The four Corners

CHAPTER VII
A TOURNAMENT WITH PETE

As Aunt Sarah prophesied, the boys thawed out in a few days, but did not promise by their manner to offer any real companionship. Mary Lee made a point of avoiding them while Nan was perfectly indifferent, and only Jean went out of her way to be agreeable.

"I think they're horrid," complained Mary Lee. "Just because they have a finer house than this one and their father has been some high muck-a-muck they think they can look down on us."

"I don't believe they look down exactly; I think it's because we are girls, and they're not used to playing with girls. We belong to the same family and it isn't anything much to be a Congressman. I'm sure they're polite enough."

"But they're not a bit like Phil," replied Mary Lee who measured all boys by that standard.

"It's because they're not used to girls," insisted Nan; "that's what Aunt Sarah says, and Phil has been used to us ever since he was born."

"But Phil says they're stuck up," persisted Mary Lee, "and a boy ought to know."

"Oh, well, who cares?" returned Nan. "I'm sure I don't, and I don't want boys tagging after me wherever I go," which was something of a fling at Mary Lee who generally preferred Phil's company to that of any of her sisters.

It was Phil, after all, who did bring about a better understanding between the cousins, so that all spent many a holiday in common. It was one Saturday when Phil came over to propose a "sure-enough" tournament, that the fun commenced. He had his own horse and proposed to beg, borrow or—

"Not steal one for me," interrupted Mary Lee.

"I'll get one some way," said Phil. "We must have more than one to enter the lists. The more the better."

As a tournament was sufficiently romantic to appeal to Nan she eagerly put in, "I'll be a knight."

"What'll you ride?" asked Mary Lee.

"Pete."

Phil tumbled back on the grass with a shout of laughter, for Pete was the old mule which Unc' Landy used for all farming purposes. He was aged, half blind and evilly disposed, so his entering a contest like a tournament seemed the height of absurdity.

"You laugh mighty soon," retorted Nan. "Maybe you reckon I can't ride Pete. I can do more with him than any one."

"I think he'd be lots of fun," said Phil, sitting up, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "I'll bring Lightfoot and maybe I can get sister Polly's mare for Mary Lee."

"Oh, I'd love that," cried Mary Lee, enthusiastically. "Who'll be the spectators?"

"We don't need any except the kids. Jack and Jean will do," returned Phil. "We'll just ride for the fun of the thing, you see."

"We can have a make-believe audience," said Nan eagerly. "I'd love that. Where can we have it, Phil?"

"Oh, over in the field, back where the road comes in."

"How about rings? We must have rings."

"One will do. We can't expect to have many. I can fix up one over the gate and if we take that we shall do well."

"That will be a fine place," said Nan, hugging her knees. "Go 'long, Phil, and get your horses and I'll see about Pete. Unc' Landy isn't using him to-day."

Phil went off with a chuckle, promising to return in half an hour, and Nan flew to the house. It was her intention to outdo them all in the matter of costume. Phil had declared his intention of tying some sort of sash around his waist and of wearing his brother Tom's Rough Rider hat with a feather in it. Mary Lee said she would put on a red jacket and tie a silk handkerchief around her head.

"I'll get up something," said Nan evasively. She might not have the swiftest steed but she could have the grandest costume. Whatever Nan went into, she did with all her heart and her enthusiasm went to full lengths whenever she entered any contest.

Nan had the faculty of mentally placing objects in their relative places once she had seen them, and on her way to the house she quickly made an inventory of those things she should need. First there was Jack's plaid skirt; it would about come to her knees. A pair of leathern leggings her mother had worn as part of her riding costume when a girl, she remembered seeing in a trunk in the attic. In this same trunk, to her satisfaction, she came across some strips of plaid like the skirt; these she considered a great find and bore them down-stairs with the leggings.

Having arrayed herself in a green shirt-waist, the plaid skirt and the leggings, Nan rummaged among her treasures to find an old cairngorm pin which had belonged to her Grandmother Lee, and which her mother had once given her as a birthday gift, lacking anything new. Fashioning the plaid strips into a scarf by pinning the longer ones together, she fastened them at the shoulder with the pin. Then her deft fingers contrived from some stiff paper, a sort of Scotch cap. She gave this a coat of shoe polish which dried quickly, and as a finishing touch she pinned to it a long peacock feather which some one had once given her.

When all was ready Nan surveyed herself in the glass with much pride. Her ideas had been gleaned from some pictures of Highland costumes which she had often seen at her Cousin Mag's, and she had determined to take the name of the Knight of Snowdoun, knowing and loving well her "Lady of the Lake."

On her way from the house she stopped in the pantry and took three apples from the barrel standing there. One of these she carefully pared and slipped the paring into her pocket; the others she took with her to the stable yard where old Pete stood, his head over the fence. She rubbed his nose gently and gave him the pared apple. If there was anything Pete loved, it was apples, and with these as a reward Nan knew she could do anything with him, and indeed he allowed her to adjust his bridle and to strap a folded horse blanket upon him and to mount him easily, a bit of apple being the recompense for such amiable behavior.

As Nan rode in state out of the yard in the direction of the field, Ashby Gordon saw her and was fascinated by her appearance.

"What are you going to do?" he called after her.

Nan flashed him a merry look over her shoulder, but made no reply.

There was something entirely too enticing in the possibilities her looks presented and Ashby's curiosity got the better of him. He ran to find Randolph. "Come on, Ran," he said. "I wish you'd see Nan. She looks stunning and she's riding old Pete somewhere. Come on."

