"I heard every word."

"You heard—" Priscilla broke off, and turned on Peggy a blank face. "Do you know what she means? What has she heard?"

"Oh, you needn't try to get out of it," Claire's voice was suddenly shrill and rasping. "So Miss Peggy Raymond is the dearest girl on earth, is she, and you love her better than anybody in the world! It won't do any good for you to deny it."

"I haven't any intention of denying it," Priscilla replied, choosing her words with care. Instantly she knew that this meant the end of the friendship, which had by degrees become a burden rather than a joy. Claire's exactions, her extravagant protests of an affection which in its expression proved itself to be nothing but self-love, had been the one discordant note in the summer's harmony. To have the unreal bond dissolved, even in so drastic a fashion, came as a relief. "I haven't any wish to deny it," Priscilla repeated, as Claire gasped hysterically. "Everybody who knows me knows that Peggy's my best friend."

"And what about me?" The tragic tone of Claire's inquiry threw its absurdity into temporary eclipse. "I'm nobody, I suppose. I can just be set aside when it suits your pleasure. And you called yourself my friend."

"Why, Claire," Peggy began, throwing herself into the breach with her usual irresistible impulse toward peacemaking, but, to the angry girl, this well-meant interference was additional provocation. "Oh, don't you say anything," she cried, turning savagely on the would-be pacificator. "You ought to be satisfied. It's all your fault."

"My fault!" The accusation was too preposterous to be taken seriously. Peggy could not keep from smiling.

"Oh, yes, I don't wonder that you laugh," exclaimed Claire, finding in that involuntary twitching of the lips new fuel for her wrath. "It's what you've been plotting all the time, and now you've done it, so, of course, you're satisfied."

Peggy's impulse to laughter had passed. She turned rather pale, and sat silent, not deigning to reply to such a charge, while Claire rushed on recklessly. "Of course, after this, nothing would induce me to stay in this house another night."

"I should hope not," remarked Priscilla with deadly coldness. She might have forgiven Claire's attack on herself, but such treatment of Peggy was not to be overlooked. The eyes of the two girls met like clashing swords.

But in spite of Claire's declaration that nothing would induce her to spend another night at Dolittle Cottage, when it was ascertained that the first train on which she could take her departure left at ten o'clock next morning, she did not seek the hospitality of Mrs. Snooks' roof, nor even suggest sleeping on the lawn. After her first paroxysm of anger was over, she became abnormally and painfully polite, begged everybody's pardon for nothing at all, and proffered extravagant thanks for the simplest service. She declined to come down to supper on the pretext that she was too busy packing. And when Peggy carried up a well-laden tray, Claire received her with courteous protests.

"Oh, dear me! You shouldn't have done that. I had no idea of your taking any trouble on my account. I'm not at all hungry, you know." Claire would have given much for sufficient strength of will to refuse to taste another morsel of food in Dolittle Cottage, but being angry is, unluckily, no safeguard against being hungry.

As a matter of fact, the voice of Claire's appetite was too insistent to allow her to give herself the satisfaction of haughtily declining to profit by Peggy's thoughtfulness. "Just set the tray down anywhere," she continued, packing ostentatiously, "and if I get time and feel like it, I'll eat a mouthful." And Peggy departed, relieved by her sincere conviction that no one in the cottage would go to bed without a satisfactory evening meal.

As Claire was to leave at ten, and Elaine arrived at eleven, it was but natural that the girls who were to meet the new arrival should accompany the departing guest on the four-mile drive to the station. Indeed, if they depended on the stage, it was necessary that they should go together, as this conveyance made but one trip a day in each direction. Peggy did not wish to delegate to any of the other girls the responsibility of meeting Elaine, whom she regarded as her especial guest, and since Claire had come to the cottage on Priscilla's invitation, Peggy felt that it devolved on Priscilla to see her off, in spite of the unfortunate termination of the visit.

"As for seeing her off, I shall be glad enough to do that," declared Priscilla, who, now that her tongue was loosed, was atoning for many days of repression. "But, Peggy, I don't see how I can stand a four-mile drive with that girl."

"I'll be there too, honey, and with the stage driver listening to every word, we can't talk about anything except the scenery. Please come, Priscilla. Don't give her any excuse for thinking that you haven't done everything that could possibly be expected of you."

Accordingly, the stage calling the next morning found three passengers awaiting its arrival, and the keenly observant driver, who occasionally turned his head, and proffered an observation, in case the conversation languished, must have formed an entirely new conception of girls of seventeen. Had they all been seventy, and the merest acquaintances, they could not have treated one another with more precise politeness, nor have conversed with greater decorum. Altogether, Priscilla had some show of reason for referring later to the drive as "ghastly." Unluckily, Claire's train was thirty minutes late, and the tension was accordingly prolonged for that length of time. As Peggy attempted to make conversation out of such material as the weather and the time Claire would reach home, Priscilla was reflecting that if she were obliged to wait much longer she would disgrace herself either by laughing or by crying, or by indulging in both diversions at one and the same moment.

But the whistle sounded in time to save Priscilla's hardly tried self-control. The girls shook hands primly. Peggy and Priscilla wished Claire a pleasant journey. Claire replied by effusive thanks. At length, to the relief of all three, she handed her suitcase to an obsequious porter and stepped aboard the Pullman.

"Now be ready," Peggy cried, clutching Priscilla's arm. "Wave your hand if she looks out." But Claire did not deign so much as a glance at her late companions, and the train which bore her out of the heart of the green hills, carried her forever out of the lives of the two who watched her departure.

The girls seated themselves on one of the station benches to await Elaine's train. Peggy was a little sober, for unjustified as she knew Claire's suspicions to be, she could not help asking herself how it was that she had gained so little of Claire's confidence in a summer's association. And Priscilla's face, too, was overcast, but for a different reason.

"Peggy," she exclaimed abruptly, "do you know I feel as if I'd been looking at myself in the mirror."

"Then you ought to feel more cheerful than you look," returned Peggy with a sweeping glance, and a smile, designed to express her conviction that Priscilla was an unusually handsome girl.

But Priscilla was not to be turned aside by the little compliment. "It isn't any reason to be cheerful. I mean, Peggy, that this affair with Claire has just helped to show me what I'm like myself."

Peggy broke into excited protests, to which Priscilla listened unmoved.

"It's exactly the same thing. I've been jealous of Elaine in just the same way she has been jealous of you. And both of us called it love, when all the time it was just the meanest kind of selfishness. I wonder why it is that your faults never look very bad till you see them in somebody else."

"If you imagine that you're like Claire Fendall," interjected Peggy, seething with indignation, "you're badly mistaken, that's all."

But glad as Priscilla would have been to accept the comforting assurance she shook her head with decision. "It's exactly the same thing," she insisted. "But I really hope—Why, Peggy, what's the matter?"

If Peggy's convulsive movement had not been sufficient to account for the startled question, the expression of her face was abundant ground for the inquiry. "Why, Peggy," Priscilla repeated in real consternation, "what is it? What has happened?"

"I never thought of it till this minute. She's spoiled everything."

"Who? Claire? What has she spoiled?"

"Our play," groaned Peggy. "It comes off on Tuesday, and has been advertised in the last three issues of the Arena. We can't possibly find anybody to take her place. What are we going to do?"

"Dorothea Clarke played it last June. Why not telegraph for her to come up. We just can't have a fizzle at the last minute."

"Why, Dolly Clarke is in California! Somebody spoke of it in a letter only last week." Peggy groaned again. "I wonder if Claire didn't think that her going would spoil everything. Or if she just didn't care."

Priscilla was inclined to favor the latter hypothesis, yet even in her resentment she realized that any amount of criticism of Claire would not save the situation. Vainly the girls grappled with the problem, to end by looking at each other despairingly.

When Elaine stepped off the train at eleven o'clock she was immediately conscious of missing something in her welcome. It was not that Peggy did not seem glad to see her, for the steadfast eyes that met her own were beaming with affection. Priscilla too was unusually cordial. And yet Elaine missed something, the spontaneous overflowing of light hearts.

"What is it?" she asked, looking from one to the other, as the stage driver went for her little trunk. "Is anybody ill? Is anything wrong? Somehow you look—"

Peggy and Priscilla exchanged glances. Peggy laughed.

"We might as well tell her now as later. Perhaps when that's off our minds, we'll be able to think of something else. You know, I wrote you about the benefit we got up for Lucy Haines."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, we're going to give the little farce we learned for commencement week. It happened that we four girls took all the principal parts but one, and Claire Fendall agreed to take that. You were at one of our rehearsals last spring, weren't you? Well, this was Adelaide's part."

"Yes, I remember. The girl who was always losing her temper over things."

"Well, unluckily, Claire lost her temper over something, and went home just an hour ago. And the play is for Tuesday night. We can't possibly postpone it, because there is no way of getting word to the people. The paper only comes out once a week. Did you ever hear of anything so dreadful?"

Elaine was musing. "If I remember, it isn't such a very long part."

"Why, it isn't as long as Priscilla's or mine, but Adelaide is one of the leading characters. She couldn't possibly be left out."

"I didn't mean that. I was only going to suggest—" Elaine hesitated, with a little of her old-time shyness. "I was only going to say that if you couldn't do any better, I'd take the part."

