“Hear him bum,” said Prue, thus making Randy laugh again. She felt very wicked, laughing in church, and knew that her father would not approve; but how could she help laughing, for while she watched the bee, and wondered where he would fly next, little Prue watched him, too, all the time softly imitating his monotonous tune by saying under her breath, “bum, bum, bum.”

The heat increased, and Prue looked out of the window at the green branches moving in the breeze, and longed to be out there, too. At last the bee tired of the church and flew out of the window, and just as Randy was thinking that she could not bear the heat, Parson Spooner’s sermon came to an end. He had become entangled in his own eloquence; and seeing no way to extricate himself, or make his meaning clear, he abruptly closed his sermon and suggested singing the Doxology.

After the service Mrs. Gray stopped to talk with Mrs. Weston, and then, to the mingled delight and embarrassment of Randy and Prue, the beautiful stranger turned, and, stooping, spoke to the little girl.

“How very good you have been,” said she, “to sit still this long, hot morning. Do you know I had some candy in my pocket which I longed to share with you, but I didn’t like to turn quite around, as I should have had to, to give it to you. Let me give it to you now, and you and your sister can enjoy it during the long ride home. See!” And from a pretty chatelaine bag which hung from her belt, she took a small box of bonbons. “If I give you this, will you give me a kiss?” And she stooped and placed the gift in Prue’s eager little hands.

For an instant the child hesitated; then shyly she lifted her face, and as the young girl stooped to take the kiss, Prue’s pudgy little arm went around her neck.

Then, turning to Randy, she extended her hand in its dainty glove, saying, “I have seen you and your sister many times when I have strolled past your home, and once, when you were standing near the tall clump of sunflowers, watching the bees, I was tempted to stop and chat with you awhile.”

“Oh, I wish you had,” said Randy, so eagerly, that the girl laughed merrily, saying, “Well, the next time I am out for a walk and am going up the long hill, I will make you a little call.”

Just at that moment Mrs. Weston’s friendly chat with her neighbor came to an end, and with her usual hasty manner she hurried the two children out of the church and into the old wagon. Mr. Weston gathered up the reins, and with a loud “g’lang” and a few jerks, the old horse seemed to awaken from his forenoon’s nap in the carriage-shed and ambled a few steps, then subsided into the habitual jog.

“Look, mother, just see what she gave me,” said Prue, swinging the tiny package of bonbons before her mother’s eyes.

“What is it?” said her mother; “who gave it to you?”

“The princess,” said Prue, as plainly as she could, considering the size of the bonbon which she was eating. Mrs. Weston looked puzzled, and Randy, helping herself to a bit of the candy, explained:—

“It was that beautiful, tall girl with Mrs. Gray. She gave Prue the candy for being good and keeping still this morning, and she’s coming to see me soon’s ever she takes a walk past our house, and isn’t she the handsomest person that ever lived?”

“Wal’, I don’t know as I noticed,” said Mrs. Weston.

“Why, how could you help seeing her?” said Randy, in amazement.

“Wal’, I s’pose I did see her, but I didn’t ’specially notice her, ’cept that she was talkin’ to you children, for Mrs. Gray was tellin’ me a new way to make cookies with two eggs instead of four, and I made her tell me twice so’s I’d remember; two eggs is quite a savin’.” But this new bit of economy was lost on Randy.

“Did Mrs. Gray tell you her name?” asked Randy, eagerly.

“Seems to me she said it was Dayton, or something like that, but I was so took up with that two-egg rule for cookies that I didn’t notice.” So, failing to interest her mother, Randy subsided.

CHAPTER IV—PRUE’S MISHAP

Randy was far from pleased to be taking this long walk in the dust and heat. She had been sitting upon the rough, wooden seat just outside the kitchen door, reading the beloved fairy book, when her mother had stepped briskly to the doorway, calling her back from fairyland abruptly, saying: “Come, Randy, you must go down to the store after some sugar. I’ve got my cookies ’bout half done and my sugar’s given out, so you must put on your sunbonnet and take Prue, and go as quick as you can. Ye needn’t run, only don’t waste time.”

“Oh, mother,” said Randy, “it’ll take me twice as long if I have to take Prue, she’s so little, and she walks so slow.”

“I know it,” said Mrs. Weston, “but I’ve got lots to do while you’re gone, and I can’t watch her and work at the same time; so you take her ’long o’ you, and I’ll know she’s all right.”