More impressed by Ashby's manner than his words, Randolph followed his brother. As they went out they caught sight of Nan just disappearing down the road behind the barn. A dip in the hill hid her from view in another moment, but they determined to take the same direction to see what was going on. Arriving upon the scene, they found Phil on Lightfoot, Mary Lee riding her Cousin Polly's Beauty, and the twins seated as spectators.

"What's going on?" asked Randolph.

"A tournament," said Phil. "There is the grandstand if you want to look on."

"Oh, but I'd like to be in it, if I only had my horse here," said Ran.

"So would I," put in Ashby. "My! but Nan looks great. What are you, Nan?"

"I'm the Knight of Snowdoun, Mary Lee is the Knight of the Red Jacket and Phil is the Knight of Morro Castle because he is wearing a Rough Rider hat."

"It's rather too big," said Phil. "I've got to take a reef in it."

"We've only one ring," said Nan, "but we have a large assemblage to look on. The Goldenrod family are nearly all here. The Oaks are out in force and the Maples are dressed up in their gayest clothes, you see."

Ran looked at her with more interest than he had ever shown. "I say," he remarked, "you look like the real thing. Who's your herald?"

"Oh, we haven't any. Phil is going to call out: 'Prepare to charge,' and 'Charge,' unless," she said graciously, "you'd like to do it."

"I'd like it first-rate," said Ran heartily.

"All right. That will help us out finely, won't it, Phil?"

To which Phil replied: "It will make it more real, I reckon."

"The other two had selected their ladies before I reached here," said Nan, "so if I win I'll have to crown a make-believe. The crown is of red maple leaves. Jean is making it now."

"If you win," said Mary Lee contemptuously, being rather put out at the appearance of the Gordon boys upon the scene.

"Yes, Miss High-and-Mighty," returned Nan. "Because you have the best mount, you needn't think you're going to have it all your own way. It isn't the riding; it's the taking the ring. Two out of three goes. Where are the lances, Phil?"

Phil produced three long straight poles made from saplings, sharpened at the end, and soon all three knights were mounted and in line. But just before the herald uttered his first call, Nan lowered her lance, drew from her pocket a piece of apple paring and tied it upon the pole.

"What in the world are you doing?" cried Phil.

"I'm doing this to make Pete go," was the answer. "If he smells this, he'll try to run for it."

"That's not fair," cried Mary Lee.

"It is, isn't it, boys? When she has the best horse she ought to let me do it, I think," declared Nan.

"Oh, there wouldn't anything make that old creature go," said Phil disparagingly. "He always sleeps while Unc' Landy has him in the plough, and I reckon he'll do it now. Let her tole him on any way she likes, Mary Lee; it will be more fun."

The Knight of the Red Jacket was the first to start, but with such impetus did her steed go that it took all her wits to hold in the spirited mare and her lunge at the ring brought no result.

Nan came next. Pete, with the apple paring dangling within a foot of his nose, got up his best speed and galloped with noble effort to overtake this tid-bit.

"Good boy, Pete," cried Ashby, clapping his hands, and the sly old mule, as if understanding, dashed along at a rate which surprised every one. Nan had ridden him bare-back too often not to know his paces and though he had never before taken quite such a gait she was secure in her faith in him and actually took the ring, laughing as she slipped down and offered Pete the bit of apple paring.

"I told you it was skill and not paces," said she as she came back.

Phil was the next, and he, too, took the ring.

"It's not fair," pouted Mary Lee. "If you had this horse, you'd go so fast you couldn't see anything."

"I'll change with you," cried Nan quickly.

"Suppose you do that," proposed Ran. "Then each one will have a fair test. Nan can ride Mary Lee's mare next time and Phil can take Pete. Then the third time Phil can ride the mare, Mary Lee can ride Pete, and Nan Lightfoot; that will give every one an equal test."

Mary Lee objected to this, mainly because Ran had proposed it, but the others overruled her and so it was arranged, Nan a second time coming off victorious, Phil knocking the ring from its place and Mary Lee scoring not at all.

The third time no one won for Pete absolutely refused to carry Mary Lee. He planted his feet obstinately and firmly and when urged by repeated blows from Ashby at the rear, kicked out so viciously that Ashby speedily got out of the way. So Nan and Mary Lee were obliged to change back again, but even then Mary Lee was no more successful, for by this time Pete's temper had been tried beyond pacifying and he was sulky. No amount of coaxing would urge him to go faster than a slow walk, so it was decided to lead him aside and Nan made her third essay upon Phil's horse, without taking a ring. However, as it was, the odds were in her favor, for she had outdistanced her rivals and had shown herself the most expert in the tourney. Therefore, it was she who was to bestow the crown upon her chosen lady.

"You might take one of us," said Jack wistfully, who longed to be queen of Love and Beauty.

"I wish I could, but you didn't wear my colors and I can't offend a brother knight or we might have a joust which would end in bloodshed," said Nan seriously, swinging the wreath of red and yellow leaves upon her lance. "I'm sure I don't want to give offense," she added.

Jack looked disappointed. "I thought, of course, you'd choose me, Nan," she said.

"I will next time. We'll try it again some day, and this time Phil can crown you as a maid of honor."

This satisfied Jack who felt that to be the only lady to wear a crown was sufficient honor.

Nan stood swinging her wreath and looking uncertainly around the field. Upon a tall bramble a single spray of white shone out, the bush evidently having miscalculated the season and having imagined that it was still summer. "Ah, my Lady Bramble," cried Nan, "I will crown you, for you must have expected something unusual or you wouldn't be showing yourself at this time of year." And she flung her garland over the bramble bush.

But just here their play was interrupted by a voice at the fence, saying, "Who got dat mewl?"

