Happy House

CHAPTER XI

MOONSHINE AND FAIRIES

"Good-evening, yellow Buttercups
Good-evening, daisies white,
Tell me, have you met the Moon-Queen
On this pretty night?"

The little singer made a sweeping courtesy.

"How d'you do, Miss Buttercup? Do come here now and meet Mrs. Moon!" With a gesture of exaggerated elegance she led an imaginary Buttercup out to a pool of silver where the bright moonlight slanted through the branches of an apple tree.

"Now, everybody, bow to Mrs. Moon," and the fairy-hostess bent to the ground. Then she snapped her fingers. "On with the music," she cried. Like a spirit she danced off over the grass, now scarcely more than a shadow among the shadows, now full in the moonlight, bending, swaying, leaping, arms outstretched, face lifted.

But the frolic of the fairies in the moonlight came to a sad end, for a human hand reached out from behind a tree-trunk and caught the make-believe hostess of Mrs. Moon by one thin arm.

"Lemme go!" cried the child, shrilly.

Nancy, awakened by the moonlight streaming across the rose-cabbages of her carpeting, had been lured out into the night. Halting at the raspberry patch she had heard the little singer. Cautiously, lest indeed she disturb fairies at their revels she had crept into the orchard. From a hiding place she had watched the child's mad dance.

"Sh-h! I am the Moon-Queen! Let me dance with you!" Releasing the little wriggling body Nancy threw off her slippers. "Come!" Waving her hand she danced down through the apple trees, singing:

In their dress of yellow gold,
In their petals white,
I can see the fairy folk
Gathered here to-night!

From the shadow the child watched her, sullenly, suspiciously. But with her loosened hair falling down over her pink dressing gown, Nancy herself looked an eerie little sprite; in a moment the child's alarm vanished. Of course she knew that this must be Miss Sabriny Leavitt's niece, but it was fun, anyway, to pretend that she was the Moon-Queen! And she must be very, very nice not to have "chased" her at once! And she might stop dancing, too, any moment! So out she ran to join Nancy, with hands outstretched, and together they capered and danced around among the old trees until, quite out of breath, Nancy fell upon the soft grass.

"Oh, goodness me, what fun! Now come here, Miss Fairy, and tell me who you are? Are you a fairy come from the Village of Tall Grass in yonder field?"

The child, completely won, dropped at Nancy's feet.

"I'm Nonie Hopworth."

"Oh-h!" Nancy was genuinely surprised. "Are you Davy's sister?"

The child nodded. "Yep." She regarded Nancy closely. "You're different, aren't you?"

Nancy caught her meaning. "Yes, I'm different—at least, I'm not exactly like——"

"Miss Sabriny or—or B'lindy. She'd have chased me! That's why I come here to play at night. Anyway, it's easier to pretend at night. Do you ever pretend, Miss?"

"Call me Nancy, do! Of course, I pretend, often! I love to."

"Ain't it fun—I mean isn't! I forgot. I play it 'most all the time."

Nancy looked curiously at the strange little figure, almost wraithlike in the dim light. It was hard to believe that the winsome creature could belong in Freedom—and to the "no-good" Hopworths.

There was grace in every movement of the thin little body not in the least concealed by the worn, soiled, out-grown dress. Two dark, burning, eager, questioning eyes told of a spirit that lived above and beyond the sordid, colorless monotony of a life with old Dan'l Hopworth and Liz, who "didn't believe a feller oughta have any fun!"

"What do you pretend, Miss Nancy?"

Nancy laughed and rubbed the soles of her bare feet.

"Well, once I pretended I was the Moon-Queen and I scratched my poor feet dreadfully. What do you pretend?"

Nonie rocked back on her heels.

"Oh, lots and lots of different things. My every-day game is Rosemary. She's my make-believe chum. She lives down in the haunted house on the North Hero road, only when I pretend, of course, the house isn't haunted. And it's got lovely glass things from the ceiling for candles and they sparkle like rainbows and diamonds. Rosemary and I play games and we—we read and tell each other stories and sometimes she helps me with the work, when Liz ain't around. Only Rosemary don't believe in fairies. She says that's baby, so when she's away I pretend fairy."

"When the moon shines——"

"Oh, yes, it's nicer then. And you can't play-fairy round our house because there ain't—there are not—any flowers. So I come here—there are such lots of pretty shadows—and nice smells. I pretend all the flowers come out from the garden and have a party. It's fun having the flowers, 'cause you can just tell how they'll act. You know a tulip's going to be awful tall and proud and bow—like this! And a rose'll act shy, and a buttercup's pert. And a daisy's 'shamed 'cause her dress ain't better—I mean isn't. And a dandelion's awful bold. And a daffy-down-dilly—oh, they're jolly!"

"How perfectly delightful! Tell me more, Nonie. I believe you have a witch for a fairy grandmother!"

