life on the hill and -we heard her scream and saw her jump out. I was awful sorry. That's all, -father." - -It was not quite as bad as Mr. Meredith had feared, but it was quite bad -enough. "I must punish you, Carl," he said sorrowfully. - -"Yes, I know, father." - -"I--I must whip you." - -Carl winced. He had never been whipped. Then, seeing how badly his -father felt, he said cheerfully, - -"All right, father." - -Mr. Meredith misunderstood his cheerfulness and thought him insensible. -He told Carl to come to the study after supper, and when the boy had -gone out he flung himself into his chair and groaned again. He dreaded -the evening sevenfold more than Carl did. The poor minister did not even -know what he should whip his boy with. What was used to whip boys? Rods? -Canes? No, that would be too brutal. A timber switch, then? And he, John -Meredith, must hie him to the woods and cut one. It was an abominable -thought. Then a picture presented itself unbidden to his mind. He saw -Mrs. Carr's wizened, nut-cracker little face at the appearance of that -reviving eel--he saw her sailing witch-like over the buggy wheels. -Before he could prevent himself the minister laughed. Then he was angry -with himself and angrier still with Carl. He would get that switch at -once--and it must not be too limber, after all. - -Carl was talking the matter over in the graveyard with Faith and Una, -who had just come home. They were horrified at the idea of his being -whipped--and by father, who had never done such a thing! But they agreed -soberly that it was just. - -"You know it was a dreadful thing to do," sighed Faith. "And you never -owned up in the club." - -"I forgot," said Carl. "Besides, I didn't think any harm came of it. -I didn't know she jarred her legs. But I'm to be whipped and that will -make things square." - -"Will it hurt--very much?" said Una, slipping her hand into Carl's. - -"Oh, not so much, I guess," said Carl gamely. "Anyhow, I'm not going to -cry, no matter how much it hurts. It would make father feel so bad, if -I did. He's all cut up now. I wish I could whip myself hard enough and -save him doing it." - -After supper, at which Carl had eaten little and Mr. Meredith nothing at -all, both went silently into the study. The switch lay on the table. Mr. -Meredith had had a bad time getting a switch to suit him. He cut one, -then felt it was too slender. Carl had done a really indefensible thing. -Then he cut another--it was far too thick. After all, Carl had thought -the eel was dead. The third one suited him better; but as he picked it -up from the table it seemed very thick and heavy--more like a stick 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 fear out of his eyes. -Mr. Meredith looked down into those eyes--why, they were Cecilia's -eyes--her very eyes--and in them was the selfsame expression he had once -seen in Cecilia's eyes when she had come to him to tell him something -she had been a little afraid to tell him. Here were her eyes in Carl's -little, white face--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's face -was worse than any whipping. - -"Is it over so soon?" asked Faith. She and Una had been holding hands -and setting teeth on the Pollock tombstone. - -"He--he didn't whip me at all," said Carl with a sob, "and--I wish he -had--and he's in there, feeling just awful." - -Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort her father. As -noiselessly as a little gray mouse she opened the study door and crept -in. The room was dark with twilight. Her father was sitting at his desk. -His back was towards her--his head was in his hands. He was talking to -himself--broken, anguished words--but Una heard--heard and understood, -with the sudden illumination that comes to sensitive, unmothered -children. As silently as she had come in she slipped out and closed the -door. John Meredith went on talking out his pain in what he deemed his -undisturbed solitude. - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. UNA VISITS THE HILL - -Una went upstairs. Carl and Faith were already on their way through the -early moonlight to Rainbow Valley, having heard therefrom the elfin lilt -of Jerry's jews-harp and having guessed that the Blythes were there and -fun afoot. Una had no wish to go. She sought her own room first where -she sat down on her bed and had a little cry. She did not want anybody -to come in her dear mother's place. She did not want a stepmother -who would hate her and make her father hate her. But father was so -desperately unhappy--and if she could do any anything to make him -happier she MUST do it. There was only one thing she could do--and she -had known the moment she had left the study that she must do it. But it -was a very hard thing to do. - -After Una cried her heart out she wiped her eyes and went to the spare -room. It was dark and rather musty, for the blind had not been drawn -up nor the window opened for a long time. Aunt Martha was no fresh-air -fiend. But as nobody ever thought of shutting a door in the manse this -did not matter so much, save when some unfortunate minister came to stay -all night and was compelled to breathe the spare room atmosphere. - -There was a closet in the spare room and far back in the closet a gray -silk dress was hanging. Una went into the closet and shut the door, went -down on her knees and pressed her face against the soft silken folds. -It had been her mother's wedding-dress. It was still full of a sweet, -faint, haunting perfume, like lingering love. Una always felt very close -to her mother there--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 never forget -you, mother, and I'll ALWAYS love you best. But I have to do it, mother, -because father is so very unhappy. I know you wouldn'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 said stepmothers always were." - -Una carried some fine, spiritual strength away from her secret shrine. -She slept peacefully that night with the tear stains still glistening on -her sweet, serious, little face. - -The next afternoon she put on her best dress and hat. They were shabby -enough. Every