Nan ran toward Unc' Landy who looked at her in disapproving surprise. "What all dis? Dis ain' no way fo' young ladies to dress. None o' de fambly evah done disher way 'scusin' dey goes to er ball."

"It's a tournament, Unc' Landy, and I took the ring," cried Nan joyously. "You ought to have seen Pete run the first time, but he was awfully obstinate at the last."

"Pete? You ain' ride dat ole mewl to no tournymint?"

"Yes, I did and he ran, really he did. I'll tell you why." And Nan told how she had lured on the old creature by the odor of apples.

At this story all Unc' Landy's disapproval vanished and he burst into a loud guffaw. "I say yuh meks him run," he cried. "I knows now how to git wuk outen him."

"Oh, but you mustn't fool him," said Nan. "I gave him the apple afterward. It would never do to make him run that way every day or he'd die in his tracks."

"He sholy would ef he keep up dat gait. Come erlong hyar, yuh ole fool creetur. Whafo' yuh kickin' up yo' heels lak yuh young an' frolicsome? I knows yo' age. Come on hyar." And he led off the old mule while every now and then he doubled over with mirth, repeating: "I say run."

"It was great fun," declared Ran. "I didn't know girls ever did such things."

"We do," returned Nan. "We do all sorts of things and mother doesn't care so long as it isn't actually wrong. She likes us to be out-of-doors. We girls play baseball and do lots of things like that."

"Nan won't always play," complained Mary Lee. "She gets too young ladyish sometimes and goes off somewhere to mope."

"I don't mope," returned Nan, "but there are other things I like to do. I don't like boys' games all the time, only sometimes. I don't like to go fishing because I hate squirming worms on hooks, and I feel sorry for poor gasping fish."

"Oh, but we have to have them for food," said Ashby.

"I know we do, but I'd rather not do the catching. I'll let you do that," she added laughing.

They were all on thoroughly good terms by this time and since the afternoon was not over, they took turns in riding, Ran showing himself so expert as to pick up his cap from the ground while going at full speed. He was able, too, to ride standing, bareback or any other way, winning great applause for his cow-boy acts.

"I believe I'll ask father to let us have our horses up here," he said. "It would be no end of comfort and if we had some kind of trap we could take you girls off on long drives."

"We have an old phaeton," said Nan; "it's rather dingy looking, but that is all that is the matter with it, and there is the sleigh. We don't need either since we sold the horses, but mother doesn't like to part with them for the small price we could get for them and she says maybe some day we can afford to keep a horse."

"We must surely see about having our horses here," repeated Ran, and that very night he wrote home to his father to make the request.

A week later the horses arrived and were stabled near-by. Polly Lewis was generous enough to send her mare to one of the girls once in a while and so many a long and delightful ride did the cousins have. Sometimes several of them would pile into the old phaeton and sometimes two would go horseback and the rest would drive. Strange to say, though Mary Lee was so much less impetuous than Nan, and fonder of boys' sports, she sat a horse less well and was never the graceful and fearless rider that Nan was, though many a girl might have envied even her good seat and steady hand.

There were other tourneys, too, when Randolph generally was victor and crowned Jean who was his special favorite, thus causing pangs of jealousy in Jack's ambitious heart. Nan, seeing this, resolved to do her best for Jack's sake and practiced so diligently that once Ran's successes rendering him careless, she actually did take the championship from him and to Jack's great delight, crowned this little sister, making a flowery speech as she did so.

Aunt Sarah smiled contemptuously at these performances which she called "fool nonsense," but since the children kept well, were not in bad company, and did not neglect their school duties, she did not forbid them their exciting plays. After the arrival of the horses belonging to the Gordon boys, Pete was not again expected to play the part of a curvetting steed, but was allowed to rest on his laurels.

CHAPTER VIII
THE SUNSET-TREE

Although the girls had plenty of time for play, Aunt Sarah saw to it that they had no really idle moments. She was the most industrious of persons herself and accomplished wonders which she explained by saying her daily nap of half an hour so fortified her that she could do two days' work in one by taking two rests in the twenty-four hours. She was quick to perceive defects in young people and in a half sarcastic, half humorous way, commented upon them. Upon Jean, such remarks had little effect; they angered Jack, slightly annoyed Mary Lee, but they hurt Nan to the quick, she being the most sensitive of them all. Proud and romantic, high-spirited and impatient, she was often thrown from a pinnacle of eager expectation into the depths of a present discomfort. It was on such occasions that she fled to her nook in the pines which she had finally named "Place o' Pines." Here she would often solace herself by writing to her mother whom she missed, perhaps, more than any of the others did. Reports coming from Mrs. Corner were on the whole favorable. "If I can stay long enough," she wrote, "the doctors give me every hope of entire recovery."

It was one afternoon when Aunt Sarah had been particularly exacting that Nan fled to Place o' Pines. She had not been there for some time, having been occupied in too many ways to have many moods. This, however, had been a particularly horrid day. In the first place she had come down late to breakfast and Aunt Sarah had said: "Good-afternoon," when she entered the dining-room. That made all the others giggle and she felt so small. She needn't have been late, of course, but while she was putting on her shoes and stockings she thought of a new tune and had been humming it over so as not to lose the air, and, as she sat there dreaming, the time slipped away.

Then of course, Mary Lee might have seen that she was in a bad humor and should not have teased her about dawdling, making her answer sharply.

"You old sharp corner," Mary Lee then had said.

"You're a Corner yourself as much as I am," Nan had retorted. "You're an angle; you're an angle worm," was Mary Lee's triumphant reply. And then Randolph had shouted with laughter. Nan's cheeks reddened as she remembered his mirth. She hated to be laughed at, especially by boys, and by older boys worst of all. She didn't mind Ashby and Phil so much, for they were younger, but she did very much mind Randolph's laughter, so she had taken to her heels and had not spoken to any of them since. She hoped they would let her alone and that she would be safe in her hiding-place till supper-time.