"Take the part?" Peggy looked at her friend in an amazement which temporarily obscured her gratitude. "But we give the thing Tuesday night."

"Yes, I know." Elaine smiled a little at the conflict of hope and incredulity written on Peggy's expressive face. "But I really have a very quick memory, Peggy, though I don't retain things as long as lots of other people. And before I came to Friendly Terrace I took part in school theatricals quite often. I can't promise to distinguish myself, but I'm sure I can get through the part and save the day."

And then, to Elaine's secret amazement, it was Priscilla's arm that went about her waist, and Priscilla's voice that cried, with a thrill of sincerity there was no mistaking:

"Oh, Peggy, isn't it splendid to have her here?"



CHAPTER XVI

PEGGY MAKES A SPEECH

The great occasion was at hand. Assisted by Joe and Jerry, the girls had spent most of the day in the schoolhouse, with results that surprised themselves. The platform had been slightly enlarged, to meet the exigencies of a dramatic representation. Curtains of various colors and material provided dressing-rooms for the actors, on either side of the stage. A screen brought from Dolittle Cottage hid from view the blackboards back of the spot usually occupied by the teacher's desk. A rug covered the pine boards of the platform, while a few chairs, a small table and a fern in a brass jardinier produced the homelike effect the girls were after. Jerry was immensely proud of the curtain, which, thanks to the pulleys he had arranged, worked as smoothly as if it had been a professional curtain, instead of belonging strictly to the amateur class. Peggy suspected that down in his heart Jerry believed that curtain to be the most important and appealing feature of the prospective entertainment.

While the girls labored at the schoolhouse, Elaine sat on the porch of Dolittle Cottage, and studied her part with such fixed attention as to be completely oblivious to the charm of her surroundings. When Peggy came hurrying home to look after the dinner she groaned self-reproachfully at the sight of Elaine's furrowed brow, and silently moving lips.

"It's a perfect shame! You came up here for a rest, and the first thing we do is to set you to work—and such hard work."

"Two days of it won't hurt me," Elaine returned buoyantly. "And you know, Peggy, I'm ever so glad to help out." But it was quite unlikely that Peggy realized the satisfaction Elaine experienced in the knowledge that her opportune arrival meant the success of Peggy's scheme. Elaine had a deep-rooted antipathy to being under obligations, a characteristic which has its root in wholesome independence, though it may easily be carried too far. Nothing could have promised better for her enjoyment of her little holiday than this unexpected opportunity to turn the tables on her hostesses, and become the benefactor.

Although two days seemed a very short time for mastering her part, Elaine felt confident that she would make no serious slip. Her memory was quick, and responded to the spur of necessity. If her attention wandered even for a minute, she caught herself up, realizing how much depended on her application. Luckily the role appealed to her, and for that reason was more readily memorized. Though she had prefaced her offer with the assurance that she should not distinguish herself in the part, she began to be hopeful that she would be able to do more than repeat the lines mechanically.

As the critical hour approached, Elaine was perhaps the least nervous of any of the household, and she gleaned more than a little amusement from the efforts of the others to reassure her. "You know I'll be right there with the book," said Aunt Abigail, who had accepted the important post of official prompter. "So it won't be a serious matter if you forget." The others had similar encouragement to offer, some of it mingled with good counsel. "Don't lose your head if you get tangled up," Peggy warned her. "Because the rest of us know our parts perfectly, and we can go on with it, even if something is left out." And Elaine, while agreeing not to lose her head, promised herself the satisfaction of surprising the doubters.

Early as the girls reached the schoolhouse, they were not the first arrivals. Farmer Cole's Joe, transformed almost beyond recognition, by what he would have designated as a "boiled shirt" and a high collar, had already quite a little pile of tickets and silver ranged on the table before him. Jerry and his orchestra were in their places. Jerry's hand-painted necktie was, of course, in evidence, while the pointed shoes creaked whenever he moved, as if in protest against the exacting service that was being required of them at their time of life. The Dolittle Cottage girls hurried past the observant eyes, and in the improvised dressing-rooms found Lucy and Rosetta Muriel awaiting them. Resentfully Rosetta Muriel had dressed according to Peggy's specifications, black dress and ruffled white apron, with a jaunty cap perched on her fair hair. Then she had viewed herself in the mirror and had experienced the surprise of her life.

"Why, I look real pretty!" exclaimed Rosetta Muriel staring, but there was no vanity in the observation. Rosetta Muriel announced it as a scientist would proclaim the news of some discovery in physics. She tested the accuracy of her impression by the help of a hand-mirror. She had not been mistaken. "I really look pretty," repeated Rosetta Muriel, and, for the first time in her life, realized the aesthetic possibilities of simplicity.

Her lingering grudge against Peggy in part dissipated by her scientific discovery, vanished completely when Peggy removed the rain-coat and the heavy veil which had obscured her charms. Peggy's make-up was very successful in effacing every suggestion of youth and girlish prettiness. Artistically designed wrinkles made her look seventy-five at the least computation, and suggested in addition, a quarrelsome disposition. Rosetta Muriel took one look, and gave way to giggles.

"My goodness, but you are a sight," said Rosetta Muriel, entirely forgiving Peggy for the prohibition of the apple-green silk. "Is that a wig you've got on?"

"Nothing but corn-starch," replied Peggy, piling her wraps in the corner. "Now, Elaine, you see, Aunt Abigail will sit right here, so you needn't be one bit nervous about forgetting. Hear the people coming. I believe we're going to have a full house."

This pleasant expectancy was confirmed by the continued and increasing shuffling of feet over the bare schoolhouse floor and the hum of voices. The time of waiting was somewhat trying for all the performers, especially for the novices. Lucy Haines, whose part consisted of a dozen sentences or less, grew gradually paler and paler, till she looked like anything but a footlight favorite. Rosetta Muriel smoothed her apron and adjusted her cap with the regularity of clockwork, till it began to look as if both these serviceable articles would be worn out before the little bell gave the signal for drawing the curtain.

All at once the hum of voices outside took on a menacing volume. Behind the curtain the girls were unable to distinguish a word, but judging from the sound, an altercation was in progress. "What can be the matter?" demanded Peggy, turning a startled face on the others.

"Nothing to worry about, child," said Aunt Abigail soothingly. "Probably some of those young farmers are having some noisy fun." But the loud voices did not impress Peggy as suggesting good-natured nonsense. And her apprehensions were presently confirmed by Jerry Morton, who slipped under the curtains and came hurrying toward her. The boy's face was flushed, and he was breathing fast.

"It's that Cherry Creek crowd," he exclaimed. "They're going to spoil everything."

"The Cherry Creek crowd?" Peggy repeated in bewilderment. "Oh, I remember." Vaguely she recalled the little settlement scattered along the banks of Cherry Creek and taking its name from that unassuming stream. In the opinion of Peggy's neighbors, the young people of Cherry Creek were a distinctly inferior class. Peggy had been inclined to set this down to prejudice. In view of the demonstrations outside, she began to think that possibly she had been mistaken.

"A crowd of 'em drove over," continued the exasperated Jerry, "and more's coming. And they say they won't pay any admission, 'less they can have seats. They say it's our business to have seats for everybody, the way we've been advertising this here show."

In spirit Peggy groaned. It appeared that the too obliging Weekly Arena had overshot the mark.

"It's going to spoil everything to have them standing up there at the back of the room," repeated Jerry. "They'll get to fooling, and shuffling 'round. They wouldn't like anything better than to upset the whole show. I'll bet that's what they came for."

"What are we going to do?" Peggy wrinkled her brows in the effort to decide the question.

"Joe says he's ready to take a hand in throwing out the whole bunch. There's some of our fellows here, good and husky, who'll help. But he says if we do that, we ought to do it quick, before the rest of the crowd gets here."

"Certainly not." And as Peggy vetoed one suggestion, her groping brain seized on another. "Jerry, how far is Cherry Creek?"

"Eight miles, the nearest houses. Why can't they stay to home and get up their own shows, 'stead of coming all this way to spoil ourn?"

Peggy's answer was unexpected. She pushed past Jerry, mounted to the platform, and pulling aside the curtain, stepped out before the uneasy audience. A characteristic of leadership is the ability to dispense with advice in a crisis. At that minute Peggy did not need to ask whether she were right.

The clamorous voices died down at her appearance. There was an instant of astonished silence, and then a roar of laughter. The laugh was something on which Peggy had not counted, and for a moment, she was completely bewildered. Peggy was on too good terms with her fellow beings to be afraid of them in bulk, but she had forgotten that her grotesque appearance would naturally create amusement, and the roar of laughter took her unawares. For the first and only time in her life, she knew the meaning of stage-fright.

Then her momentary confusion passed. The faces which for a long moment had seemed blended in one gigantic face, jeering and unfriendly, regained their individuality. She saw them looking up at her with interest. The uproar was quieting. She took a fresh grip on her self-control, and as she regained the mastery of herself, she knew that she was mistress of the situation.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!"

The clear, girlish voice, in combination with Peggy's aged appearance, was incongruous enough to create further laughter, had the audience not been too interested to hear what she was about to say, again to interrupt.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, first of all, I want to thank you for coming. All of you know, I'm pretty sure, that the proceeds of this entertainment go to help one of your own girls who wants an education. And the way you've turned out shows how glad you all are to help."