Nonie giggled. "That's 'nother of my games. I've had that for a long time. She's coming some day and touch me with a wand and make me into a beautiful lady. And I'll go out and step into my carriage and a footman all shiny and white will say: 'To her Majesty's!' And I'll sit in the best parlor and drink chocolate and real whipped cream from cups with pink roses on 'em, and a page will say: 'Do have another piece of cake, your ladyship,' and—and I'll say, 'I couldn't hold another mouthful, thanks, I've had five!'"

Nancy and Nonie laughed together. Then Nonie sighed.

"Do any dreams ever come true? I mean the kind of things you sit and think about and want?"

"Maybe, if you dream hard enough, Nonie," Nancy answered, soberly.

"'Course I know some of the things I pretend can't come true but maybe some will. Miss Denny told me they might. Only she said I'd have to make 'em. She's my teacher. I love her. I guess you're most as nice as she is. She gives me books and tells me when I say bad grammar. She says we must just think beautiful things and then put them into the right words—but it's hard! I forget awful easy. She don't—I mean, she does not—think I'm queer. Liz calls me 'loony!'"

"Oh, no—Nonie," protested Nancy, "Liz just can't understand."

"But you do, don't you? Miss Denny did, too." Nonie was silent for a moment. "After I've learned a lot more I want to go out in the world with Davy and make a fortune. I don't know just how—but I want to do grand things. There's some places, ain't there—aren't there—that's so big folks wouldn't know we were Hopworths? Davy says he wants to go to sea and Liz says he'll come to no good end like Pa, but mebbe I can take him with me." She sighed. "It's awful long off 'til I grow up, though, I'm only twelve."

Then Nonie added slowly, as though she was sharing a secret: "There's one more thing I pretend. After I go to bed I shut my eyes tight and pretend that a beautiful lady with hair all gold and eyes that twinkle like stars and smile at you, comes and sits by my bed and takes hold of my hand and pats it and then kisses me, sort of on my forehead, and says: 'Good night, sweetness,' like that, in a voice that's soft like music and not a bit of the holler-kind!" Nonie gave a little sigh of rapture. "It's nice, you see, to have a make-believe mother like that! I s'pose a real one wouldn't have time. Anyways, Liz says she'd like to see a real mother do more for young 'uns than she does!"

Nancy blinked a sudden rush of tears from her eyes. She felt that she had seen bared the very soul of a child—a soul hungry for kindness and for love. She reached out and took one of the small hands in her own.

"Nonie—let's you and I play lots together. I can give you books, too. We'll read them together. You can come to Happy House often in the daytime."

Nonie shook her head doubtfully.

"Liz won't let me. She says there ain't—there isn't—no use my going off and leaving my work. She says school's bad enough!"

"Does Liz—punish—you much?"

"She chases Davy and me with the broom sometimes. And she scolds, too, but we don't mind, 'cause she's scolding all the time. I wish she would whip us—or lock us up—or—or send us to bed! It'd be like other kids, then."

The strangeness of a child longing for punishments that would make her life seem like other childrens' shocked Nancy! She looked at the thin body—was poverty starving the physical being while neglect starved the spirit?

"I'll talk to Liz myself. We'll see what I can coax her to do," Nancy declared resolutely. "We'll be chums, Nonie."

"Oh, then I won't have to play 'bout Rosemary! So, you are as nice as Miss Denny. You don't know her, do you? But she'll come back in the fall and sometime, I guess, she'll be Mr. Peter's dearest."

"What do you mean, Nonie," demanded Nancy.

"Well, Mr. Peter's the nicest man I know 'cause he's awful—nice to Davy and me, and Miss Denny's the nicest lady and so she'll be his dearest! He don't—he doesn't—know her yet but he will in the fall and so will you."

"I may not," Nancy answered, rather coldly, "so your Miss Denny may have your Mr. Peter all to herself. And now something tells me it's time for fairies to be in bed! If you'll hand me my slippers I'll dance with you to the gate—only we must be very, very still or we'll waken B'lindy!"

From the gate of Happy House Nancy watched the child's figure disappear in the shadows of the road. In a very little while she would be crawling into her deserted bed, pulling the clothes up over her head and pretending that a mother's hand was caressing her to sleep and a voice that never "hollered" was whispering "goodnight."

"Blessed child," thought Nancy, "her fairy godmother has given her one gift that even Liz can't take away from her—imagination!"

CHAPTER XII

LIZ

Old Jonathan, returning from his daily trip to the postoffice, brought home the news that "there'd be doin's on Fourth of July 'count of the soldier boys—that Webb'd said it'd got to be a Fourth that not a child in Freedom'd forget!" And B'lindy had retorted that "it wa'nt likely, I guess, if Webb got up the doin's anyone would—they'd be doin's no one could forget!"

But Nancy's interest in the coming event gave way with a quickly smothered exclamation of delight when Jonathan drew from an inside pocket a square, bluish envelope with a foreign postmark, redirected in Mrs. Finnegan's most careful handwriting.

"And here's another," he added, bringing forth a letter from Claire.

"You're a dear," cried Nancy, hugging her treasures. "If you'll take this pan of peas, Jonathan, I'll run off and read them!"

B'lindy watched Nancy disappear toward the orchard with mingled amazement and disapproval. "There never was a letter I got I'd set by my work for! That's a young one for you!"