It was two months since her mother had left home and longer since she had parted from her Aunt Helen. As she came through the orchard to where the pines stood sombrely green, she saw a charred space just outside her tiny grove. The boys had evidently been there roasting potatoes, for there were skins and corn-husks scattered about.

"Oh, dear," sighed Nan, "if they have found out my darling grove, I shall never have any more peace." But, apparently, the boys had not entered the charmed castle, for as Nan crept through the underbrush she saw that all was as she had left it, only a bit of white paper fluttered from the music rack to which it was fastened by a pin.

"They have been here after all," she exclaimed, "and have found me out. I suppose that is some foolish note they have left." She took the paper to the edge of the grove where it was lighter and read:

"Come at ten o'clock to-morrow by command of your

"Fairy Godmother.

"October 14."

Surprised and pleased, Nan's first thought was "I must go tell mother." Then with a rush came the recollection of her mother's absence. She was the only one who knew the secret. Her Aunt Helen had returned. Had she come alone?

Nan looked across the little brook toward Uplands. The house seemed as silent and deserted as in the weeks and months past. Slipping the paper into her blouse, she determined to go and reconnoitre.

The house looked grim and uninviting. Nan wondered if ever it had seemed otherwise, if ever the doors had been thrown open and from the windows had looked smiling faces, her Aunt Nancy's, her Aunt Helen's, her father's. The stick-tights and jimson weed held her with detaining hands as she ran back through the unmown lawn. They seemed like unseen fingers from fairies under a spell. Nan wondered at what mystic word the doors of this haunted dwelling would fly open to her.

"Suppose," Nan said to herself, "an ogre lived in that dark woods and I was in his power." She gave a little self-reproachful sigh as she reached the sunset-tree. "Mother would tell me that I was in the power of an ogre, I suppose," she continued, sitting down on the gnarled roots which stretched far along above soil. "Mother would say old ogre Impatience and the bad fairy that makes me get to dreaming, had me in their clutches. Maybe they have. I wish I could tell my fairy godmother about it, and that she could give me a phial of precious liquid to squeeze on the ogre's eyelids so he would go to sleep and never wake up; and I wish she would give me a charm to change the fairy that makes me dream into one that would make me jump right up and get dressed in a jiffy. I wonder why it is I always love so to moon over my shoes and stockings. All sorts of ideas come to me then. Perhaps if I did nothing but put on shoes and stockings I'd some day have an idea come to me that would be worth while." The whimsy of spending the rest of her life in putting on shoes and stockings made her laugh.

The sunset was gorgeous gold and red over the top of the hill. Lakes and mountains and turreted cities appeared in the sky. "The holy city," said Nan, becoming grave. "That is where papa is. Now up go the roses," she went on as pink clouds detached themselves and drifted off overhead. "I'm sending you those roses, papa," she said. "Please take them into heaven with you and I'll try to get rid of the ogre Impatience and the Poppy fairy. Poppies put you to sleep they say, so I'll call her that. To-morrow I'll stand on one foot to put on my shoes and stockings, for if I sit down I am lost. I wish I knew, papa darling, if you could look through those bright golden cracks in the sky and could see me standing here under the sunset-tree."

She returned soberly home and deliberately sought out Mary Lee and the boys whom she found practicing the double shuffle on the back porch.

"Where have you been?" asked Ran, pleasantly.

"In the enchanted woods," returned Nan, "but it was getting gruesome there so I came away."

Ran laughed. He was getting used to these speeches from Nan, and rather liked them.

"I can do it now," said Mary Lee eagerly. "I got Mitty to show me. See, Nan." And she executed the step easily.

"I don't know that step, but I know another one," said Nan, glad to perceive that her ill temper of the morning was forgotten, and being a little ashamed of supposing that they would miss her much when she went off alone.

The noise of their break-downs brought Aunt Sarah to the door. "What in the world are you all doing?" she asked.

"Just doing some steps," replied Mary Lee, expertly executing her double shuffle.

"You might have been better employed," returned Aunt Sarah. "It would have been just as well, Mary Lee, if you had been giving some attention to darning your stockings. There is a fine large hole in the knee of one where you scraped it against a tree you were climbing, I suppose. And, Nan, it wouldn't do any harm if you were to see where you left the shirt-waist you took off this morning. We are not Japanese to hang up things on the floor."

"I wish we were," answered Nan. "I'd like to wear kimonos and shoes that slip up and down at the heel, and I'd not mind living in a house made of paper screens."

"Poor protection they'd be to you," replied Aunt Sarah, "for you would punch a hole in every one before a day was over."

Nan was not destructive and considered this an unjust imputation, so she stalked off with her head in the air. She didn't believe but that she had hung up the shirt-waist and that it had slipped down. Aunt Sarah was so particular and was always dinging at her about leaving bureau drawers and closet doors unclosed. When one is in a hurry, how is it possible always to see that everything is just so?

She found the waist not on the floor of the closet, but by the chair where she had laid her clothes the night before. There were some of Jack's belongings, too, strewed around the room, but Mary Lee's and Jean's were carefully put away. Nan hung up the waist and then sat down by the window. Suppose the things in the big house at Uplands had been allowed to lie around helter-skelter, she didn't believe it would look so attractive as she imagined. This brought a new train of thought which she carried out, leaning her arms on the sill, her chin resting upon them till Aunt Sarah's entrance aroused her from her reverie.