She paused an instant, to be sure that the time had come to broach her proposition. The aspect of her listeners was reassuring. Nearly every face raised to hers was smiling. Even the Cherry Creekers wore an air of conscious virtue.

"But, Ladies and Gentlemen, there is one little embarrassment we hadn't counted on, an embarrassment of riches, you might call it. There are too many people here for the schoolhouse. A number are standing, and it would be impossible for them to enjoy an entertainment as long as this without having seats."

The smiles vanished as Peggy approached the delicate point. The Cherry Creekers no longer looked virtuous, but rather defiant.

"Now, I'm going to make a suggestion, Ladies and Gentlemen. Part of our audience has come quite a long way. We don't want them to go home without seeing what they came for. But you who live near could come out to-morrow night. Now I'm going to ask those of you who live in the neighborhood to give your seats up to the friends who have come so far for the sake of helping us." (Sensation in the audience.) "Your money will be returned as you pass out, and we shall hope to see every one of you here to-morrow evening. Positively no postponement, Ladies and Gentlemen, on account of the weather."

The silence that followed was of the briefest possible duration. In nine cases out of ten, a frank, tactful appeal to the generosity of an American crowd proves successful. Somebody started to clap, and all at once the schoolhouse shook with applause, even the disappointed succumbing to the contagion and clapping as enthusiastically as any one. And then when Mr. Silas Robbins rose to his feet and ushered his wife and daughter from the building, the crisis was safely past.

What with returning the money of half the audience, and receiving the quarters of the other half, for the Cherry Creek crowd was making haste to pay up, Farmer Cole's Joe had his hands full. He reached for his money box as the Robbins family filed past, but the head of the house checked him with a genial gesture.

"Never you mind the money, Joe," said Mr. Robbins. "That girl's speech was wuth it. She's a corker." He chuckled admiringly. "The way she can get 'round folks and make 'em do as she says beats the Dutch. If she was a boy now, it's dollars to doughnuts that she'd get to be president." He went on his way, still chuckling, and at the door encountered the second delegation from Cherry Creek.

It was doubtless due to the earlier excitements of the evening that Peggy came so near disaster later. They had reached the second act most successfully, and the audience had laughed at every suggestion of a joke, and when the curtain was drawn, had joined in tumultuous applause, piercing cat-calls blending euphoniously with the clapping of hands, and the stamping of feet. And then Peggy, who knew the entire comedy from beginning to end, and could have taken any part at five minutes' notice, stumbled in her lines, and to her horror, found her mind a blank.

She looked toward Aunt Abigail, but unluckily the prompter had been so carried away by her enjoyment of the presentation, that she was listening delightedly, quite unmindful of her professional duties. As she met Peggy's appealing gaze, she started violently, and an excited flutter of leaves conveyed to Peggy the unwelcome information that Aunt Abigail had lost her place.

Oddly enough, it was Elaine who came to the rescue. In playing her part, practically without rehearsals, Elaine had found it necessary to familiarize herself with the general dialogue of the little comedy. While the other girls stood stricken dumb by the realization that Peggy had forgotten, the opening sentence of the deferred speech flashed into Elaine's mind. "'But I demand the proof,'" she said in a sharp whisper.

Instantly Peggy was herself again. "But I demand the proof," she cried, and swept commandingly toward the centre of the stage. The pause, which had seemed such a long hiatus to the little group on the platform, was hardly noticed by the audience. Aunt Abigail glued her eyes to the page and did not look away again till the next intermission. Peggy gave herself a mental shaking and her fellow actors took a long breath, while the audience laughed delightedly, quite unaware of the little by-play.

Not till the second act was finished, and Jerry's orchestra was rendering a spirited Spanish fandango, a score of feet beating time, did Peggy find opportunity to express her sense of obligation.

"You darling!" She caught Elaine in her arms, and hugged her mightily. "That's twice you've pulled us out of a hole. If the audience knew all that we do, they'd pick Adelaide for the star of this performance." And indeed, considering the disadvantages under which Elaine had labored, Peggy's generous tribute was hardly exaggerated.

The play was repeated on the second evening to an equally crowded and appreciative house. Indeed, the audience which had obligingly retired in favor of the visitors from a distance, reaped the reward of its generosity, for the second performance was distinctly better than the first. Lucy and Rosetta Muriel, who had gained confidence from one public appearance, spoke their few lines in distinct, audible voices, which was as much as the parts required. Elaine had had one more day to study her part, and was able to do it better justice than on the preceding evening. As for Peggy, since her thoughts were not distracted by the necessity of making a speech, she was in as little danger of forgetting her lines, as of forgetting her name.

On the whole, they had every reason to congratulate one another, and when the audience had dispersed, the performers lingered with a few outsiders especially interested, to say again and again, how well everything had gone off, and how pleased every one had seemed. And Joe added convincing testimony to the correctness of the verdict.

"When folks pay more than they've got to pay for a thing, it comes pretty near being a success. Why, there was a half a dozen said to me they didn't care for no change, and two of 'em were Cherry Creekers. What do you think of that? And Deacon Bliss, he paid three admissions with a five-dollar bill, and said it was all right."

"How much do you think we've made, Joe?" Peggy asked.

"Well, I've just been counting it up. The tickets cost a dollar fifty, and Jerry spent a little for wire and stuff for the curtain. But I guess you've got, above all that, as much as forty dollars."

Peggy turned and looked at Lucy Haines. Silently Lucy looked back at her. And without a word on the part of either, it was plain that one had spoken and the other answered.



CHAPTER XVII

A PLAIN TALK

There was trouble in the poultry yard. Whether over-indulgence in a grasshopper diet was accountable, or the responsibility was to be laid at the door of early morning rambles through damp grass, Peggy was not sure, but the condition of the three chickens still under the charge of the yellow hen was plainly alarming. The wretched little creatures hardly had strength to peep, still less to follow their energetic mother on the excursions she showed no intention of relinquishing, out of regard to the health of her family. Peggy found it necessary again to confine her to the small coop she had occupied previously, and the yellow hen indicated her dissatisfaction with the cramped quarters. While she thrust her long neck through the slats and scolded clamorously, her family of three stood about in varying attitudes of dejection, indifferent to the corn-meal mush Peggy spread lavishly before them.

The neighborhood authorities, whom Peggy naturally consulted, pronounced the chickens suffering from "pip" and prescribed weird remedies. Jerry Morton was appealed to along with the rest, and surprised Peggy by professing complete ignorance of the subject.

"I've heard my grandmother talk about the pip, but I don't know what it's like. I don't know nothing about chickens anyway."

"That's queer," remarked Peggy musingly, "when you know so much about birds."

"Oh, birds!" The boy's face lighted up. "Birds is different. They've got their own way of doing things, and one kind ain't any more like another than folks is. You ought to see a pair of old birds teaching a young one to fly. If he hasn't got spunk enough to get out of the nest himself, they'll push him over, and then they'll fly around him, and keep on talking and talking and saying how easy it is, and show him how. And then when he tries they praise him up, as if he was a perfect wonder, and he begins to think he's pretty smart himself." Jerry chuckled, as if recalling such a scene as he was so vividly describing, and Peggy watched him thoughtfully but without speaking. She had learned long before that Jerry was most likely to discuss the subjects nearest his heart when stimulated by silent attention.

"Some people talk as if folks was the only things with sense," Jerry continued, "but seems to me they've got about the least. Why, you can't lose a bird or a bee. And the orneriest little spider knows enough to play dead if you poke him. Inside he's pretty near scared to death, but he's got too much sense to cut and run the way a man would. He curls up his legs, and makes himself look withered up, so you'll say, 'Oh, shucks! he's dead already. What's the use of killing him over again?'"

Peggy's smile proved her to be paying close attention, and Jerry went on. "Now, most folks think one bird's as good as another. Why, there's thieves and robbers among birds same as men. A blue-jay's one of the worst, and my, how the other birds hate him! Once I saw a whole crowd of 'em chasing a jay. It was a reg'lar bird mob, all kinds in it, thrushes and cat-birds, and robins, and song-sparrows. They were all small birds 'longside of the jay, but together they were too much for him, I can tell you. And he dodged and ducked around till he see 'twasn't no use, and then he dropped what he'd stole and they let him go."

"And what had he stolen?" asked Peggy.

"A little bird just hatched out of some nest. You needn't tell me that birds don't have a language. The father and mother, they hollered to some of their neighbors that a jay was 'round kidnapping, and the chase started. And every bird they met, they'd say, 'Come on, boys! Let's make it hot for this old robber.' And they did too." Jerry caught himself up, and cast a suspicious glance at Peggy's attentive face. He had early learned to keep to himself the dialogues he imagined as taking place between his friends of field and forest, as any attempts at confidence on his part had invariably called out derision or reproof. He was glad to assure himself that Peggy was listening respectfully, though he realized that her silence had lured him on to say much more than he had intended.

"Jerry," remarked Peggy, breaking the brief pause that had fallen between them, "did you ever hear of Audubon?"

"What's that? Do you mean the language for everybody to learn, so that Japs and Dagoes and us folks can talk together, same as if we'd been raised 'longside each other?"

"Oh, no! That's Volapuk you're talking about, Jerry. Audubon was a man."

"Oh!" Apparently Jerry had lost interest.