other little girl in the Glen had new clothes that summer -except Faith and Una. Mary Vance had a lovely dress of white embroidered -lawn, with scarlet silk sash and 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. She tied her shoelaces carefully, having first sewed up two runs -in her one pair of good stockings. She would have liked to black her -shoes, but she could not find any blacking. Finally, she slipped away -from the manse, down through Rainbow Valley, up through the whispering -woods, and out to the road that ran past the house on the hill. It was -quite a long walk and Una was tired and warm when she got there. - -She saw Rosemary West sitting under a tree in the garden and stole past -the dahlia beds to her. Rosemary had a book in her lap, but she was -gazing afar across the harbour and her thoughts were sorrowful enough. -Life had not been pleasant lately in the house on the hill. Ellen had -not sulked--Ellen had been a brick. But things can be felt that -are never said and at times the silence between the two women was -intolerably eloquent. All the many familiar things that had once -made life sweet had a flavour of bitterness now. Norman Douglas made -periodical irruptions also, 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 no longer -charged with dynamite. - -She was roused from her unpleasant reverie by a timid little touch 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. Her voice -failed--her eyes filled with tears. - -"Why, Una, little girl, what is the trouble? Don't be afraid to tell -me." - -Rosemary put her arm around the thin little form and drew the child -close to her. Her eyes were very beautiful--her touch so tender that Una -found courage. - -"I came--to ask you--to marry father," she gasped. - -Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer dumbfounderment. She stared -at Una blankly. - -"Oh, don't be angry, please, dear Miss West," said Una, pleadingly. "You -see, everybody is saying that you wouldn't marry 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 ON PURPOSE. And if you will only marry father -we will all try to be good and do just what you tell us. I'm SURE you -won't have any trouble 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 be perfectly frank and -sincere with the child. - -"Una, dear," she said softly. "It isn't because of you poor little souls -that I cannot be your father's wife. I never thought of such a thing. -You are not bad--I never supposed you were. 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'd make you a GOOD -husband." - -Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress Rosemary couldn't help -a twisted, little smile. - -"Oh, don't laugh, Miss West," Una cried passionately. "Father feels -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 to whip Carl -yesterday--Carl had been naughty--and father couldn't do it because you -see he had no PRACTICE in whipping. So when Carl came out and told us -father felt so bad, I slipped into the study 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 was saying. I'll tell you, Miss West, if you'll -let me whisper it in your ear." - -Una whispered earnestly. Rosemary's face turned crimson. So John -Meredith still cared. HE hadn't changed his mind. And he must care -intensely if he had said that--care more than she had ever supposed he -did. She sat still for a moment, stroking Una's hair. 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, blushing again. - -"I'm glad--I'm glad," said Una bravely. Then she looked up, with -quivering lips. "Oh, Miss West, you won't turn father against us--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? Whatever put such -an idea into your head?" - -"Mary Vance said stepmothers were all like that--and that they all hated -their stepchildren and made their father hate them--she said they just -couldn't help it--just being stepmothers made them like that"-- - -"You poor child! And yet you came up here and asked me to marry your -father because you wanted to make him happy? You're a darling--a -heroine--as Ellen would say, you're a brick. Now listen to me, very -closely, dearest. Mary Vance is a silly little girl who doesn't know -very much and she is dreadfully mistaken about some things. I would -never dream of trying to turn your father against you. I would love -you all dearly. I don't want to take your own mother's place--she must -always have that in your hearts. But neither have I any intention of -being a stepmother. I want to be your friend and helper and CHUM. Don't -you think that would be nice, Una--if you and Faith and Carl and Jerry -could just think of me as a good jolly chum--a big older sister?" - -"Oh, it would be lovely," cried Una, with a transfigured face. She flung -her arms impulsively round Rosemary's neck. She was so happy that she -felt as if she could fly on wings. - -"Do the others--do Faith and the boys have the same idea you had about -stepmothers?" - -"No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I was dreadfully foolish to -believe her, either. Faith loves you already--she has loved you ever -since poor Adam was eaten. And Jerry and Carl will think 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 much trouble--I'll try to learn fast." - -"Darling, I'll teach you and help you all I can. Now, you won't say -a word to anybody about this, will you--not even to Faith, until your -father himself tells you you may? And you'll stay and have tea with me?" - -"Oh, thank you--but--but--I think I'd rather go right back and take -the letter to father," faltered Una. "You see, he'll be glad that much -SOONER, Miss West." - -"I see," said Rosemary. She went to the house, wrote a note and gave -it to Una. When that small damsel had run off, a palpitating bundle of -happiness, Rosemary went to Ellen, who was shelling peas on the back -porch. - -"Ellen," she said, "Una Meredith has just been here to ask me to marry -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 suddenly put her -hands up to her own face. There were tears in her black-browed eyes. - -"I--I hope we'll all be happy," she said between