"Up in the clouds, I suppose," she exclaimed. "You ought to live in a balloon or a sky-scraper, Nan, you so seldom want to come down to earth. I want you to find Jack and Jean and tell them to come in and get ready for supper."

Nan departed on her errand, smiling to herself in the thought that she had a secret from them all. She was out of sorts with everybody in the house, but to-morrow would be the sunset-tree and Aunt Helen.

She was promptly on hand at the trysting-place the next morning, though finding some difficulty in getting there in time as it seemed that Aunt Sarah had a hundred things for her to do. That she did not dream over them goes without the saying, and Aunt Sarah congratulated herself upon the seeming improvement under her reproofs. Promptly, as Nan appeared, the little figure of her Aunt Helen was seen approaching her. She did not wait for Nan to come up but ran toward her and clasped her in her arms, and Nan gave her as close a hug. Her imagination was strongly appealed to by this relative, so little known and who had chosen such fascinating methods of becoming acquainted.

"You dear Aunt Helen," cried Nan, "where did you come from?"

"You know me then," said her aunt.

"Oh, yes. When I told mother, she guessed who you were."

"And she let you come to meet me to-day?" said Miss Helen, with a strain of eagerness in her voice.

"She didn't know. She wasn't here to ask. She's gone away, you know."

"I didn't know. Tell me about it, please."

Nan poured forth her woes and fears concerning her mother.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," sighed Miss Helen. "We didn't know. Oh, my dear."

"Do you think she may be very ill?" asked Nan her eyes wide with alarm.

"I hope not. I hope not." Her aunt spoke more cheerfully. "No doubt she will get quite well where she is."

"She says she will if she can stay long enough."

"She must stay." Miss Helen spoke with decision. "Did she mind very much, Nancy, that you met me?"

"Oh, no; she was glad. She said——" the girl hesitated.

"Go on, please." Miss Helen spoke pleadingly.

"She told me that she had said something that she regretted."

"And that was——" Miss Helen leaned forward eagerly and caught Nan's hand in a tight clasp.

"That she never wanted to see any of the Corner family again," here Nan hurried on. "It wasn't any wonder, was it, when she was in such trouble and distress?"

"I never blamed her," murmured her aunt.

"She said she ought to have tried to be friendly to you and"—Nan looked up shyly, "that you used to love me dearly."

"I've always loved you dearly," returned her aunt warmly, "and I hope I always shall. Ah, my dear, you don't know what it is to have those dreadful bitternesses come into a family. I loved you all, your father, your mother, you children, but I loved my mother, too, and she needed me, for I was all she had left, and—well, never mind now. I am so very glad time has softened your mother's feeling, toward me at least, and I am so sorry, so very sorry, that she is not well. Poor dear Jack, it would have been a blow to him."

"Don't say that! Don't!" cried Nan. "It makes me feel as if I ought to be scared and trembly about mother and I don't want to." She put her head down in Miss Helen's lap and burst into tears.

"My dearest child," cried Miss Helen, "please don't cry. You make me so miserable."

"I won't cry," said Nan lifting her head. "She is better, oh, she is, Aunt Helen."

"I am sure of it, darling. Now, do you want to know what brings me here?"

"I do indeed."

"I have crossed the ocean twice since I saw you. I took your kiss to your grandmother all the way over with me, and oh, Nannie, dear, you don't know how much it meant to her! The first tears I have seen her shed for many a long day came to her eyes when I told her about you and what you said. Then she was restless and unhappy until she decided that nothing would do but she must see you. At first she urged me to send for you or to come over and bring you back, but I could not leave her and I doubted if you would be allowed to come. When she realized that, for the first time in all these years, she expressed a desire to come back to America. She has come to see you, Nannie. You won't refuse to go to her, will you?"

Nannie's heart was beating fast. At last she was to see the beautiful grandmother whose eyes followed her about from the portrait over the mantel. "Oh, I want to see her," she said. "I can't ask mother, but I know she would say yes; I know she would. Where is she, Aunt Helen? And when can I see her?"

"She is coming home. She is coming here as soon as I can get the house ready. She is with friends in Washington and I have engaged Martha Jackson to come over to clean the house and with Henry Johnson's help we shall soon have everything in order."

"I wish I could help," exclaimed Nan.

"Would you really like to?"

"I certainly would."

"Then you may. We'll go right over now for I promised Martha I'd come back soon so she would know what to do next."

This prospect of helping at Uplands was one of sheer delight to Nan. It was what gave her the greatest pleasure, and this opportunity of becoming intimate with the furnishings of the house at Uplands was beyond anything she had ever hoped for.

Through the long weeds the two made their way to spend the day in uncovering furniture, unpacking boxes and setting things to rights generally. During the process, Nan became confidential and revealed more of her own character and of her home life than she could have done in days of ordinary intercourse, so that Miss Helen came to know them all through her: Jean's gentle sweetness, Jack's passionate outbursts and mischievous pranks, Mary Lee's fondness for sports and her little self-absorbed ways; even Aunt Sarah stood out on all the sharp outlines of her peculiarities. Her unselfishness and her generosity were made as visible as her sarcasms and tart speeches, so that Miss Helen often smiled covertly at Nan's innocent revelations.

There was uncovered, too, the lack of means, the make-shifts and goings without in some such speech as: "Dear me, I wonder if our old sofa ever looked like that when its cover was fresh and new. It's just no color now and mother has patched and darned it till it can't hold together much longer, and the springs make such a funny squeak and go way down when you sit on it. Jack has bounced all the spring out of it, I reckon;" or, "we had a pretty pitcher something like that but Jack broke it and now we have to use it in our room, for you know we couldn't let the boys use a pitcher with a broken nose."