"And the reason I wondered if you knew about him is that sometimes you remind me of him."

"Oh!" And the change in Jerry's inflection showed the change in his mental attitude.

"Yes, he loved birds just as you do. Dick had to write a composition about Audubon last spring, and I helped him in reading up for it. That's how I happen to know so much about him."

With this preface Peggy began. The life of the great ornithologist would need to be told very unsympathetically, not to be a dramatic and appealing recital. The story of the enthusiast who found no toil irksome which furthered his research, however unreliable he might prove in the humdrum occupation of earning a livelihood, was calculated to impress the boy who realized that his matter-of-fact neighbors had long before catalogued him as a thriftless ne'er-do-well. The great man's hardships, his persistence, and his prosperous and honored old age, made up a fascinating story. Peggy, noticing the effect upon her listener, was more than satisfied.

"Well, he got there, didn't he?" Jerry kicked a pebble out of his way, and frowned reflectively. "I guess the folks that thought him a good-for-nothing must 'a' been surprised."

"But there were a great many who believed in him," Peggy suggested. "I think he was very fortunate in his friends. In fact, that was one of the things that helped him. He made friends wherever he went."

"Well, that ain't like me." Jerry's tone indicated a grim satisfaction in the extent of his unpopularity, which Peggy recognized as a bad sign.

"That's a pity," she said gravely. "Because nobody's big enough to get along all by himself. Everybody needs friends to help him."

Jerry became meditative. That he had rightly interpreted the meaning of Peggy's story, and applied it as she wished, was apparent when he broke out impatiently, "Why, if I should try to draw pictures of birds, folks would just laugh at me. I couldn't make 'em look like anything."

"No, I suppose not. Audubon had to learn. That's another mistake of yours, Jerry, to think that you can get along without books and teachers. You've found out a lot by yourself, but that's no reason why you shouldn't have the help of all the things other people have been discovering. It's just as I said about friends. Everybody can help, and everybody needs to be helped."

"I'm too old to go to school," Jerry replied despondently. And the answer, coupled with his dejected manner, was to Peggy an indication of a success she had hardly dared to hope for. Jerry realized his lacks. The armor of his complacency had been pierced. Then there was hope for him.

"How old are you, Jerry?"

"Sixteen in September." He hung his head, as if ashamed of his advanced years. And at Peggy's laugh, his face flushed hotly.

"The reason that sounds so funny," Peggy explained, "is because I was thinking of a friend of my father's. He's a college professor, and sometimes he comes to visit us in his vacation. He was twenty when he first learned to read and write. How's that for a late start? And see where he's got to!"

Jerry leaned toward her confidentially. "It's this way," he said. "I wouldn't mind going to school if it 'twasn't for ringing in with a lot of kids. I couldn't stand that, you know." He looked at Peggy, expectant of her ready sympathy. But to his surprise, her lip had curled slightly. "Oh, of course," she said, "if you're afraid—"

"Afraid!" Jerry flung back his head. "Me! I'm not afraid of nothing. Did I ever show you the rattle I got off that big snake I killed? That doesn't look much as if I was easy scared."

"I didn't know," returned Peggy, quite unmoved, "but that you might be afraid of being made fun of."

Jerry had nothing to say. Peggy proceeded to occupy the interval of silence.

"A boy graduated at one of our high schools a year ago, who had plenty of pluck, I thought. He came from Russia, a Jew, you know, and when he got here he couldn't speak a word of English. He was fourteen then, and they started him in the first grade. That was the only thing to do, I suppose. Well, it really was a funny sight to see him going into school with those first-grade tots. He was a big boy for his age, and he had to curl himself up to sit at one of those tiny desks, so he must have been awfully uncomfortable. And, of course, it looked queer. If he'd been a cowardly sort of boy," observed Peggy significantly, "I suppose he would have given up."

Jerry made no comment, unless an uneasy movement might have been interpreted as such.

"But he didn't give up, and after a few months he was promoted to the second grade. And it took him even less time to get into the third. And then it got so that we'd ask every morning what grade David had been promoted to. Instead of laughing at him, everybody was proud of him."

Still no comment on Jerry's part.

"Well, as I said, he graduated from the high school a year ago last spring. He stood second in his class. The boy who was ahead of him is the son of a circuit judge. David was nineteen. In five years he had gone from the very beginning to the end of the high school course. Now he's in college, and I don't know what he'll do after he graduates, but I'm sure it will be something fine. Don't you think that's better than being afraid of being laughed at, and settling down to be an ignorant laborer all his life?"

"Oh, I guess it's all right, if he felt like it." Jerry spoke with an elaborate carelessness. "Well, I must be going." There was a trace of resentment in his tone, more than a trace in his heart. Jerry's high opinion of Peggy had originally sprung from her appreciation of his good qualities. It was a rather painful surprise to find that she recognized his lacks. In fact, Jerry was inclined to think that she exaggerated them.

"I ain't no coward, just because I don't want to be cooped up in school with a lot of kids," he told himself angrily, as he walked away. Yet his morning's talk with Peggy had clouded his spirits. Long before Jerry had come to accept with cheerful philosophy the disapproval of his neighbors. They understood crops and dairying. He understood birds and trees, and, in his own opinion, he was at no disadvantage in the comparison, but rather the opposite. He regarded their knowledge as humdrum, and it did not disturb him that they looked on his acquisitions as worthless.

But with Peggy it was different. The naturalist who had impoverished himself in his eagerness to study birds, she had held up to his admiration as a great man. Jerry was sure that his neighbors would not so estimate him. They would call him "shiftless," the adjective that had been applied times without number to Jerry himself. Peggy approved such research, and yet she found fault with him. She thought he needed the help of the schools, of books, of friends. Undoubtedly she had implied that he was a coward. Jerry winced at the recollection.

"I don't have to go to school just to please her," Jerry boasted, but his declaration of independence failed to assuage that curious uneasiness that was almost pain. He had disappointed a friend. His effort to forget that fact in manufacturing resentment against Peggy proved quite unsuccessful.

As for Peggy, she watched the vanishing figure rather ruefully, and was inclined to think her morning's effort wasted, if not worse. Like most amateur gardeners, Peggy was fond of immediate results. She liked to see shoots starting when the seed had hardly touched the soil, leaf and blossom following with miraculous swiftness. Nature's slow processes were trying to the patience. Peggy watched Jerry out of sight, and then, her face unusually thoughtful, made her way to the front porch which presented an unusually populous appearance that morning. The day was rather warm, and a forenoon of idleness had appealed to the household as preferable to a more strenuous form of entertainment.

"Aren't they any better?" asked Elaine, noticing the gravity of her friend's face, but misinterpreting it.

"Who? Oh, the chickens." Peggy roused herself. "I can't say that I see any improvement. And if there's anything that looks more sickly than a sick chicken, I don't know its name."

"Well, anyway, Freckles is perfectly healthy," Ruth said encouragingly. "And it's all the more to your credit because you brought him up yourself." Some time before, the speckled chicken had asserted his individuality to such an extent that a name had seemed a necessity, and after considerable canvassing of the matter, "Freckles" had received a majority vote. Freckles had long ceased to impress the observer as a pathetic object. He was an energetic, pin-feathery creature, noted equally for his appetite and his pugnacity. Dorothy who had not hesitated to bestride Farmer Cole's boar, and was absolutely fearless as far as Hobo was concerned, retreated panic-stricken before Freckles' advances. For owing to reasons not apparent, Freckles found an irresistible temptation in Dorothy's slim, black-stockinged legs.

Peggy shooed away the persistent Freckles, who had given up his designs upon the gravel walk at her approach, and was pecking frantically at her shoe-buttons, evidently under the impression that they were good to eat. "Oh, he's healthy enough," she replied. "It begins to look as if he'd be all I'd have to show for my poultry raising experiment, and I had it all planned out how I'd spend the money for the whole eighteen chickens." Peggy joined in the laugh against herself before she added cheerily: "Well, even if air-castles tumble down, it's fun to build them."

"And to build them over again," suggested Aunt Abigail with a smile. "Like castles little children build out of blocks."

It was fortunate that Peggy was able to take so philosophic a view of the situation, for, before night, two of the little sufferers had succumbed to their malady, and the yellow fowl, who could not wholly disclaim responsibility for the misfortunes of her family, was left a hen with one chicken.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE CASTAWAYS

It really began to look as if Jerry were seriously offended. For several days there had been no fresh fish at Dolittle Cottage. Peggy reproached herself for having gone too fast. "I ought to have told him about Audubon and David and let it soak in awhile. But when he started to talk about going to school, there didn't seem any way out of saying what I thought."

Jerry's prolonged absence was very annoying to Peggy. Five minutes face to face, she felt sure, would straighten out the tangle. Peggy had a not unreasonable confidence in the efficacy of kindly frankness. If Jerry once understood the friendliness of her criticism, it was impossible that he should cherish a grudge against her.

As a matter of fact, the mood which accounted for Jerry's aloofness was no more puzzling to Peggy than to Jerry himself. His first resentment of her criticism had burned itself out for lack of fuel, and had been succeeded by a restlessness unappeased by hours of tramping and climbing. For the first time since he could remember, Jerry found himself looking ahead, questioning the future. In spite of his real ability and his freedom from the more outbreaking faults, Jerry had been progressing steadily toward utter worthlessness, by the simple but effective method of always obeying the whim of the moment. The old grandmother with whom he lived had long before given up all attempt to control the boy, who was generally good-natured when allowed to do exactly as he pleased. Jerry enjoyed himself, kept busy in his own way and returned the disapproval of the community with interest.