Out in her Bird's-nest Nancy held up the two envelopes. "I'll save you 'til last, Daddy," she whispered, kissing the handwriting she loved.

Claire's letter was short and yet so like her that Nancy could have believed her friend was there with her—talking to her.

"I'm perfectly miserable, and I can't let mother guess—she tries to make everything so jolly for me. But I'm just plain homesick for college and you girls. The summer isn't a bit what I'd planned. Barry went away before I got home. Mother thought he'd come back but he didn't, and the maddening thing is she won't tell me where he is. She said Barry was 'getting settled.' Isn't that absurd? I suppose he's gone off to the Canadian Rockies or maybe to Japan. But I don't see why mother has to make a secret of it! The war's changed all the men I know—none of them seem as nice. They're so restless and act so old. But then, I'm restless, too, and feel as old as the hills. For heaven's sake, Nancy, hurry up and do your duty by Anne's relatives and come here to me—I need you!"

"Funny Claire," laughed Nancy, talking aloud in the way she had learned at Happy House. "She's always trying to make herself think she's miserable. But Barry is a pill! Now, Daddy mine!"

Because she must make her moment of joy last as long as possible, she spread out each page; she peeped into the envelope to be certain that she had them all; she touched ever so lightly the penned lines; she even sniffed joyously at the paper in a vain hope of detecting the familiar odor of Havana tobacco.

The letter had been three weeks on its way. And it was in answer to one Nancy had written to him from college, soon after Anne's plans to go to. Russia had been completed.

"* * * * That is fine in Anne, but it seems to me, that in the enthusiasm of her youth she's overlooking opportunities for service closer at hand. These problems over here are so tremendous—they, need a tried mind and the wisdom of years. You know, my dear, if you want to do things to make this world better you can generally find them waiting for you in your very own corner! Wherever you look you will see the destruction of prejudice, ignorance, selfishness and pride—you don't have to go to Russia to find it!

"In a few weeks my baby will be graduated. I cannot picture you grown up. Perhaps you will never seem so to your Dad. I feel as though these months that I have spent over here away from you must have made many changes in my girl—they have cheated me of a great deal of joy in your development. But I hope that the dignities you have acquired have not changed the dear, kind, joyous heart of you!

"You tell me you have decided upon a 'career,' but you will not tell me what—little torment! Is it something in which I can help? If it is useful and honorable, my child, it will bring you happiness, whatever it is. I hope it is a hard one, too, the more you have to work the more satisfaction you will enjoy.

"Now for good news. My work over here is done. As soon as I can get passage I will sail for home, I can't think of anything else. I thought I'd spend my unexpected holiday nosing around in the places where I've always wanted to go—but I can't. I'm too impatient to enjoy anything. So I shall camp on the doorstep of the G. H. Q. Office until word of my sailing comes. I suppose you are at the apartment under Mrs. Finnegan's loving eye. When I return we'll run off to the seashore or mountains for a few weeks."

"Dear, dear thoughtful Daddy—nice, old, preachy Daddy—with your sugar-coated sermons in little pellets, all easy to swallow!" cried Nancy, laughing, then suddenly a sob choked her, another and then another.

"It's almost dreadful to have Daddy have just me. What if he is disappointed when he sees me! What if he is—angry—at what I've done!"

For the next few moments poor Nancy sorely needed the support of Anne's convincing arguments! Remorse of the most torturing kind swept her.

And she had dared to judge Miss Sabrina's standards of honor and justice!

"I'll go away," she cried, aloud. "I'll go straight back to Mrs. Finnegan's where I belong."

But this determination, soothing at it was, brought added problems. Nancy's brow wrinkled with a deep frown of perplexity. It would not be fair to Anne to just run away—she'd have to give some explanation to Miss Sabrina and Miss Milly and B'lindy, and even Webb. And just now, in her present mood, anything but the absolute truth seemed abhorrent to her.

Then she thought of Aunt Milly—dear little Aunt Milly. She was a different creature now from the pale little woman Nancy had first seen on the couch in the darkened room. Each day, when she did not go to the orchard, she spent in the sitting room or on the hollyhock porch, knitting and helping in little household tasks. And Nancy knew by the wistful glance that met hers when she came and went, how Aunt Milly hungered for her company. Nancy had told herself that it was because she was young and that she seemed, perhaps, like what Aunt Milly had wanted to be—before the dreadful accident.

What would Aunt Milly's life be if she went suddenly out of it?

There was Davy, too, and all she had planned to start for the Club and Nonie—

What must Nonie think? She had let a whole day go by and had not seen Liz!

Nancy re-read her father's letter. "If you want to do things to make this world better you can generally find them waiting for you in your very own corner!" Funny—that Daddy should have written just that! Nancy folded her letter with a sigh of relief. "Of course, there's work right here and maybe—I'd be a coward to run away—just now. The wrong was done when I came!"

The logic was youthful, but then Nancy, despite the dignity of graduation was very youthful, too. Her mind made up she looked very resolute. She'd go and call upon Liz that very afternoon.