There were moments, too, when Nan spoke of the ogre Impatience and the Poppy fairy, both of whom Miss Helen seemed to know all about, for she fell in so readily with all Nan's fanciful ideas that the child felt as if she had known her always, and often would fly at her impetuously and give her a violent hug, frequently to the peril of some delicate ornament or fragile dish which she might have in her hand.

As room after room was restored to its former condition, Nan breathed a soft: "Oh, how lovely," but when the drawing room was revealed and all the beautiful pictures were unveiled, she sat in the middle of the floor and gazed around. All this she had longed to see and now she was in the midst of it. "I have a right to be here, haven't I, Aunt Helen?" she asked. "I really have a right. You invited me."

"Why, of course, Nan."

"I shall tell Aunt Sarah I had. She will say I sneaked in or stood around till you had to ask me, but I didn't."

"Of course not, you silly little girl. Come now, I am half starved. Let us go see what Martha has ready for us."

"Oh, I forgot about eating. I wonder what Aunt Sarah will say to my not coming home."

"Will she be alarmed?"

"No, not that exactly, because sometimes I take my pocket full of biscuits and stay out all day on Saturdays. I play I'm all sorts of people and that I have all kinds of wonderful things to eat. Have I ever had a meal in this house?"

"Many a time you have sat in your father's high-chair, and have banged on the table with a spoon, and, later on, you had many a sly meal with us when you would run off and I would catch you coming here. You couldn't cross the brook but would stand on the other side and call to me, 'Nenny, Nenny,' for that was as near Helen as you could get."

Nan sighed. "I really think I ought to go home. I could come back, I think."

"And leave me to eat my luncheon alone?"

Nan hesitated. It didn't seem very kind to do that, so she overcame her scruples and sat down to the meal Martha had prepared for them, wondering what Aunt Sarah would say when she heard about it. She felt a little startled when she stopped to consider possibilities. Aunt Sarah, though tart of speech, seldom resorted to active punishment unless she considered the limit had been overstepped, then she did not hesitate to mete out supperless solitary confinement to the aggressor. "I don't care," said Nan resolutely to herself, "I'm not going to be impolite to Aunt Helen even if Aunt Sarah doesn't approve. She can punish me if she wants to. I shall not mind going without my supper." In consequence she ate a hearty luncheon, being hungry from exertion and, moreover, wisely providing for future possible fasting.

It was a memorable day and when at last they left the house and Miss Helen locked the door behind them she told Nan that she would hang out from the second story window a red cloth as a signal when she had returned from Washington, and that Nan was to come over after that as soon as possible. She kissed the child good-bye and said, "I dreaded coming back, Nannie dear, but now I am glad to come since I have seen you."

So Nan went off with an exultant feeling in her heart. It was all like a fairy tale; Aunt Helen the fairy godmother, her grandmother the queen of the fairies. This was the enchanted castle and Nan was to be given entrance to it. She ran down the hill, stopped at the sunset-tree to look at the reddening sky, crossed the brook, and ran plump into Aunt Sarah.

CHAPTER IX
IMPRISONMENT

"Nancy Weston Corner," exclaimed Aunt Sarah, "where have you been all day? Who was that you were talking to up there at the house? I saw you coming away."

"It was my Aunt Helen," replied Nan, stoutly.

"And have you been up there hobnobbing with her and that wicked old mother of hers?"

"I reckon I've a right to hobnob with my own aunt," retorted Nan, immediately up in arms, "and as for my grandmother, she isn't there and she'd not be wicked if she were."

"Much you know about it. If you did know, you'd have more pride than to insinuate yourself into a household where you are not wanted."

"I do know all about it, and I didn't insinuate myself; I was invited. Aunt Helen invited me."

"When did you see her? How did she find you out?"

"I saw her weeks ago and my mother knew all about it. She did not object in the least."

"That's a likely story."

Nan's eyes flashed. "I'll thank you to believe, Miss Sarah Elizabeth Dent, that I don't tell stories."

"Don't you speak to me in that way," returned Aunt Sarah angrily. "March yourself home. You know as well as you're alive that neither your mother nor I ever cross the brook and that you are not allowed to do it either."

Nan wrenched her shoulder from Aunt Sarah's grasp. "I don't care anything about what you do," she said, rebelliously; "my mother knows I go to my grandmother's house, so there."

"We'll see about this," said Aunt Sarah. "Not a step do you go from the house till I have word from your mother. I'd be ashamed to be beholden to them for so much as a crust of bread, and to let them have the chance to patronize you after all that is past is more than my family pride will allow. You knew perfectly well I would never give my consent to your going there and you sneaked off without so much as a word to any one and were gone all day so that I worried——"

"I don't see why you worried," Nan interrupted. "I am often gone all day."

"Don't contradict me," said Aunt Sarah severely. "There is one thing I will not stand from servants and children and that is impertinence. You can go to my room and stay there till I can inquire into this. I'll sleep with Mary Lee. You don't cross the threshold of that room till your mother says so."

Nan's indignation by this time had risen to its greatest height. If she were to be punished for one impertinence, why not for more? So she turned and said: "You needn't touch me; I'll go. But I'll tell you one thing; that I don't believe my grandmother is half as wicked as you are and she'd not treat me this way no matter what. If I do go to your room I shall ask the Lord to bless her in her down-sittings and her up-risings just the same. You can write to my mother if you want to, and ask her if I did wrong to go to see my Aunt Helen. I know what she will say and I'll ask her if I can't stay there altogether till she comes back. They wouldn't call me a story-teller and they'd treat me better than you do. They are nearer kin anyhow."