Under the influence of the girls at Dolittle Cottage, and of Peggy in particular, Jerry's attitude toward the world had been gradually changing. He found to his surprise that he liked to be liked. The courteous attitude of these strangers had raised him in his own estimation. The frequent appearance of the hand-painted necktie and the pointed shoes—both of which had belonged to Jerry's father—was indicative of a change that went deep.

The part he had taken in Lucy Haines' benefit had also had its share in his development. Strange to say, the extent of Jerry's musical attainments had proved a surprise, even to the people who had known him from babyhood, and he had received more compliments since that occasion than had fallen to his lot in his previous sixteen years of existence. Whereupon Jerry made the discovery that the praise and admiration of one's fellows is pleasanter than their disapproval, and his youthful cynicism had weakened accordingly.

The effect of Peggy's words on this new-born complacency was the havoc of a hailstorm on premature buds. Just as he was beginning to enjoy the flavor of approbation, his attention had been directed to his lacks and shortcomings. He stayed away from Dolittle Cottage because his last visit had been responsible for this present uneasy discomfort. He fished and hunted, rose early, and wandered late, without succeeding in the effort which older and wiser people have undertaken with equally poor success, the attempt to escape from one's self.

One of the Snooks children was waiting for him when he came home late one afternoon. Mrs. Snooks had hesitated when Peggy had asked to use one of the boys as a messenger, not being sure that the loaning of her offspring for such a purpose was not contrary to her newly acquired principles. The casual mention on Peggy's part of a dime to be awarded the messenger, had settled the question satisfactorily, and little Andy Snooks, digging his bare toes into the yielding earth, at last found the chance to do his errand.

"They's going to Snake River, them city girls. And She says—" Jerry did not find the pronoun ambiguous—"She says will you drive 'em?"

"I'm going to be busy."

Little Andy stared unbelievingly.

"They's baking turnovers and things. She gave me a cooky with a crinkled edge. 'Twas good, too, you bet."

"You tell 'em I'll be busy." Jerry pushed past Andy and entered the house. He was astonished at the turmoil of his spirit. "Wish she'd let me alone," he said fiercely. "I'm not bothering her none. I don't see why she can't leave me be."

Peggy received the concise report of her messenger with a little grimace which hid a real disappointment.

"The silly boy!" she mused. "Next time I'll go myself. I simply won't stand his sulking. It's too absurd." Then she gave her attention to the more immediate problem.

"Well, girls, Jerry won't drive us and Lucy can't." Lucy Haines was devoting herself to making her meagre wardrobe ready for the opening of school, and for her a holiday was out of the question. "Now, what are we going to do? Give it up?"

An indignant chorus negatived that suggestion. "I used to know something about driving," said Elaine, who seemed to have developed a remarkable faculty for filling vacancies of almost any description. "But I shouldn't like to try to manage spirited horses. Now what are you all laughing at?"

"You could hardly call Nat and Bess spirited," Peggy replied, when she could make herself heard. "Not if you keep them away from hornets' nests, anyway." She explained her qualification by telling the story of the other memorable picnic, and the description of the two old horses which Farmer Cole had placed at the disposal of the cottagers entirely relieved Elaine's uncertainty.

"I'll do it, then. I seem to be a regular Jack-at-a-pinch," she laughed.

"You're an emergency girl, and I'm proud of you," Peggy declared. "The wonder of it is that we've been able to get along without you this summer. Now that you're here, you seem indispensable."

Accordingly it happened that Jerry Morton, from a point of concealment in the underbrush, watched a farm-wagon rattle past the following morning, the faces of the occupants indicating high spirits, their voices blending jubilantly, in spite of his rejection of the chance to share the day's pleasure. "The new one's driving," Jerry said to himself. "But then, they could tie the lines to the whip stock and them two old plugs would take 'em there all right, just so they didn't fall down on the way." It was a relief to him to know that his refusal had not detracted from the pleasure of the company, and yet he was inconsistent enough to resent the gay chatter and the unclouded cheeriness of the smiling faces. He plunged back into the woods, well aware that his surreptitious glimpse had not helped to ease that inner disquiet.

The drive scheduled for the morning was longer than that to Day's Woods, but the charm of their destination was worth the extra effort. The spot to which they had been directed was a knoll on the river's edge, crowned by tall pine-trees, whose needles formed a fragrant carpet. Snake River was an erratic stream, which, to judge from appearances, lived up to the principle of always following the line of the least resistance. It turned and twisted in fantastic curves, suggesting that the name Snake River might have been applied because of its serpentine windings. Charming little islands dotted its course, like green beads strung irregularly upon a silver cord. To add to its attractions, there was a dwelling near the knoll, with a barn where their horses could be cared for, and the white-haired, rheumatic old man who led Nat and Bess away to their well-earned oats, pointed out two canoes, fastened to a silver birch at the river's edge, which could be rented for the moderate sum of ten cents apiece for the entire day.

As on all well-conducted picnics, luncheon came early, and then followed the diversions which invariably contribute to the pleasure of such festive occasions. The girls strolled in the woods, picked the showy, scentless flowers, which had replaced the small, fragrant blossoms of springtime, and took little excursions on the river, two to a canoe. The strength of the current was something of a surprise. Ruth and Amy floating down the stream, and barely dipping their paddles into the water, had exclaimed over the ease of propelling the little bark. But the attempt to return to their starting-point had proved that the smoothly flowing water had a will of its own. The paddles were plied vigorously, and the girls reached the birch-tree with little beads of moisture showing at their temples, and an unusual color in their cheeks.

"Another time I'd paddle up stream and float down," exclaimed Amy, stepping ashore, and fanning herself with her hat. "I want my hard times at the start. But who would have supposed that there was such a current in this lazy old river?"

Characteristically Peggy defended the reputation of the stream. "It's not lazy a bit. Up here it winds around a good deal, but that's only its playtime. Just a mile or two below are the falls, and I think the power is carried quite a long way to some town for electric lights and that sort of thing. So Snake River's really a worker."

The drowsy hour of the afternoon had arrived. The breeze which had been so fresh in the early morning had died down. The pine-trees on the knoll rustled softly, and the sound was as soothing as a lullaby. "I believe I'll feel better for a nap," said Aunt Abigail, and forthwith settled herself on a steamer rug, spread out invitingly. The suggestion proved popular, and the younger members of the party followed her example, except that most of them stretched out luxuriously on the pine needles, sun-warmed and fragrant.

Dorothy looked about on the somnolent gathering with dismay. "Aunt Peggy, I don't like sleepy picnics. I want to play tag."

"Oh, it's too hot for tag, and, besides, you always squeal so when you're caught that it would wake everybody up. Don't you want a tiny bit of a nap?" Either because of the force of example, or because the languor of the summer day was too much even for her energy, Peggy herself was frankly sleepy.

"But I can have naps to my house." Dorothy's chin quivered in her disappointment, and Peggy surrendered with a laugh.

"Naps are a kind of fun you can have almost anywhere, can't you, dear? Well, we mustn't play tag, but we'll take one of the canoes and go on a nice little expedition all by ourselves."

Dorothy's face was radiant over the prospect of stealing a march on the sleepers. She was on her feet in a moment, tiptoeing her way with exaggerated caution. Amy opening one eye, saw the buoyant little figure trip past, and wondered vaguely what was up, though in her state of comfortable lethargy it seemed altogether too much trouble to inquire.

"Now, you must sit as quiet as a mouse," warned Peggy, lifting Dorothy into the canoe. "For these boats are the tippy kind. And this time we'll go up stream instead of down."

The twisting, winding river was unexpectedly alluring. Every bend Peggy paddled past, the point just above beckoned her onward. Her temporary drowsiness had disappeared, and she enjoyed her sense of discovery and the exercise which was vigorous without being exhausting. Knowing that the return would be both swift and easy, she did not hesitate to yield to her new-born zeal for exploration, especially as Dorothy's face was expressive of unalloyed satisfaction.

"How pretty the river is here," Peggy exclaimed at last, breaking a long, happy silence. "Prettier than below, if anything. Dorothy, aren't you glad we're not sleeping away our chance to see all this?"

"My mamma puts me to bed when I'm naughty," replied Dorothy, thereby explaining her inability to regard sleep as a diversion. "And I've been a good girl to-day."

"We've both been good girls," boasted Peggy. "Too good to be sent to bed. And oh, Dorothy, see that darling little island! What do you say to landing and exploring?"

Dorothy was ready to agree to anything which promised novelty and excitement. Accordingly, Peggy paddled into the welcoming arms of a miniature harbor, tied her craft to a convenient willow, and helped her small niece ashore.

Islands had always possessed for Peggy a peculiar fascination. The smaller they were the better, from her standpoint, since with the larger it was always necessary to remind one's self that they were not a part of the mainland. On this particular island it was quite impossible to forget for a moment that you were entirely surrounded by water.