Randy took her sunbonnet from its peg on the wall and called little Prue, who was playing in the sun. The child’s delight when told that she might go to the store with Randy made the elder girl regret that she had demurred when told that she must take her little sister with her.

Prue laughed with delight, and, thrusting her little sunburned hand into Randy’s, she trudged along, scuffling her feet and laughing to see the dust rise in little gray clouds.

At any other time Randy would have checked Prue, but that day her mind was too much occupied with the heroine of the fairy tale to notice Prue’s movements or comment upon them; but Prue was getting tired of walking in silence, while Randy indulged herself in day-dreams.

“Why don’t you talk, Randy? You haven’t talked any since we started,” said Prue.

“Oh, it’s too hot to talk,” answered Randy, and she once more relapsed into silence.

Prue dropped Randy’s hand, and, leaving the road, she clambered upon the wall to hunt among the dusty vines for blackberries. There were more leaves than fruit, so the little girl, after finding a few small berries, walked along upon the wall until she came to another lot of vines, where she again searched for fruit.

While Prue looked for berries Randy was critically inspecting her own and her little sister’s costume. How ugly they looked! The girl who, up to that time, had never seen any one arrayed in anything more beautiful than a print or gingham gown, varied by a long apron of blue-checked cotton, or a dark, chocolate-colored calico, now looked with startling dislike upon that style of apparel.

“Only think,” mused Randy, “if we wore white dresses and fine shoes, and big hats, ’twouldn’t seem near as hot doing errands. Seems as though we could sit still in meeting if we had on different clothes and—why, Prue, what’s the matter?” cried Randy, in answer to a doleful wail from the little sister.

“Oh, my foot, my foot!” screamed Prue; “it hurts drefful, and I can’t get it out.”

“Let me see,” said Randy. “Hold still a minute; I can get it out, Prue,” which, however, proved to be easier said than done. While walking upon the wall the little foot had slipped between the stones and seemed firmly fixed.

Randy worked gently and patiently, and at last the little foot was out of prison. Prue insisted upon having her shoe and stocking taken off, saying that her foot felt “awful big,” and sure enough it had become a trifle swollen. Randy tried in every way to soothe her, assuring her that it was but a short walk to the store, but Prue wailed dismally.

“Oh, I can’t walk, Randy, my foot aches just drefful, and I can’t have any shoes on, ’cause my foot has grown big.”

Randy blamed herself for the mishap. “I ought to have been taking care of Prue instead of thinking of fine clothes,” thought Randy. “It ought to have been me that got hurt instead of little Prue. ’Twould have served me right for being real silly, almost vain, I do believe.” And thus she berated herself.

Poor, repentant Randy! Careless she had been, but surely not wicked. She was utterly at a loss to know what to do. “Don’t you think you could walk slowly, Prue, if I put my hands under your arms to help you?” she asked coaxingly.

“Randy, how can I walk when this foot is most twice as big as my other foot?” said Prue.

Randy thought a moment. Then she said: “There’s only one thing to do, Prue. You can look right down the road and see the store from here. You sit still where you are, and I’ll run and get the sugar; it won’t take but a few minutes, and when I get back I’ll carry you home in my arms. You can hold the sugar and I’ll carry you.”

Prue tried bravely to stop crying, and although she declared that her foot felt “worser,” she promised to be patient until Randy should return. The store was in the front part of a farm-house but a short distance from where the two sat upon the wall, and Randy rushed off down the road and in at the open door, in such evident haste that Silas Barnes looked at the girl in amazement.

“In a kind of hurry, ain’t ye?” said he, as in his usual deliberate manner he weighed the sugar.

“Yes, oh, yes,” answered Randy, as she almost snatched the bundle and darted out of the door and ran up the road to where Prue sat upon the wall, a most disconsolate little heap, trying very hard to be brave, but sobbing in spite of all endeavor.

“Now, you carry the sugar—just think what a sweet bundle—and I’ll take you. My arms are real strong, so I believe I can carry you easily.”

Prue hugged the parcel, and taking her little sister in her arms Randy stepped out bravely toward home. It seemed to her that she could not remember such intense heat as she that day experienced. They had taken off their sunbonnets as they sat upon the wall, and in their haste they had started for home, leaving them where they had dropped them, so that their heads were unprotected from the scorching rays of the sun, which was now directly overhead.

Many times Randy was obliged to set Prue upon the wall, just long enough to rest her aching arms; then taking her again, she bravely trudged on toward home.