However, she must know more concerning the Hopworth's before she braved Liz on her own ground. So she sought out the all-wise B'lindy.

B'lindy was most generous with her information.

"I guess the Hopworths ain't any concern of yours, Miss Anne. The Leavitts al'las visited mostly with good folks like the Allens and the Chamberlains and the Fiskes over in South Hero, and the Hills up to Isle Le Motte and the Eatons and Todds, here to Freedom. Time was when the best come to Happy House—Miss Sabriny's mother liked company—but not trash like the Hopworth's!"

"But why are they trash, B'lindy? What do they do? Webb says they're an old family, that they've been here as long as the Leavitts."

B'lindy snorted. "Webb's tongue's tied in the middle and wags both ends and I guess most of the time at the wrong end! Mebbe they are old—you can't kill off folks same's you can a strain of cattle. They don't do nothin', Miss Anne, that's it—they don't do nothin'. They're just shiftless, no-good folks. Old Dan'l don't work—never did, and his pa before him. And that Eric—he was worst of all!"

"Who was Eric?" begged Nancy.

"Old Dan'l's son and as bad a boy as ever tormented a neighborhood. But no one knew he'd be anything but no-good, and he wasn't. Ran off to sea. Folks never heard much 'bout him, but they knew they wouldn't hear anything good, anyway. Then, sudden-like, he turns up with two young 'uns. Brought 'em to old Dan'l to keep. One was a girl and the other, a baby in his arms, was a boy."

Freedom folks had never lost their enjoyment in this episode of Eric Hopworth's adventurous life. B'lindy, happy now in her tale, made the most of it.

"I guess there were a lot of stories 'bout them young uns, but old Dan'l never made a sign 'bout which was true. And Eric Hopworth went off's suddenly as he come, leavin' those two more Hopworth's for old Dan'l to feed and bring up, and for the folks 'round here to watch, unless they wanted all their apples stolen and their chickens killed! Mis' Tubbs told Mis' Sniggs that she see a marriage certificate and that the mother'd been one of them actor-women down in New York and she thought like's not the woman died when the boy was born. Mis' Jenkins sez she'd heard other stories over in North Hero! Anyways old Dan'l's as close-mouthed as a stature!"

"And who's Liz?" asked Nancy.

"Old Dan'l's half-sister. He brought her over from Bend after the young 'uns came, to do for 'em."

Nancy mused for a moment. There was not much use in telling B'lindy that she was going to call upon Liz—it would take days and days of argument to overcome the heritage of prejudice in B'lindy's mind. Perhaps, for the present, she had better keep Nonie in the orchard.

It had not needed B'lindy's description for Nancy to recognize the Hopworth dwelling, if by such a name could be called the four weather-beaten walls hanging crazily together as though by a last nail. A litter of debris cluttered the bare ground around the house and between the shed and the unused barn. Back of the shed an old man slouched in the sun.

The door sagged on its one hinge, partly open. When Nancy knocked a gaunt, slatternly woman, in the room within, turned with a scowl.

As Nancy's eyes, sweeping over the dirty, crowded room, came back to the hard face before her, she sickened at the thought of little Nonie, with her "dreams," growing in this environment. Then, as Liz' scowl gave place to a sullen indifference, Nancy realized that the most marked thing about the woman was a resigned hopelessness.

Nancy, choosing her words carefully, introduced herself. As Liz' unfriendliness discouraged any advances, Nancy plunged straight to the point. She had taken a fancy to the children, she explained—would Miss Hopworth permit Nonie and sometimes Davy, to come often to Happy House? She, Nancy, found it a little lonesome at Happy House and she would enjoy their company.

Liz dropped a pan with a bang. "I'll tell you just's I tell her—there ain't goin' to be any more traipsing 'way from her work all the time like with the schoolmar'm either to Happy House nor nowhere. All them notions is settin' the girl loony goin' on with her lies and things 'bout things bein' differunt. She'll stay right to home!"

And to prevent further argument Liz' head bent meaningly toward the door.

But at that moment a shadow crossed it. Mrs. Sniggs, very gingerly, thrust a head inside. Under her arm she carried a kettle. Once in a while old Dan'l mended the village kettles.

"How d'do," snapped Liz.

But Mrs. Sniggs, with an uplift of her nose that said plainly: "I don't even see you," put her kettle near the door without a word and turned to depart. At which Liz, in a loud tone, exclaimed: "Most certainly, Miss Leavitt, we're delighted! Our Nonie can visit you up to Happy House real often!"

Liz knew and Nancy knew, by the tell-tale shadow that lingered across the threshold that Mrs. Sniggs had heard; Nancy blessed the good fortune that had brought the woman there at that moment!

Walking homeward, her mind full of plans of all she wanted to do for Nonie and Davy, Nancy with a shudder recalled the Hopworth home—and Liz. Something in the tired eyes haunted her. "Maybe," she thought with a pang of pity, "maybe she's as—starved—as Nonie!"

CHAPTER XIII

THE FOURTH OF JULY

B'lindy had said, truly, that "she guessed if Webb got up the Fourth of July doin's they'd be doin's no one'd forget!"