Peggy pursued her discoveries with zest. Considering its detached and lonely state, the little island had conformed surprisingly to the ways of the mainland. Peggy found flowers of the same varieties that she had picked in the woods back of the knoll a little earlier. A blackberry vine was heavily hung with fruit, though some of the berries were dry and withered. Peggy noticed a bird's nest in a more exposed location than the little builder would have chosen elsewhere, she was sure, and she thought of the deductions Jerry would have drawn from this fact, and smiled while she sighed. Poor Jerry! She must take him in hand, and settle this absurd misunderstanding.

"Aunt Peggy," piped Dorothy, trotting at her heels, "let's not 'splore any longer. I don't like 'sploring."

"Oh, I don't want to stop till I've seen everything, Dorothy. Be a good girl and don't fret."

But Dorothy did not feel like being a good girl. One of her rare wilful moods had taken possession of her. She stood motionless, scowling at Peggy's unconscious back, and then her little face overcast and rebellious, she turned and made her way down to the willow and the waiting canoe. The latter moved gently as the water rippled past. It seemed to Dorothy to be tugging at its fastenings with an impatience that matched her own.

"You don't like 'sploring either, do you?" she said, addressing the canoe in a confidential undertone. "And—and it's very naughty of Aunt Peggy to want her own way all the time. I guess she'd be s'prised if we went off and left her."

The canoe repeated its wordless invitation. Dorothy drew closer, cast a defiant glance behind her, and then set one small foot firmly on the bottom of the uncertain craft. The responsive lurch was so unexpected that she went over in a heap, luckily landing in the bottom of the canoe, instead of in Snake River. She sat up, feeling a little frightened, and under the necessity of excusing herself.

"There, I didn't disobey Aunt Peggy, 'cept with one foot. I guess that old canoe pulled me in its own self."

Her complacency vanished with a startling discovery. The canoe had been carelessly tied and the jar of her tumble had loosened it altogether. Yielding to the current it began to move down the stream, and Dorothy's alarm found vent in an ear-splitting shriek.

"Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy!"

Peggy came crashing through the bushes, startled by the summons, and yet scarcely prepared for the sight which met her eyes. And then so rapidly did things happen, that there seemed to be no time to be frightened. For, at the first glimpse of her rescuer, foolish little Dorothy sprang to her feet. As a matter of course the canoe overturned, throwing her into the water.

Peggy's instinctive leap took no account of the depth of the stream. She could have drowned with Dorothy. It was quite impossible for her to stand by and look on while Dorothy drowned. Luckily the water, though deep at this point, was not over her head. She floundered to her feet choking and blowing, and clutched desperately at a small, damp object the current was sweeping past her. Instantly two arms went about her neck in a frantic embrace.

"Dorothy, don't hold so tight. I can't breathe."

The appeal was useless. Dorothy was beyond heeding any admonition but that of the blind instinct of self-preservation. Peggy would not have believed that there was such strength in the slender little arms. Gasping, and with reeling senses, she edged step by step nearer the shore, groping with her disengaged hand for the sloping bit of beach where she could deposit her burden. When at length her fingers came in contact with the pebbly edge the bright summer world was a black mist before her unseeing eyes.

Luckily the contact with mother earth suggested to Dorothy that here was something more stable than the swaying support to which she had been clinging so desperately. Her hold relaxed, and a minute later she was scrambling up the slope into the grass and bushes, caring for nothing except to get as far as possible from the terrible water. Peggy caught her breath, waited an instant for brain and vision to clear, and then, with the aid of the obliging willow, climbed dripping from the stream. For a minute or two she gave herself up to the luxury of being frightened. Shuddering and sick, she gazed over her shoulder at the rippling water, while one monotonous thought repeated itself over and over in her brain like a chant. "She might have been drowned. I might have been drowned. We might both have been drowned." Peggy was conscious of an overwhelming, panic-stricken longing for her mother.

Dorothy was sitting back in the bushes, crying with a lustiness which suggested that no serious consequences were to be apprehended from her plunge bath, beyond the possibility of taking cold. "I don't like 'sploring islands," she sobbed. "Let's go back, Aunt Peggy."

Peggy turned sharply. Down the stream floated the overturned canoe, already at a distance which made its recapture hopeless. A little in advance was a white straw hat, a pert bow acting as a sail. Not till that moment had it occurred to Peggy that her troubles were not yet over. Her gratitude for her escape from death was tempered by irritated dismay.

"Why, Dorothy, we can't go back! We've got to wait till they come for us. How provoking!"

Nothing was to be gained by fretting, however, and luckily other matters were soon absorbing Peggy's attention. She wrung the water from Dorothy's drenched hair and clothing, and set her in the sun to dry, a forlorn little figure of a mermaid. And then she performed a like service for herself, stopping at intervals to lift her voice in a ringing "Hal-loo!"

"Oh, dear! We're going to be so late getting home," scolded Peggy. "It'll be dark, and none of us know the roads very well." She looked longingly at the point around which at any moment a canoe might appear. "It's going to take some time to land us," she reflected, "as long as these canoes can't carry any more than two. Oh, dear, Dorothy! How much trouble you've made." And the pensive mermaid wept again, with the submissive penitence which disarms censure.

Over in the west above the treetops, the sky grew pink, deepened to crimson, paled to ashes-of-roses. The sparkling lights on the water were snuffed out one by one. The air was full of sounds, shrill-voiced insects cheeping, the pipe of frogs, the twittering of birds seeking their nests.

The downward droop of the corners of Dorothy's mouth became more pronounced.

"I don't like that noise," she protested. "It sounds as if things were all crying."

Peggy hugged the little penitent close. She did not like the sound herself. "You're pretty near dry, aren't you?" she said, trying to speak lightly.

Dorothy's answer was a grieved whimper, "Aunt Peggy, when are they coming for us?"

"I don't know, dear." The resolute cheerfulness of Peggy's tone gave no hint of her inward perturbation. What did it mean, she asked herself. What were the girls thinking of? It was growing dark. She tightened her clasp about Dorothy and the disconsolate little maid snuggled her damp head against Peggy's shoulder, and forgot her troubles in sleep.

Little flickering lights began to play about the island, as the fire-flies lit their fairy lamps. Overhead the stars came out. The warm wind of the summer night sighed through the treetops, and the sad chorus of humble earthly pipers answered from below. It seemed to Peggy as if the dear familiar world with its cheery homes and friendly faces, had been blotted out, and Dorothy and herself were alone on an unfamiliar earth. Yet with all the strange, terrifying loneliness, the stars had never seemed so bright nor the heavenly Father so near.



CHAPTER XIX

THE RESCUE

The picnickers had slept late. Elaine was the first to wake, and she lay for a moment staring at the tranquil sky above her, unable to understand why she was not viewing the ceiling of her bedroom on Friendly Terrace. Then recollection came, and she raised herself on her elbow just as Amy opened her eyes.

"Did Peggy call?" inquired Amy stretching lazily. "Is it time to wake up?"

"I didn't hear Peggy," Elaine admitted. "But I should say that it was high time for us to be stirring, unless we're going to spend the night here."

At the sound of voices, one sleeper after another gave signs of returning animation. Priscilla sat up languidly, glanced at the little watch she wore on a leather strap about her wrist, and uttered a surprised exclamation.

"Why, it's five o'clock! I thought Peggy said we were to start back at five."

"We've slept away all the afternoon," Amy commented in some vexation, as she jumped to her feet with an energy in striking contrast to her late lassitude. "I don't see why Peggy didn't wake us."

"Perhaps she didn't know how late it was getting." Priscilla, too, was on her feet. "Peggy!" she called. "Oh, Peggy!" and then stood listening vainly for the reply.

"She took Dorothy and went somewhere," Amy explained. "That was the last thing I saw. Oh, Peggy! Peggy Raymond!"

Repeated calls were fruitless. "Perhaps she went to the barn to see about the horses," was Aunt Abigail's contribution to the jumble of suggestions, and Priscilla and Ruth promptly volunteered to test its accuracy. They found that the rheumatic old man had Nat and Bess already harnessed.

"Somebody said you wanted 'em for five o'clock," he explained. "'Twasn't neither of you two. A pretty girl in white."

"Oh, yes, Peggy! But we can't find her. We thought perhaps she'd been down here."

As the rheumatic old man was unable to give them news of Peggy, the girls returned to their companions at a pace which unconsciously grew more and more rapid, as they discussed the situation. "Good joke on Peggy," Ruth said with a little laugh. "Because she's always the one that's on hand, no matter who's late."

"Yes, it's certainly a joke on Peggy." And Priscilla also laughed with a determined heartiness. But with all her air of amusement, she was conscious of a vague uneasiness.

Just as they reached the knoll they were met by Amy and Elaine. "She's out in one of the canoes," Amy said quickly, before the others could explain that their search had been without success.

"Oh!" Priscilla's sigh was expressive of relief. "Well, she'd better come in now. The old man has harnessed, and it's quite a little after five."

"We couldn't see her anywhere." Elaine took up the story as Amy was silent. "But one of the canoes is gone, so, of course, she's taken Dorothy for a little ride."

The girls were chattering like blackbirds as they went down the slope to the river. Elaine recalled Peggy's fondness for the water, and Amy remarked that it was almost a relief to have Peggy behindhand for once, she had such a mania for looking out for everybody else. The other girls contributed observations equally important, and each tried to hide from the others, if not from herself, the fact that her persistent and voluble cheerfulness was designed to silence the uneasy whisperings of an anxiety that was waxing stronger, moment by moment.