Just as she concluded that her arms would surely break, she heard the sound of wheels behind her, and looking over her shoulder she saw Obadiah Gray’s old mare, Clover, jogging along and in the wagon the beautiful young girl whom she had so much admired at church.

“There’s that pretty girl whom I saw in church last Sunday,” thought Helen Dayton. “How much prettier she looks without that ugly sunbonnet. Why, she has her little sister in her arms, and the little one is crying. I’ll stop and speak to them.” Old Clover, always delighted to stop, came to a standstill, and Randy looked up shyly at Helen’s beautiful face.

“Are you not tired?” said Miss Dayton. “I see that you are carrying your little sister.” Then, as she noticed the swollen foot, she said: “Oh, how did she hurt her foot? Do let me take you home.”

Randy was only too glad to accept the invitation so sweetly given; so Prue was gently lifted to a place beside Miss Dayton, and then Randy clambered in, not only thankful for the ride, but positively charmed to be with the lovely driver.

“Now, tell me,” said Helen, “how your little sister injured her foot.” So Randy told her the whole story, and blamed herself more than she deserved. “If I hadn’t been wishing that I had a big, beautiful hat like”—but here Randy stopped abruptly, as she noticed, for the first time, that Miss Dayton was wearing the very hat and dress which so filled her mind that morning.

“What was the hat like? Anything like the one I am wearing this morning?” asked Helen, sweetly.

“Well, yes, just like it,” admitted Randy, blushing.

“Did you so much admire my hat?” said Helen. “Well, who knows but that on some fine day you may have one quite like it.”

When, at last, they had reached Randy’s home, both Prue and Randy had become quite well acquainted with their new friend.

Mr. Weston had just come in from the field, in answer to a blast from the dinner horn, and was as anxious as his wife when told that the children had been gone two hours and a half. “I guess I’ll have to harness up and go down to the store and see if they’re—sakes alive! Here they be now, with that ’stonishing pretty boarder of Obadiah Gray’s,” and Mr. Weston hastened down the walk to thank the young lady for her kindness.

“I’m much ’bleeged to ye for bringing the children home; mother and I was getting anxious. Randy, here, is going on fifteen, and pretty tall of her age, but we still call them the children, and Randy, she’s reliable; so, when she don’t appear at the right time, we know that something’s up. Why, Prue, where’s your shoe and stocking?”

“Oh, father,” said Randy, “you won’t say I was reliable this time.”

“Now, Mr. Weston,” said Helen Dayton, “Randy blames herself for Prue’s injured foot, but she has bravely carried her little sister up the long hill from the store, and I think accuses herself too harshly.”

“Like enough,” said Randy’s father. “Randy’s conscience is all out of proportion to her size.” Then, once more thanking Helen heartily for her kindness, he took little Prue into his arms saying, kindly: “There, there, little daughter, I wouldn’t cry any more. You’re home now, and mother’ll know just how to fix your foot all right; and, Randy, ye may have let yer thoughts wander, so to speak, but you didn’t make Prue hurt her foot, and ye’ve more than made up fer it all by bein’ so truly sorry, and tryin’ to bring her home. She’s a little girl, but she’s solid for a girl of your size to carry. ‘Stead of blamin’ and accusin’ yourself, you just help mother to make Prue comfortable, and then you amuse her with the fairy book, and, may be, she’ll forget how bad her foot aches.”

“I’ll do it,” said Randy, delighted to think that she could in any way be useful to her little sister, and so well did she amuse her that in the middle of the sixth fairy tale Prue was sound asleep.

As soon as Mrs. Weston had seen the little foot, she had given it a bath in hot water, bound securely about it a hot bandage, and told little Prue that she must be quite still.

“I will, if Randy will read to me,” said Prue. So Randy read story after story, until the little sister was asleep.

Randy sat beside her, intending to read to her again if she awoke, but Prue had cried with the aching foot until she was very tired, so she slept soundly. Once she stirred, and thrust her chubby hand under her head, murmuring as she did so. Randy bent over her, to hear what she said.

“The big stones squeezed my foot, so course it wasn’t my Randy did it,” murmured Prue. “My Randy wouldn’t do such a thing to me. My Randy’s just about right always and she—” but here her voice faltered and that which commenced in a sentence ended in a sigh. A bright tear glistened in Randy’s gray eyes. How lovingly little Prue held her above the possibility of anything wrong.