Having delivered herself of this indignant speech, Nan took to her heels, reached the house, ran to her aunt's room and slammed the door after her, then she burst into tears of rage. Never before had her temper brought her to the making of such remarks to Aunt Sarah. They had had their little tiffs but such anger on both sides had never been displayed.

If there was one subject above another upon which Miss Sarah was excitable, it was the Corner family. She resented to the very core of her being the elder Mrs. Corner's neglect of her son's family, and that Nan should deliberately make overtures aroused all her indignation. Nan could have said nothing to enrage her more than to compare her unfavorably with Mrs. Corner, senior. So there was open war between them and Nan might well feel that she had gone too far.

However, the girl was more aggrieved and angry than sorry, and was specially annoyed that she had been sent to her aunt's room; that seemed to her a needless severity, for what harm would there be in allowing her to occupy the room she shared with her sisters? But it was some satisfaction, Nan reflected, that her aunt was punishing herself likewise, for she disliked a bedfellow.

It was not long before Jack's pattering feet were heard upon the stair and presently she burst into the larger room calling: "Nannie, Nannie, where are you?"

"Here," answered Nan in a depressed voice.

Jack stuck her head in at the door. "What you in here for, Nan?" she asked.

"Aunt Sarah sent me," returned Nan, biting her lip and trying to keep the tears back.

"Why, what for?"

"Just because I went to Uplands without asking her. Mother did not object when she was here, and Aunt Helen was there and wanted me." It was a relief to pour out her grievances if only to Jack.

"A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind," and Jack's own experiences made her appreciate the situation. Moreover, it seemed the height of calamity to her that Nan should be punished; Nan, who was the eldest and who really had a right to read lectures to her younger sisters. That she should be in disgrace was something to awe and impress one. "She's a mean old thing," said Jack winding her arms around her sister's neck. "Who's Aunt Helen, Nannie?"

"Papa's own sister, and she has come back to Uplands. I saw her before mother went away, but I didn't tell any one but mother. It was a secret and I couldn't tell. She wants me to come over there as soon as she and grandmother get back from Washington, and now I can't go for Aunt Sarah says I must stay here till she hears from mother. She was just furious with me. They are not her kinsfolk; I don't see why she should meddle. Aunt Helen will expect me and will wonder why I don't come." And the tears again started to Nan's eyes.

"I'll go tell her and then she'll know why," said Jack generously.

"And get punished, too. No, ducky dear, I can't have that, but it is good of you to offer to go. I'll have to think out some way, for if I am to be shut up here till Aunt Sarah hears from mother, Aunt Helen must have some word. I don't think I did a thing wrong in going to see my own aunt, but Aunt Sarah says I have no pride, and that it is wicked to think of wanting to go over there, but that is just her way of thinking. It isn't mine at all, and it is horrid, horrid for her to shut me up as if I were a baby, and to shame me before—before the boys."

Jack gazed at her in silent sympathy. She understood all about it. Many and many a time had she passed through just such tribulations. Many and many a time had she been punished for something in which she could see no wrong. How many times had her motives been misunderstood, and how often had she been censured for what seemed to her a praiseworthy act? Oh, yes, she could readily sympathize with Nan, and because Nan had more than once helped her out of a difficulty, she would do her best for her sister. "I'll bring you something to eat," she promised. "You shan't be fed on bread and water, and I'll tell the boys that Aunt Sarah is an old witch and is just torturing you."

Nan at that moment felt like heartily endorsing that opinion but she suddenly remembered that it would never do to undermine Aunt Sarah's authority over Jack, so she replied rather weakly: "Oh, I suppose it is all right. She thinks she is doing the best thing because she doesn't know all about it. When she hears from mother, she will understand. I don't mind anything so much as disappointing Aunt Helen. I wish you would find Mary Lee and send her to me," she said with sudden resolution, feeling that Jack's championship might not serve her as well as Mary Lee's, for the latter being a calm and more dispassionate person was usually more convincing, and if Nan could persuade her that she was a martyr, the boys would be given a proper view of the situation.

"What do you want Mary Lee for?" asked Jack a little jealously and because she must always know the whys and wherefores.

"I want to see her before Aunt Sarah does," said Nan with a ghost of a smile, and Jack departed upon her errand.

It was not long before Mary Lee, all curiosity, made her appearance. That Aunt Sarah should have exercised her authority in such a decided manner, and that Nan should have fallen under her displeasure was a matter of no small moment to each of the four Corners, for who knew now where the blow might next fall? "Of course," commented Mary Lee, when Nan's story was told, "it was because you didn't ask Aunt Sarah's permission, and because you answered her so. And then, I really don't see, Nan, how you could have been willing to go over there, after all that has happened. You know how Aunt Sarah feels about it and mother, too."

"Mother isn't so dead set against our going there," Nan informed her. "She would like to make up with Aunt Helen, I know she would, and I know she will say I am to go if I choose."

"Well I shouldn't choose," returned Mary Lee, her head in air. "I don't see how you can feel so. I shouldn't want to make up with them when they have treated mother so mean."

"Aunt Helen hasn't. She's always loved us, but she had to stand by her mother and that was right," persisted Nan. Then in a little superior way—"You don't understand all the ins and outs of it as I do, Mary Lee."

"I don't care," returned Mary Lee, immediately on the defensive. "I think you are very mealy-mouthed and are not showing proper respect to the family."

"Pooh!" returned Nan. "Just you wait till you hear what mother has to say."

This confidence in her mother's opinion somewhat altered Mary Lee's point of view. "Well," she said, "I wouldn't have gone myself, still, I think Aunt Sarah has no right to punish big girls like us for something our mother would not scold us for. She ought to wait till she knows for sure before she ups and makes a prisoner of one of us."