Aunt Abigail was standing at the water's edge, straining her old eyes this way and that. For the first time that summer she looked her full age.

"Call again, girls!" she commanded peremptorily. "It isn't at all like Peggy to be so late, and worry us this way. I don't like it."

It was really a relief to have some one voice an anxiety so that they could all unite in demonstrating its utter unreasonableness. But to relieve Aunt Abigail's mind, they shouted in chorus, "Peggy! Peg-gy Raymond!" and heard as they listened, the echo repeating their summons more and more faintly with each reiteration. That was all. No answering cheery hail. No musical dip of the paddle in the stream.

It was during one of these tense moments of listening that Elaine started violently, and in spite of the sunburn, which in her case had not had time to deepen into tan, she turned pale. Instantly she was bombarded by excited questions.

"What was it? What did you see, Elaine?"

"Why, I guess it's nothing. You look, girls, that dark thing on the water way over. It isn't—it can't be—"

But it was an overturned canoe. The rheumatic old man who had come up with the team towed it ashore, in the wake of its sister bark. As if in a dreadful dream, the girls heard the quavering tones of the old voice, his gray head shaking the while.

"Two of 'em, you say. The pretty girl in white and the little one. And me a-waiting on, for I don't know what. It don't seem fair, somehow."

It was ten o'clock that evening when Jerry Morton heard the news. Ill tidings travel fast, even without the help of modern invention. One of the Snooks boys, not Andy but Elisha, an older brother, brought the word, and his manner was suggestive of a certain complacency as if he felt that his own importance was increased by his momentous tidings. He found Jerry sitting on the steps, though it was long past bedtime, his chin on his hand, and his unblinking gaze fixed upon the stars, as if he were trying to stare them out of countenance.

"I don't b'lieve you've heard about the drownding."

"What d'ye mean?" Jerry's head lifted, yet his response was less dramatic than Elisha had hoped for.

"You know that Raymond girl, up to the Cottage. Well, she—"

With a cry, Jerry pounced upon his informer. The terrified Elisha struggled to free himself, gasping disconnected protests. "'Twasn't me—I didn't do it—Snake River—"

"If you're lying to me," warned Jerry, coming to his senses and loosening his hold, "you'll be sorry. Mighty sorry."

Elisha crossed his heart in proof of his veracity. "And if you don't b'lieve me, go over to Cole's and ask them."

The advice seemed good. Jerry took to his heels. It was a mistake, of course, either one of 'Lish Snooks' lies, or else a mistake. Yet a horrible doubt rose in the midst of his assertions of confidence, like the head of a snake lifted amid a bed of flowers.

At the Cole farmhouse every one was astir. Mrs. Cole who had just returned from Dolittle Cottage, and was going back to spend the night, after attending to some necessary household tasks, was crying softly as she worked and talked.

"Those poor children! Seems as if they couldn't take in what had happened. They're dazed like. The one that looks delicate, Ruth, had a bad fainting spell, and the plump little one, she breaks down and cries every now and then, but the other two, they sit around white and still, not saying a word or shedding a tear. 'Tain't natural. The Lord meant tears to ease our hearts, when the load's too heavy to bear. It worries me when I see folks taking their trouble dry-eyed."

"How are they going to let their folks know, ma?" asked Rosetta Muriel, her voice strangely subdued. The sudden tragedy had stirred her shallow nature to its depths. Though a small mirror hung against the wall at a convenient distance, she did not glance in its direction. For an hour she had not smoothed her hair, nor pulled her ribbon bow into jaunty erectness, nor indicated by any other of the familiar forms of self-betrayal the all-absorbing importance of her personal appearance. Her hands lay idle in her lap, and her face was pale, under her dishevelled hair.

"Joe'll drive over to the station with a telegram the first thing in the morning," Mrs. Cole replied. "We could telephone by going to Corney Lee's, but I don't know why the poor souls shouldn't have one more night of quiet sleep, for they can't take anything earlier than the morning train anyway. And, besides, a telegram kind of brings its own warning, but to go to the 'phone when the bell rings, and hear news like this, must be 'most more than flesh and blood can bear."

Her gaze wandered to the boy standing by the door. "You'll go over with the rest of the men in the morning, won't you, Jerry?" she asked. "I guess there won't be many sleeping late to-morrow."

Jerry had refused a chair, but had stayed on, listening to such meagre information as was to be had, the discovery of the overturned canoe, and later of Peggy's hat, stained and water-soaked. As to the cause of the catastrophe no one could be sure, though Mrs. Cole hazarded a guess. "That little Dorothy was as full of caper as a colt, and anything as ticklish as a canoe ain't safe for a child of that sort."

Looking at Jerry, the good woman was almost startled by the drawn misery of the boy's white face. She had not credited him with such keen sensibilities.

"You'd better go home and get to bed, Jerry," she said kindly. "The men are going to start as soon as it's light enough, and you'd ought to get a good sleep first."

Jerry slipped through the door without replying. Indeed he had hardly spoken since he had uttered his threat against 'Lish Snooks. As he stepped out into the night, he began to run, though his face was not set toward home, and his confused thoughts recognized no especial destination. But fast as he ran, the realization of what had happened kept pace with him, and when at last he tripped over a tangle of vines, and went sprawling, he made no effort to rise, but lay motionless, his hot tears falling on the grass.

He could never tell her. That was the bitterest drop in his cup of grief. The words he might have said yesterday could not be spoken now. It had been in his power to make her glad, to bring a sparkle into her eyes. He had had his chance and refused it. Alas! the sorrowful wisdom that one day had brought, a wisdom that had come too late for him to profit by it.

He did not know how long he lay there, his tears mingling with the falling dew. He struggled to his feet at last, limping a little, for the fall had been severe, and went on his way, still without conscious purpose. And when long after a silvery expanse shone ahead of him, he did not realize for the moment that his aimless wanderings had brought him to Snake River. He stumbled on till he reached the edge of the stream and saw in the black shadow of the trees a dugout half filled with water. For the first time in his night of wandering, a vague purpose took shape in his throbbing brain.

This was Snake River. And here was his boat awaiting him. He would take it and drift down the stream, meeting the men in the morning. There was no moon, but the night was clear and starlit, and except for the shadows cast by the trees on the bank, the river looked a luminous highway. Though he did not know the hour, he felt sure that it could not be long before the east began to grow light with the first promise of the sunrise. It would not be worth while to go home.

He fell to bailing the awkward craft, and found a certain relief in the necessity for methodical work. The water trickled in again, to be sure, but less rapidly than he could empty it out. He plugged the largest crevice with his handkerchief, untied the rotting rope, and pushed out from under the shadows into the centre of the stream. Then he let the current have its way, using an oar now and then to keep the dugout from floating ashore, or going aground on one of the numerous islands which started out of the water as if to bar his progress. Except as he roused himself for this purpose, he sat huddled on his seat without moving, his head resting on his folded arms.

The birds discovered that the morning was coming before Jerry found it out. Jubilant notes of welcome to the new day sounded above his head. He straightened himself, and made an effort to throw off the lethargy which had succeeded his paroxysms of grief. The horizon in the east was banded with yellow, and overhead the sky blushed rosily. He looked about him and tried to locate himself.

"Guess I must be just back of Denbeigh's farm. Yes, that's their windmill. I'd better row awhile. I'm a good way from Pine Knoll yet." Again he bailed out the boat and took up the oars. The dugout moved ahead like a plodding farm-horse that feels the spur and responds reluctantly.

Morning was coming as radiantly as if there were no sorrow in the world. With dull incredulity Jerry watched the sky kindle and the earth flash awake. It hurt him, all this glow and sparkle, this sweetness in the air, and the sound of the birds singing. He thought how Peggy would have loved it all and his throat ached, and he lifted his hand to his eyes to clear his vision. Then he pulled hard on his left oar, for the current was swinging him around toward a little island that rose suddenly out of the mist like an apparition.

All at once a figure stood out against the tangled green, a slender figure in white. Jerry dropped both oars, and put his hands before his eyes. When he looked again the vision had not vanished. Its hand moved in an appealing gesture.

Jerry found himself rowing frantically, a hope in his heart so like madness that he dared not let himself think what it was that he hoped for. The dugout crashed against the willow where Peggy had tied her canoe the afternoon before. And in the unreal light of the dawn, a pale, tremulous Peggy stretched out her arms with a cry. "Oh, it's Jerry! Oh, Jerry, how came it to be you?" It had been a night of weeping for many, but Peggy's tears had waited till now.

"Oh, such a time, Jerry! The canoe tipped over, and spilled Dorothy into the river, and I don't know how I ever got her out. And then we couldn't get away, and I screamed till I was hoarse, but nobody came. Oh, Jerry! I'm so glad!"

Jerry's answer seemed a trifle irrelevant. But he said the things he was certain could not be postponed another instant.

"Look here! I'm going back to school. I've been a coward, just like you said, but now I'm going to start out same as David did, and stick to it like that other fellow—I forget his name—and say! I'm—I'm sorry." He was out of breath when he finished, as if he had been straining every muscle to raise the weight, crushing, overwhelming, that had been lifted from his heart.