“I must try hard to be as good as Prue thinks I am,” thought Randy, and, bending, she kissed the little one ever so gently so as not to awaken her; “for,” thought Randy, “while she sleeps she doesn’t know her foot aches, and when she wakes I’ll read or do anything she wishes me to, to amuse her.”

And Randy kept her promise. The injury, although not serious, was quite painful, and Prue declared that Randy was “’most an angel,” so patient and entertaining was she, reading the same story over and over again if it chanced to please her.

In a few days Prue was able to be about, and Randy was every bit as happy as her little sister, to see that the swelling had disappeared and the wee foot back to its usual size. There was one story with which Prue seemed the most pleased and which she wished oftenest to hear.

That was the story of the “Sleeping Beauty,” but it mattered not how many times she heard it, she never could tell it straight.

One day Prue’s mother said that the little girl would be wise if she rested her foot all the afternoon. “I’ll sit still on the ‘lunge,’” said Prue, “if you’ll listen to a bea-utiful story called the ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ I guess I can tell it ’most right; do you want to hear it, mother?”

Now this was a trial to Mrs. Weston’s patience. She had glanced hastily at a few pages of the fairy book and had declared it to be “clear foolishness,” adding, “if it amuses Randy and Prue, I do’no as I care; but it puzzles me how they can enjoy it.”

But, thinking to please her little daughter and make her willing to sit still, she promised to listen attentively to Prue’s narrative, adding under her breath, “I guess I can stand it for once, if it is foolish.” So she handed the book to Prue, who declared that, although she couldn’t read, she could tell the story better by looking at the pictures.

Mrs. Weston brought her sewing to the window nearest the lounge where Prue sat as if enthroned, and the youthful entertainer commenced at once to tell the story as she remembered it. As Randy afterward said with stifled laughter, “If that is the best Prue could tell the story with the pictures to help her, how much more could she have twisted it without the book?”

“Once upon a time (they all commence that way),” said Prue, “there was a little girl so be-autiful that folks ’most went crazy who saw her, an’ her father was tickled to see how handsome she was when she was a baby; an’ one time when she was fifteen (that’s what Randy is)—no, I forgot, when the baby, that’s the princess, you know, was a bein’ chris-chris-chris-tened, there was a lot of fairies that bringed her presents, and one was mad because she didn’t be invited, and she did something awful, but I’ve forgot what.

“Then the beautiful princess went to sleep a hun-dred years” (here Prue’s eyes grew round with excitement), “and she grew older and older every minute—no, no, she didn’t. I mean she didn’t grow older a’ tall.”

Here Randy turned hastily to gaze out of the window, and Prue, fortunately, failed to notice her sister’s very evident effort to conceal her amusement.

“Then everybody in the house—no, palace—went sound asleep and snored, and they never waked up ’til the prince kissed them—oh, no, he only kissed the princess. Mother, why do you s’pose he didn’t kiss anybody but the princess? Shouldn’t you a thought he would?”

Without waiting for an answer, however, Prue babbled on.

“They was married and lived happy ever after, and all the folks waked up, and the horses, and cows, and cats, and dogs, all wagged their tails ’cause they was awake too. Isn’t that a wonderful story?”

“I should say it was,” ejaculated practical Mrs. Weston. “Nothing less than wonderful.”

Mrs. Weston folded the garment which she had been mending, and saying, kindly, “That was a long story for a little girl to try to tell,” she went out to the kitchen to make preparation for tea, leaving Prue still looking at the pictures in the fairy book. Randy stole out to the kitchen.

“Oh, mother,” she said, looking up wistfully, “I know you think it funny that I can like fairy stories almost as well as Prue does; but, truly, Prue does not tell them straight. They’re not true, of course, but they do sound pretty when you read them straight through instead of ‘mixed up’ as she gets them.”

“I know, of course,” said her mother, “that Prue has a funny way of telling anything. If you enjoy the stories, I’m sure I don’t care, only don’t ask me to read them. I want to read something that’s somewhat probable,” and Randy was obliged to be satisfied with that.

Mrs. Weston’s mind was utterly void of imagination, and to read to her of magic locks, of sleep which, lasting a hundred years, left the sleeper youthful and beautiful, of wild wishes granted, of people turned to stone, and back to life again, simply tried her patience and amused her not at all.

CHAPTER V—HELEN DAYTON’S CALL

“Oh, I do hope somebody will, if it’s Miss Dayton, if that’s her name,” added Randy. “But you didn’t answer what I asked you,” said the girl. “Are we, mother?”