"She'd think she had a right to shut mother up if she did anything Aunt Sarah disapproved of," said Nan, mournfully. "Tell me, Mary Lee, how are you going to explain it to the boys?"

"I'll tell them the truth."

"But you can't say there is a family quarrel and that we aren't allowed to visit our own nearest relations."

"Yes I can. Everybody knows it or suspects it, and we are not the only ones that have had a family quarrel. We can't help our grandmother's being a horrid old skinflint."

"Oh!" Nan was about to defend her grandmother vigorously but concluded to say only: "Maybe she didn't mean to be quite so horrid as she seemed. When people get mad they say lots of things they don't mean. I know I do."

"Oh, yes, I know you do," returned Mary Lee, "but a grown-up old woman ought to do better. I hope you will when you are her age." At which sisterly reproof Nan had nothing to say. "At all events," Mary Lee continued, "I'll stand by you, Nan, and I know the boys will, too."

After Mary Lee left her, Nan reviewed the situation. If her Aunt Sarah's ire cooled she would probably be liberated the next day and her Aunt Helen would not arrive from Washington till Monday anyhow. On the other hand, if her Aunt Sarah's anger, instead of cooling should wax stronger, Nan could not expect to be free till her mother should be heard from, and that would be in not less than three days; in all probability it would be four. Nan counted on her fingers: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; very likely Wednesday, for Aunt Sarah would hardly have her letter ready before the morning's mail. "I wish she'd send a telegram," sighed Nan, "but she'll just like to keep me here as long as she can; I've made her so hopping mad."

Nan's conscience told her that Aunt Sarah did have a right to be more than usually angry at her impertinence, but she chose to see only her own side of the case and would admit herself nothing but a martyr. True to her expectation, no supper was forthcoming and before that hour her door was securely locked on the other side. She was indeed a prisoner.

In spite of her hearty luncheon, Nan felt the pangs of hunger about the supper hour. She had a healthy appetite and, as the odor of hot biscuits stole upward from the kitchen, she realized that hers was no pleasant predicament. "Old witch aunt! Old witch aunt!" she murmured under her breath. "I don't love you one bit, so there! You are ungodly and I wish the ungodly would be overthrown, I do. I wish the peril that walketh at night would encompass you round about. I don't believe David had any more troubles than I have, when he wrote his psalms." She sat gloomily nursing her misery and feeling herself a much abused person when she was aroused by some one calling softly under her window: "Nannie, Nannie."

She looked out and there stood Jack. "I've saved my cake for you," she said. "How shall I get it up to you?"

"I'll let down a string," said Nan promptly. This was a pleasant diversion and she hunted around energetically till she found in Miss Sarah's work-basket a spool of strong thread. To the end of this she fastened an empty spool which she dropped out of the window. Jack fastened her cake to the string having first wrapped it in a piece of paper, and Nan drew it up. "You are a darling," she called down. "I'll do as much for you some time. Can't you get me some biscuits or something?"

"There aren't any biscuits left to-night. The boys were so hungry and Phil was here; there's only batter-bread left and that's too soft," returned Jack. But here the opening of a door sent her scudding away and Nan closed her window.

She devoured every crumb of the cake and longed for more. It seemed but to whet her appetite and she pondered long trying to devise some way by which she could undertake a foraging expedition. "As if I hadn't a right to my own mother's food," she said, complainingly. "I'm going to get it some way."

After a long time given to planning out different schemes Nan at last hit upon one which she determined to carry out. She would wait till after every one had gone to bed. She wondered if she could keep awake till then. She made up her mind that she would, and, after lighting the lamp, she took a magazine from her aunt's stock of papers and began to read. She grew very drowsy after awhile, but she did not give up to sleep. Instead she tried all sorts of steps, making such a noise that the other children came to see what she was doing.

"What are you up to?" called Mary Lee through the key-hole.

"I'm only amusing myself," returned Nan. "I'm just dancing to keep awake."

"Why don't you go to bed?" asked Mary Lee.

"Don't want to yet," replied Nan, smiling.

Her lively effort had the effect she wished and she was wide awake even when Aunt Sarah came up to bed. She waited till she was sure all was still in the house, putting out her light and watching till the crack of light coming from the room across the hall was no longer shining under the door. Then she lighted her own candle and cautiously unlocked a door leading from the room she was in to the unused wing of the house. She left the door open and stepped out into the dark empty hall. It appeared strange and uncanny. A sudden squeak and a scuttling sound suggested mice, and the whir of wings and the quick swoop of a bat's wing scared her so that she nearly dropped her candle. The peculiarly musty smell which comes from a house which has long been shut up greeted her as she stood for a moment irresolute. Was it worth while to continue the adventure?

"I just will have something to eat," she decided plucking up courage to cross the hallway and go down the stairs which led to the lower rooms. Her heart beat like a trip-hammer as she continued her way, and she was thankful when she reached the door leading to the occupied rooms. It was never locked, for the key was lost. Jack had disposed of it in some mysterious way. This Nan remembered when her eye fell on the key in the door up-stairs.

Once safe in the living-room, it was easy to find her way into the kitchen and to the cupboard where she knew she would find any remains of supper. To her satisfaction she discovered a small pitcher of milk, a few pieces of bread, a little dish of stewed peaches and a section of apple pie. These she carried over to the table and sat down to make a hearty supper. The lateness of the hour, for it was after eleven o'clock, put an extra edge upon her appetite and she ate heartily, stopping to wash the dishes and pile them up neatly on the table.

Lady Gray, who occupied the kitchen at night, that she might scare away any mice, arose from her box and came purring toward her. "I will take you back with me; you'll be lots of company," said Nan, "and you can sleep at the foot of my bed; you'll love to do that."