They picked up Dorothy without awaking her, and Jerry pulled hard for the bank. "We'll go straight up through the woods. There's a house not quarter of a mile back. Prob'ly they'll all be up and around. You see, the men were going to start early this morning, so's to—so's to—" Jerry floundered, his pale face suddenly flushing scarlet, and Peggy understood.

"Oh, Jerry!" Her voice dropped to a shocked whisper. "Oh, Jerry, they thought we were drowned." Then she uttered a little pained cry. "And at home, too? Do they know?"

"Joe's going to telegraph first thing this morning."

"He mustn't," Peggy cried fiercely. "I can't bear it. I won't bear it to have mother hurt so." Unconsciously her arm tightened about Dorothy, till the child roused with a little cry.

Jerry looked at the sun. "I guess we'll be in time to stop him," he reassured her. "Don't you fret." And then, as the boat bumped against the bank, "Here, I'll take the baby."

Jerry's conjecture proved correct. There was a light in the kitchen of the farmhouse, where the farmer's wife was preparing breakfast for the men hurrying through their morning tasks to be ready for the sombre duties awaiting them. At the sight of Jerry, with Dorothy in his arms, Peggy dragging wearily behind, the men guessed the truth, and the trio was welcomed with such shouts that Dorothy woke up in earnest. As for Peggy, she could hardly keep back the tears at the rejoicing of these total strangers over the safety of Dorothy and herself.

Jerry had thought this problem out in the toilsome climb from the river. "Say, I want the fastest horse you've got. They're going to telegraph this morning to her folks and I've got to stop 'em."

The farmer nodded comprehendingly. "I've got a three-year-old that's a pretty speedy proposition. Ain't really broken, though. Think you can manage him, son?"

"'Course I can." In his new-born zeal for atonement, Jerry felt himself equal to the management of an airship. The three-year-old was accordingly interrupted in her breakfast, expressing her dissatisfaction by laying her ears close to her head. And as she was hurriedly saddled, Jerry added, "You'll get 'em home as soon as you can, won't you? I guess by their looks they're pretty near beat out."

"We sure will." The farmer cleared his throat, for his deep voice had suddenly grown husky. "Driving the two of 'em home alive and well is a good deal pleasanter job than I'd bargained for this morning. Now look out for this here vixen," he continued, dropping suddenly from the plane of sentiment to the prosaic levels, "for she'll throw you if she can."

And while Peggy was making an effort to eat the breakfast the farmer's wife insisted on her sharing, a clatter of hoofs under the window told of Jerry's departure.



CHAPTER XX

HOME SWEET HOME

"Joy cometh in the morning." At Dolittle Cottage white-faced, sad-hearted girls had crept up-stairs to bed, and some of them had slept and waked moaning, and others had lain wide-eyed and still through the long hours, thankful for the relief of tears which now and then ran down their hot cheeks and wet their pillows. But when the dawn came, nature had its way, and the last watcher fell into the heavy sleep of exhaustion.

Apparently they all waked at once. Down-stairs was a clamor of uplifted voices, strange, choking cries, sounds that almost made the heart stop beating. And then above the tumult, a shrill fretful pipe that to the strained ears of the listeners was the sweetest of all sweet music.

"Make Hobo stop, Aunt Peggy. He's a-tickling me with his tongue."

Pandemonium reigned in Dolittle Cottage. There was a wild rush of white-robed figures for the hall, just as a girl in a dress that had once been white, and with dark circles under her eyes, came flying up the stairs. Peggy forgot her aching limbs and weariness in the transport of that moment. And then there was a little time of silence, broken only by the sound of happy sobbing, and everybody was kissing everybody else, without assigning any especial reason, and laughing through glad tears.

The appearance of Mrs. Cole, with Dorothy in her arms, was the signal for another outbreak, and perhaps Dorothy's manifest ill-humor was fortunate on the whole, for something of the sort was needed to bring the excited household down to the wholesome plane of every-day living. Camping out did not agree with Dorothy. She had caught a slight cold from her wetting, and her night's rest had been far from satisfactory. And now to be seized and passed from hand to hand like a box of candy, while people kissed and cried over her, was too much for her long-tried temper. She screamed and struggled and finally put a stop to further affectionate demonstrations by slapping Amy with one hand, while with the other she knocked off Aunt Abigail's spectacles.

"She's tired to death, poor little angel," cried Mrs. Cole, generously ignoring the fact that Dorothy's conduct was the reverse of angelic. "She wants to get to bed and to sleep, and so do the rest of you, before Lucy and me have the lot sick on our hands."

"Oh, I couldn't sleep," protested Peggy, "and I want to wait till Jerry comes, and find out if he stopped Joe from sending that telegram."

"And we're dying to hear everything that's happened," Amy cried, "and, besides, I'm afraid to go to sleep for fear I'll dream that this is only a dream."

But Mrs. Cole was firm, and Lucy Haines, who had come to the cottage before sunrise, added her entreaties to the older woman's insistence. Then everybody discovered that Peggy was very pale, and Dorothy did some more slapping, and Mrs. Cole's motion was carried. Although every girl of them, and Aunt Abigail as well, had protested her utter inability to sleep, it was not fifteen minutes before absolute quiet reigned in the second story of the cottage. Wheels ground up the driveway again and again, and penetrating, if kindly, voices made inquiries under the open windows, but none of the sleepers waked till noon.

Jerry Morton, coming to report the success of his mission, was more than a little disappointed not to secure an immediate interview with Peggy. But Lucy, who was peeling potatoes in anticipation of the time when hunger should act as an alarm clock, in the hushed second story, bade him sit down and wait. "I know she'll want to see you. She was so worried for fear the news would get to her mother."

"Well, it came mighty near it, I can tell you. Joe was just ahead of me. When I got in he was saying to the operator, 'Rush this, will you?' and I grabbed his coat and said nix." Jerry's tired face lighted up with satisfaction, and Lucy regarded him rather enviously. It seemed to her that Jerry was getting more than his share. He had found the castaways, and had spared Friendly Terrace the shock of the mistaken news, while Lucy with equally good will, was forced to content herself with peeling potatoes and like humble services.

"How did you ever come to think of looking for them?" she asked, wishing that the happy idea had occurred to her, instead of to Jerry.

"I didn't. 'Twas just a stroke of luck." Jerry told the story of his night's wandering, a recital as interesting to himself as to Lucy, for as yet he had hardly had time to formulate the record of what had happened. Before they had exhausted the fascinating theme there were sounds overhead which told that the late sleepers were at last astir.

They kept open house at Dolittle Cottage that afternoon. The country community, aroused by the news of the supposed tragedy, and then by the word that all was well, gave itself up to rejoicing. Vehicles of every description creaked up the driveway, bringing whole families to offer their congratulations. Though farm work was pressing, Mr. Silas Robbins drove over with his wife and daughter, and patted Peggy's shoulder, and pinched Dorothy's cheek. Luckily a morning in bed had done much to restore Dorothy to her normal mood, and though she bestowed a withering glance upon the gentleman who had taken this liberty, she did not retaliate in the fashion Peggy feared.

"Couldn't think of letting you get drowned, you know," remarked Mr. Robbins with ponderous humor. "A girl who can speechify the way you can, might get to be president some day, if the women's rights folks should win out. I don't say," concluded Mr. Robbins, with the air of making a great concession, "that I mightn't vote for you myself."

Mr. Smart, too, dropped in to secure additional information for the write-up, which he informed Peggy would appear in the next issue of the Weekly Arena. "Though but a country editor," said Mr. Smart feelingly, "I believe that the Press ought to be reliable, and I'm doing my part to make it so. No yellow journalism in the Arena." And he showed a little natural disappointment on discovering that even this assurance did not reconcile Peggy to the prospect of figuring as a newspaper heroine.

One of the surprises of the day was Mrs. Snooks' appearance. Never since her education had been taken in hand by the occupants of Dolittle Cottage, had she darkened its doors. But now she came smiling, and with an evident determination to regard bygones as bygones. For when she had expatiated at some length on the effect of Elisha's harrowing news upon her nerves, and had repeated in great detail what she had said to Mr. Snooks, and what Mr. Snooks had said to her, she gave a crowning proof of magnanimity.

"Now, I've got to be getting back home. Mr. Snooks is a wonderful good-natured man, but he likes his victuals on time, same as most men-folks. I wonder if you could lend me a loaf of bread? I was just that worked up this morning that I didn't get 'round to set sponge."

The bread-box was well filled, thanks to Mrs. Cole, and Peggy insisted on accompanying Mrs. Snooks to the kitchen and picking out the largest loaf. She also suggested that Mrs. Snooks should take home a sample of the new breakfast food they all liked so much. As they parted on the doorstep Peggy was sure that the last shadow of their misunderstanding had lifted, for Mrs. Snooks turned to say, "I got a new cooky cutter from the tin peddler the other day—real pretty. And any time you'd like to use it, you're perfectly welcome."

Even then the surprises of the eventful day were not over. For late in the afternoon, when the kindly strangers occupying the porch chairs were just announcing that they guessed they'd have to move on, two figures came up the walk at a swinging pace. Ruth who was a little in the background was the first to notice them, and she was on her feet in a moment, with a glad cry. There was a general movement in the direction of the new arrivals, but Ruth was the first to reach them.