“Why, Randy, what’s in your mind? Lately you’ve been dreamin’ most of the time, and askin’ queer questions between times. Are we what? Poor? Why no, I do’no’s we be. Your father ain’t a rich man, but he’s well-to-do. What put it in your head to ask me?”

“Nothing,” said Randy, “only I was wondering what the reason was that all the folks in church yesterday looked so different from Mrs. Gray’s boarders. Was it because they were poorer or was it some other reason?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, as she took the towel from Randy’s listless hands, and commenced energetically to finish wiping the dishes, “I guess we’re as well fixed as any one around here; your father owes nobody nothin’, and our farm’s one of the biggest and best in the town. I’ve heard say that some city folks was rich, an’ I heard tell of other city folks as wasn’t so well off as their clothes seemed to make them out; and as to our lookin’ different, there ain’t any call to dress up any more than what we do now. I tell you what, Randy, to be clean and neat ought to satisfy any one.”

To this Randy could not agree, so she wisely said nothing. In her inmost heart she knew that, were she the possessor of an immense hat loaded with flowers, she would not have the courage to walk into church, the cynosure of all eyes. On the other hand, a sunbonnet never had looked so uncouth and unbecoming as now.

The dishes put away, the chickens fed, and a dozen other little chores attended to, Randy was free to do as she liked; so off to the “best” room she flew, eager to brighten it in any way which might suggest itself. The best room was a front room, and the front door, although seldom used, opened from it, showing a little garden in which grew boys’ love, larkspur, balsams, and, later in the season, marigolds.

But the front room and the front door were never used; and the little path from the door-stone to the flower beds was overgrown with weeds, years ago. The side door which led to the barn, the well, and the woodpile was the proper one to use. So Randy did not open the door; it never occurred to her to do so; but she drew up the green paper curtains, and let in the sunlight, and, although the room was scrupulously clean, she decided that the correct thing to do first was to dust.

Between the front windows stood a little table with an oil-cloth cover, dotted with red and green figures. Over the table, and quite too high for any one to take a peep, hung a small, square looking-glass with a broad, wooden frame.

Randy remembered having seen a huge asparagus plume over a mirror in the parson’s sitting room on one gala occasion when the sewing-circle had met there, and she had been permitted to be present with her mother. Asparagus, then, would be quite the thing with which to decorate the glass. The parson’s mirror had a gilt frame and a gorgeous landscape above the glass, and Randy felt sure that the wooden frame needed the decoration even more than the gilt one. The asparagus in place, Randy stopped in the middle of the floor, duster in hand, to view the effect. Her eyes wandered about the room, and this is what she saw.

On the opposite wall was a picture entitled “The Tree of Life,” on which every known virtue hung pendant from the branches on one side, while every evil of which man is guilty kept the balance on the other.

This picture always served to depress Randy. The tree was a sombre green, and Randy espied Envy printed in large type on that side where hung the sins, and she felt sure that a wee bit of envy had crept into her heart on Sunday, and as she looked at the pictured tree she said, under her breath: “Must have been vanity that made me almost hate my sunbonnet. The parson preached a while ago on the sin of vanity.”

Poor Randy! To think it a sin to long with all her girlish heart for pretty things! With a sigh she turned from the picture of the tree to the one hanging upon the side wall. This was more cheerful—an ancient fashion plate in which insipid-looking gentlemen, in white trousers and long, blue coats, were smiling at some waxen-faced ladies whose beruffled skirts were voluminously extended.

She rather admired this picture, mainly because the people in it, at least, looked cheerful. Leaving the pictures, Randy let her eyes slowly wander over the furnishings. As none of her neighbors or acquaintances had carpets, the yellow painted floor seemed quite fine. The chairs were also yellow, and as a crowning luxury, a green enamelled cloth lounge stood in all its slippery grandeur against the wall, beside the door.

Randy liked the lounge, but wished it possible to sit upon it without slipping. While she was wishing that she had some pretty thing in the shape of an ornament for the table, her eyes wandered to the window, where, looking out into the garden, she could see the tall spikes of pink and blue larkspur waving in the breeze. A bright idea! Why not have some flowers upon the table?

Away she ran to the kitchen closet, and there she inspected everything on the shelves, so anxious was she to find something fine for her flowers.