Webb's "doin's" took the form of a parade—a parade in which the very young and the very old should take part. At its head Webb himself would march, with the two recently returned soldiers, one on each side. The young people would come in costumes depicting the characters of the men associated with the Island history.

"Mrs. Eaton wants you to help her dress the children, Anne," Miss Sabrina had announced, the day before the Fourth. "She asked me to ask you to be at the meeting-house at 9 o'clock.

"Oh, I'd love to," Nancy had responded eagerly.

"It is very nice of her, I am sure," Miss Sabrina had added. "She wants to be pleasant." And a hint of apology in Miss Sabrina's voice made Nancy suddenly think that perhaps Mrs. Eaton was not always pleasant.

She remembered that B'lindy had added the Eaton name to the list of acquaintances possible to a Leavitt.

The very air of that Fourth of July morning was a-tingle with excitement. When Nancy turned into the village street it seemed to her filled with people, all in Sunday-best and holiday spirits. The green in front of the meeting-house was alive with eager, tumbling youngsters.

Mrs. Eaton, a large woman with what Nancy called a prune mouth and watery blue eyes, greeted Nancy effusively. Nancy was a "dear"—she said it with a rising squeak—to help her! There wasn't a great deal to do—the little dears were going to wear white caps and capes and represent a band of peace; the girls would carry wreaths of white syringa. She'd thought of it all herself—two days before.

"I'm so glad to be rushed to death," she explained, patting down a small cap on a small head. "Of course you know my Archie is still in Germany!"

Nancy had not known it, nor, indeed, anything about Archie, but she nodded sympathetically.

"Cyrus Eaton says I'm a wonder—just a wonder! But I suppose I ought to be thankful my Archie's come through without losing any of his arms or legs! Now, my dear, if you'll fix the rest of these children I'll run down and look at the Indian Chiefs. Bless me, I don't know what Webb'd do without me. But then, I'm glad to do it—it keeps my mind off Archie." She panted off with a patronizing smile that took in Nancy and the group of staring youngsters.

To Nancy, whose life had been spent mostly in the big cities of the world, this glimpse of village life was a novel experience. She loved it—the spontaneous gaiety of it all, the round-eyed children that crowded to her, noisily clamoring to have their "things" put on. The notes of a bugle floated up the street. Fire crackers popped off with the regularity of machine-gun fire. From every side came loud, eager voices. She was glad she was a part of it all. As she finished arranging its cap, she patted each head, just as Mrs. Eaton had done, but in Nancy's smile there was something that had not been in Mrs. Eaton's, so she invariably won a quick smile in response.

Suddenly Nancy spied Nonie and Davy, hand in hand, watching the other children from a little distance. Their childish longing betrayed itself in the unwonted way their hands clung together, in the wistfulness of their faces. Nancy hailed them.

"Come along—hurry!" she cried. They ran eagerly to her. Nancy seized a cape and a cap.

"Dast we?" asked Davy, very gravely.

"Why, of course. Quick—take this cap, Davy. Here, Nonie, is a wreath. Now—stand here—in this line!" She placed them between two other children. "All of you—faces forward! Be ready for the signal. Right foot—don't forget."

Mrs. Eaton bustled up. "Everything ready, my dear? It's perfectly beautiful—just beautiful!" in breathless staccato. "I wish my Archie could see it! I'm actually inspired!" Her red, moist face suggested that she had made a mistake in her choice of words. She ran around the group of children, standing in ragged file, impatiently awaiting the signal to start. "The little dears—just like a beautiful band of peace!" Suddenly she stared and her face flushed a darker red. "Nonie Hopworth, how dared you come here!"

Nonie's lips quivered and her eyes went imploringly to Nancy. Davy tossed his head defiantly. Neither answered.

"I called them, Mrs. Eaton."

Now there was no "my dear" on Mrs. Eaton's tongue. It clicked sharply against her teeth. She was too outraged, too, to pick her words.

"Get right away!" She seized Davy by the shoulder. "Little good-for-nothings! This is a patriotic celebration and we don't want any Hopworth's in it!"

Nancy's eyes blazed. "Oh, Mrs. Eaton! Don't—they're just children! They——"

"You're a stranger here in Freedom, Miss Leavitt—I'll be pleased if you'll let me manage this! I say it's an insult to our heroes to have Eric Hopworth's young 'uns here—an insult to Freedom's noble history!" The ruffles on her bosom heaved in her anger. "What'd Eric Hopworth do for his country! When I think of my Archie——" What she might have thought did not find expression, because of the pins she was tearing roughly from Nonie's cape and thrusting between her teeth. "Go off now," she panted between the shining row. "Go off where you came from!"

Then, almost simultaneously with the approach of a dishevelled Indian hollering between cupped hands that "p'rade's goin' start," came Webb's warning whistle from down the street. Mrs. Eaton straightened to an appropriate dignity of bearing. She made a waving motion of her arm toward her little dears that ignored Nancy, standing back, dumb with the cruelty of it all.