a sob and a laugh. - -Down at the manse Una Meredith, warm, rosy, triumphant, marched boldly -into her father's study and laid a letter on the desk before him. His -pale face flushed as he saw the clear, fine handwriting he knew so well. -He opened the letter. It was very short--but he shed twenty years as he -read it. Rosemary asked him if he could meet her that evening at sunset -by the spring in Rainbow Valley. - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. "LET THE PIPER COME" - -"And so," said Miss Cornelia, "the double wedding is to be sometime -about the middle of this month." - -There was a faint chill in the air of the early September evening, so -Anne had lighted her ever ready fire of driftwood in the big living -room, and she and Miss Cornelia basked in its fairy flicker. - -"It is so delightful--especially in regard to Mr. Meredith and -Rosemary," said Anne. "I'm as happy in the thought of it, as I was when -I was getting married myself. I felt exactly like a bride again last -evening when I was up on the hill seeing Rosemary's trousseau." - -"They tell me her things are fine enough for a princess," said Susan -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 some evening. I -understand that Rosemary is to wear white silk and a veil, 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 own part I have always felt that if I -were ever married _I_ would prefer the white and the veil, as being more -bride-like." - -A vision of Susan in "white and a veil" presented itself before Anne's -inner vision and was almost too much for her. - -"As for Mr. Meredith," said Miss Cornelia, "even his engagement has -made a different man of him. He isn't half so dreamy and absent-minded, -believe me. I was so relieved when I heard that he had decided to close -the manse and let the children visit round while he was away on his -honeymoon. If he had left them and old Aunt Martha there alone for a -month I should have expected to wake every morning and see the place -burned down." - -"Aunt Martha and Jerry are coming here," said Anne. "Carl is going to -Elder Clow's. I haven't heard where the girls are going." - -"Oh, I'm going to take them," said Miss Cornelia. "Of course, I was glad -to, but Mary would have given me no peace till I asked them any way. The -Ladies' Aid is going to clean the manse from top to bottom before the -bride and groom come back, and Norman Douglas has arranged to fill the -cellar with vegetables. Nobody ever saw or heard anything quite like -Norman Douglas these days, believe ME. He's so tickled that he's -going to marry Ellen West after wanting her all his life. If _I_ was -Ellen--but then, I'm not, and if she is satisfied I can very well be. I -heard her say years ago when she was a schoolgirl that she didn't want -a tame puppy for a husband. There's nothing tame about Norman, believe -ME." - -The sun was setting over Rainbow Valley. The pond was wearing a -wonderful tissue of purple and gold and green and crimson. A faint 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 and Una, -Jerry and Carl, Jem and Walter, Nan and Di, and Mary Vance. They had -been having a special celebration, for it would be Jem's last evening in -Rainbow Valley. On the morrow he would leave for Charlottetown to attend -Queen's Academy. Their charmed circle would be broken; and, in spite -of the jollity of their little festival, 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 the crimson banners -streaming from them. Perhaps a conqueror is riding home from battle--and -they are hanging them out to do honour to him." - -"Oh, I wish we had the old days back again," exclaimed Jem. "I'd love to -be a soldier--a great, triumphant general. I'd give EVERYTHING to see a -big battle." - -Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater battle than had ever -been fought in the world; but that was as yet far in the future; and the -mother, whose first-born son he was, was wont to look on her boys and -thank God that the "brave days of old," which Jem longed for, were gone -for ever, and that never would it be necessary for the sons of Canada to -ride forth to battle "for the ashes of their fathers and the temples of -their gods." - -The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt any forerunner of -its chill. The lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields -of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish -schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: the girls whose -hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes -and dreams. - -Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their crimson and gold; -slowly the conqueror's pageant faded out. Twilight crept over the valley -and the little group grew silent. Walter had been reading again that day -in his beloved book of myths and he remembered how he had once fancied -the Pied Piper coming down the valley on an evening just like this. - -He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrill his -companions a little, partly because something apart from him seemed to -be speaking through his lips. - -"The Piper is coming nearer," he said, "he is nearer than he was that -evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is blowing around -him. He pipes--he pipes--and we must follow--Jem and 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 I wish you -wouldn't. You make it too real. I hate that old Piper of yours." - -But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood up on a little hillock, -tall and splendid, with his open brow and his fearless eyes. There were -thousands like him all over the land of the maple. - -"Let the Piper come and welcome," he cried, waving his hand. "I'LL -follow him gladly round and round the world." - -THE END - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rainbow Valley, by Lucy Maud Montgomery - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW VALLEY *** - -***** This file should be named 5343.txt or 5343.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/4/5343/ - -Produced by Bernard J. 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