But Nonie's crestfallen face stung Nancy to sudden action. While the band of peace fluttered wildly back to its position, Nancy, with an arm about each, moved with the children toward the church. She moved quickly, too, for a sudden inspiration had seized her. She remembered three flags on standards in the Sunday-school room. She bade Davy get them.

"Do just what I tell you," she commanded. "The cat!" she threw over her shoulder.

All Freedom was too intent upon catching a first glimpse of Webb's host moving up the village street to notice the strange sight of Nancy and her companions racing through the back yards and fields that skirted the main thoroughfare. A long tear in Nancy's skirt testified to the speed with which she had climbed all obstacles. Such was the fire in her soul that she could have climbed a mountain!

In the shade of a wide maple tree, B'lindy, resplendent in fresh gingham and her good-as-new-last-year's-hat, watched Webb's "doin's" with a heart that fluttered with pride. No town in the whole Island could turn out more folks! But, then, no town on the Island had a prouder history!

With his badges glittering on the faded blue coat, Webb marched at the head of his "p'rade" in his uniform of the Grand Army of the Republic. On either side of him stepped the recently returned soldiers, their young-old faces turned straight ahead, their worn tunics attesting to other lines of march through other village streets. Behind them were the three soldier boys who had not "gone across." In pure enjoyment of the occasion they had forgotten the resentment against fate that they had cherished. A group of boys and girls in Indian costume portrayed that epoch of Freedom's history. One great warrior brandished a tomahawk that had been dug up in a nearby field and was now kept in a suitable setting at the post-office. Close at their heels followed four staid Puritan men, broad white collars pinned over Sunday coats. Ethan Allen and his brother Ira, beloved heroes of the little Islands, were there in character. Two lanky lads wore the uniform of 1861. Mrs. Eaton's "band of peace" in straggling lines, brought up the rear.

Greeted from each side by lusty cheers, through a cloud of dust, to the tap-a-tap-tap of three proud drummers, the pageant moved down the street. It had been Webb's plan that the "p'rade" should halt before the stoop of the hotel, where Mr. Todd, the postmaster, in a collar much too high and a coat much too tight, waited to give an address of welcome. But as Webb's eyes roved with pardonable pride over the fringe of spectators on each side of the line of march, they suddenly spied an unexpected sight. On the stepping block in front of the school house stood Nancy, her white skirts blowing, with Nonie and Davy on each side. And each held, proudly upright, an American flag.

It was a pretty sight—the colors of the flags fluttering over the three bare heads, the young faces tilted earnestly forward. Webb saw in it a friendly effort on Miss Anne's part to add to the success of his "doin's." So as the line of march approached the stepping-block, he solemnly saluted the three.

Advancing, the returned soldiers also saluted, stiffly. The drummers lost a beat in order to wave their drumsticks. The Indians gaily brandished their clubs, the Puritans nodded, the "boys in blue" mimiced their heroes of the hour with a stiff bending and jerking of their right arms.

But then and there Mrs. Eaton fell back from her position at the head of the "band of peace." Nancy, wickedly watching from the corner of a perfectly innocent appearing eye, saw her give a gasp as she stepped aside.

Nonie and Davy, exalted into an ecstasy of joy over the part they had finally played in the celebration, stared in amazement at Nancy's suppressed peals of laughter, to which she gave way only when the last wee dove of peace had trailed off toward the hotel. And not only Davy and Nonie stared; from out of the spectators came Peter Hyde.

"I have cooked my goose—now," giggled Nancy, wiping her eyes and holding out a hand. "She was so funny! But I have outraged Freedom's noble history!" Nancy twisted her lips to resemble Mrs. Eaton's.

"If you'll let me help you down we might hurry and hear some of the Honorable Jeremiah Todd's oration," suggested Peter Hyde.

Nancy jumped lightly to the ground. "I wouldn't dare," she answered. "Mrs. Eaton only waits to tear me limb from limb! I saw it in her pallid eye. You don't know what I've done! Davy, you and Nonie carry these flags carefully back to the Sunday-school. And what do you say—in celebration of this day—to a swim—this afternoon, at the Cove!"

They exclaimed their approval of the suggestion. Nonie lingered.

"Do you know what I pretended then?" she asked, affectionately gripping Nancy's arm. "I pretended I was Joan of Arc, all in white, riding on a big horse with bugles, calling to my army. Miss Denny read to me all about it. Oh, it was grand!" She sighed, because the moment had passed. Davy pranced impatiently.

"Oh, come 'long—stop yer actin' lies!" Then, to Nancy, with a questioning look that said such fortune seemed too good to be true: "'Honest?' 'Bout the swimmin'."

Nancy nodded mysteriously. "Honest to goodness—at three bells!"

She watched the children scamper away, then turned eyes dark with indignation to Peter Hyde.

"How can anyone be cruel to children?" she cried. "How can anyone hurt them?"

Peter did not know what she was talking about, but he agreed with all his heart.

"Kids—and dogs and cats and—little things," he added. "I shot a rabbit once when I was fifteen, and when I went up to get it, it was still breathing, and looked so pitiful and small—I couldn't help but feel that it hadn't had a chance 'gainst a fellow like me. I had to kill it then. That was enough for me! I haven't shot—any sort of living things—like that—since!"

His step shortened to Nancy's and together they turned their backs upon Jeremiah's cheering audience and walked slowly homeward. Her mind concerned with the children, Nancy told Peter all that had happened—of finding Nonie in the orchard, of the child's "pretend" games, of her call upon Liz. Then she concluded with an account of the incident of the morning mimicing, comically, Mrs. Eaton's outraged manner.

"As if it would hurt her or her Archie or—or anyone else in this old place to make two youngsters happy," Nancy exclaimed, disgustedly. "I'm going to do everything I can, while I'm at Happy House, to make up to them," she finished.

Peter assured her that he wanted to help. How much the desire was inspired by sympathy for Nonie and Davy or by the winning picture Nancy made, her rebel strands of red-brown hair blowing across her flushed cheeks, no one could say. And when at the gate of Happy House they separated, Peter promising to be on hand at the Cove at four o'clock, Nancy watched him swing down the road with a pleasant sense of comradeship.

CHAPTER XIV

MRS. EATON CALLS

"Oh, shades of Odysseus," muttered Nancy. From the swing on the hollyhock porch she had spied Mrs. Eaton coming up the flagged path to the front door.

As she sat idly swinging, Nancy had been trying over the deeply emotional lines that Berthé, the much-suffering heroine of her dear play, should say when the villain proved to be her lover in disguise. A chance glance through the syringas had acquainted her with the alarming fact that an avenging enemy approached.

It was the day after the Fourth of July. As yet not a word had come to Happy House concerning Nancy's part in the celebration.

There was not time for Nancy to escape; however, it was not likely that Miss Sabrina would take such a guest out to the porch. Nancy heard her greet the newcomer, then their steps approached the sitting-room. The swing was at the other end of the porch. Nancy, hugging her knees, could not be seen from the sitting-room windows and, anyway, the blinds had been shut to keep out the hot morning sun. Through their slats Nancy heard Mrs. Eaton's effusive greetings.

"I might as well hear what the cat tells," Nancy concluded. The fate of the proverbial eavesdropper did not alarm her in the least; she felt the resignation, of a child that knows he faces punishment.

Mrs. Eaton spent several moments explaining, how often she "had had a mind to drop in for a little chat."

"But I am a different woman with my Archie away! Cyrus says he don't know how I bear up so well. You don't know, of course, a mother's feelings!" Did Nancy imagine that she heard a rustling, as though Aunt Sabrina had suddenly straightened in her chair? "And I said to Cyrus that he don't even know a mother's feeling that's raised a boy right from the cradle!"

Miss Sabrina inquired politely as to the last word of Archie, and, with satisfied pride, the mother recounted Archie's description of the difficulties that had confronted the Allied occupancy of the Rhinelands. Archie's mother truly believed that Archie alone bore that tremendous responsibility.

"And Archie and me are as like as two peas," she added.

It was, of course, only a matter of a few moments before Mrs. Eaton led up to the event of the day before. Nancy caught the crisp change in the woman's voice. The story gained much in her telling—of Nancy's impertinence in forcing the Hopworth young 'uns among her "little dears," then how she had, though fully aware of her, Mrs. Eaton's, explicit orders, flaunted Eric Hopworth's brood in the face of every respectable man, woman and child of Freedom—actually desecrating the very flags she had—taken—out of the Sunday-school room.

The story was interrupted by many sighs and sniffs.

"Of course everybody on this Island that knows me and my Archie, Cyrus says, will feel for me. I might as well as not of been slapped in the face. And I said to Cyrus, "I think Miss Leavitt ought to know—she's taken that girl there!" And Cyrus and I both said that of course no one would be surprised, seeing she's that branch of your family where I suppose—you'll forgive me for speaking right out plain, you can expect almost any kind of actions!"

Nancy swung her feet down out of the hammock. "The cat," she breathed, straightening. She could see that stinging shaft plunge straight into poor Aunt Sabrina's heart and turn! She held her breath for Aunt Sabrina's answer.

Miss Sabrina's voice was cold and her words measured. "I am very sorry this has happened, Mrs. Eaton. But I am sure my niece did not dream of impertinence. She has not been here long enough to know of our prejudices!"

"Bully!" Nancy, said, almost aloud. "That's a time when breeding shows!"

Mrs. Eaton was plainly annoyed at Miss Sabrina's defence. Her voice took on a crisper edge. "She's been here long enough to pick up with Judson's hired man! Your notions may be different from mine, Miss Leavitt, but I wouldn't 'low any girl of mine to go swimming at Cove's Hole with the Hopworth young 'uns! Dick Snead told his mother and his mother told my Cousin 'Manthy. Ain't there any better folks she can take up with on this Island than a hired man and the Hopworths?" Her shrill inflection seemed to say, "There—I have you now!"

Nancy's feet beat a war-dance. She wanted to rush in to her own defence—had Dick Snead told his mother and his mother told Cousin 'Manthy that she had swam forty strokes under water? Discretion, however, bade her use caution.

A rustling indicated that the caller, her errand accomplished, had risen to go. She shot her last tiny, poisoned arrow. "Of course I said to Cyrus all of us on the Island know all that poor Miss Leavitt's had to stand, what with her brother and then her sister! And that's why, I said to Cyrus, Miss Leavitt ought to know about these goings on, or else something else would come down on your poor head! I must run along, now, 'Manthy came in to watch my jam. That Carroll girl I got over at Greenfield isn't worth her keep—you have to watch her every moment!"

All the pride of generations of Leavitts must have come to Miss Sabrina's rescue at that moment! She met the final thrust with calm dignity.

"My niece is only making me a very short visit, Mrs. Eaton. It is hardly worth while for me to interfere with her conduct."

Nancy was struck dumb with amazement. What did Aunt Sabrina mean—that this silly little affair ended her stay at Happy House? What would Anne think? Oh, what a mess she had made of everything! Of course she had expected that something might happen any moment; after one day had safely passed, she had always thought it might be the next; had she not told Anne that she was certain to make some dreadful blunder? But it was a shame to go away in disgrace when she had not really done anything, after all!

Indignation of the most righteous sort began slowly to master Nancy's consternation. Well, if she did have to go she would allow herself, just once, the sweet satisfaction of telling Miss Sabrina what she thought of the Leavitts and their sense of honor! She rushed headlong into the sitting-room.

"I heard what that—that creature said," she blurted out. "I don't know why God makes women like that! What would you think, Aunt Sabrina, if you'd seen her take a whip and lash those children across their bare bodies? And that wouldn't have been as bad as what she really did do, for those hurts would have healed, and the way she hurt their spirits wouldn't ever heal! She is cruelly unjust—and unkind!"

Poor Miss Sabrina looked very old and very tired—far too tired to meet this impetuous attack! Something in the unyieldingness of her expression drove Nancy to utter abandon.

"Oh, I suppose I'll have—to go away! But I'm glad—everything is all wrong at Happy House. There's no happiness here—at all. Fath—someone I love used to tell me that happiness comes to you as you give happiness, and that's what's the matter here—you don't give happiness! You live—apart—and you just wrap yourself round with the traditions of the Leavitts and all that—tommyrot! I'm glad I'm not—a—I'm glad I'm the—the other branch. I guess the golden rule is better than any family honor and that it doesn't matter at all what all the people who are dead and gone've done—it's what the people who are living are doing—that counts!"

Breathless from her outburst and frightened by its daring, Nancy burst into tears and rushed from the room.

In the aftermath of calm that followed the storm, Nancy woefully faced the consequences of what she had done. How silly it would all sound to Anne when she heard it! Anne would tell her, of course, what she would have done—but then, Anne had always been able to control every word and every action.

Nancy, staring about at the four walls of her room in very much the same way she had done that first day of her coming to Happy House, realized that they were not so ugly, after all. Their height gave a sense of coolness and space; the branches of an old cherry tree brushed her windows; from below came all sorts of sweet smells out of Jonathan's garden; the incessant twittering of birds and the humming of insects made the summer air teem with busy, happy life. It was pleasant, she sighed—much pleasanter than a flat in Harlem in July!

"Well, I won't pack until I get my dishonorable discharge, and I can't get away until Webb's stage goes, anyway! I'll take Miss Milly once more to the orchard."

Miss Milly went to the orchard so often now that it had become a part of almost every day's routine, and it was no longer necessary that B'lindy and Jonathan should make up the party, though they went more often than not. This day Aunt Milly declared everything particularly nice, but she thought it was because she and Nancy were alone—she could not know that Nancy had been doing her best to make it an afternoon Aunt Milly would never forget—"because it's probably the last!"

They lingered in the orchard until almost supper-time. Then Nancy sought the kitchen. She liked to drop in on B'lindy, help her in some small way in the preparation of the evening meal, and chat at the same time. She was astounded, now, to find Aunt Sabrina, with a very red face, bending over the kitchen stove.

B'lindy, sitting very straight in the chair by the window, gave the explanation—resentfully.

"'Pears to be hash ain't good enough for supper. Had it all fixed for the cookin' and I guess it's fair 'nough for anyone to eat and I can't abide left-overs hangin' 'round. But Miss S'briny says the supper to-night's got to be extry nice and Miss Anne's got to have waffles and she'll cook 'em herself, seein' how old B'lindy that's cooked 'em nigh onto fifty years, can't cook 'em good 'nough for Miss Anne!"

Miss Sabrina's face was bent over the waffles—Nancy could not see it. The moment was too solemn to permit her to so much as smile. She said very gravely, almost reprovingly:

"You know, B'lindy, that you can't make waffles as good as Aunt Sabrina can and I've been hungry for days for waffles!"

Nancy knew that, after that night, waffles would always mean something more to her than merely a concoction of food stuffs particularly dear to her palate—they'd mean the momentary triumph of reason and justice, the defeat of the Mrs. Eaton-kind, and the pitiful attempt of a very old and a very proud woman to "give happiness."