“Oh, that’s the thing,” said Randy, “if mother’ll let me have it.” Appealed to, Mrs. Weston looked doubtful. “’Tain’t a vase,” said she, “it’s my old white and blue spoon holder, an’ I do’no how it will look in the best room.”

“But you’d be willing I should use it, wouldn’t you?” Randy asked eagerly.

“Oh, I don’t mind your usin’ it; go put your posies in it an’ see how it looks.”

Surprised and delighted that her mother should express the least interest, Randy skipped out into the garden and came running back in a few moments with a dozen long stalks of larkspur in her hands. She filled the old spoon holder with water and crowded in the flowers, then away she ran to the best room.

“Oh, mother,” she called, a minute later, “do come and see the room.” Mrs. Weston stopped in the doorway.

“Wal’, I do declare,” she ejaculated, “I must say that does look pretty. Why, Randy, you do have a real knack to fix it up so. Them flowers brighten up the place wonderful, and that sparrowgrass just beats anything.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you like it, mother! Would you put some on the mantel if you were me?”

“I’d put some anywhere,” said her mother, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I declare I’d actually forgotten how much the blossoms cheer up the house. I used to bring them in when I was first married, but ever sence I’ve been too busy to think of anything but cookin’, sweepin’, sewin’, and mendin’ from Monday ’til Saturday; but, Randy, if you’re a mind to, you may bring in a few blossoms once in a while. It seems like the time when I used to fix up the house, and myself too, for that matter.”

Mrs. Weston was a reserved woman, and Randy was amazed that her mother should show so much feeling, and delighted that her efforts at decoration were approved.

“I wish I had something to hang down from the mantel in some way. I don’t know how to say it, but I know just how it ought to look.” A moment Randy stood thinking with a queer little scowl over her eyes. Then her face brightened, and out of the room she darted, then across the yard to the old well around whose sides the wild morning glory clambered. Lifting her skirt, she filled it with the long vines and hurried back to the house.

She filled a small stone jar with water, carried it to the front room and stood it in the centre of the mantel, and then proceeded to fill it with long sprays of the morning glory. When all the vines were thus disposed of, she inspected her work.

“There, you couldn’t have done better,” said her mother, and Randy felt rewarded for her efforts. Then they turned to go back to the kitchen, and there, in the doorway, stood Helen Dayton. Randy started.

“Forgive me for startling you, and also for coming in without knocking. I was out for a walk, and coming up the hill I thought of your invitation. I walked toward the house and was about to knock when this little puss offered to lead me through the house to you.”

“I’m sure you’re welcome any time, Miss Dayton, and this girl of mine,” laying her hand on Randy’s arm, “has been so eager to see you again I do’no what would have become of her if you had waited long to come.”

Randy blushed, and Helen Dayton laughed and said that she was very glad to be so welcome. Then she chatted pleasantly with Mrs. Weston “just as if she had always known her,” as Randy afterward said.

While she was talking, a little book which lay upon Miss Dayton’s lap fell to the floor and flew open, showing a page of bright little sketches, and Randy and Prue stared at it in wonder. “My sketch book,” said Miss Dayton. “I am not an artist, but I have a bit of talent and have studied a little, and when I go out for a walk I jot down a part of a birch tree, a few wild flowers, or some tall weeds beside an old wall. Take the book and look at it if you like,” she added, as she caught the eager look upon Randy’s face.

Gladly Randy picked up the little book. The drawings were not wonderful, only rather clever, but to the country girl, who had never seen a sketch, they were truly charming. Randy looked at each little picture at least a dozen times, always telling Prue in a whisper that she must not put her little fingers on them.

“However did you do them?” asked Randy. “I didn’t know that anybody ever did such beautiful things.”

“Thank you for liking them,” said Helen; “but you must not call them beautiful.”

“But,” said Randy, “that old mullein stalk looks just like a mullein, and those birches look just ’s if you could strip the bark off.”

Helen laughed at Randy’s enthusiasm. “Sometime, when I come,” said she, “I will make a sketch of your old well.”

“Our well!” said Randy, “would that look pretty in a picture?” Helen was amused. “You shall see,” said she; “and now tell me who arranged the flowers and vines so prettily?”

“I did,” said Randy; “I did it to please you,” and Randy, the sketch book still in her hand, looked up into the lovely face.

Helen Dayton laid a gentle hand on Randy’s shoulder, saying sweetly, “Thank you so much, but tell me why you so wished to please me?”

“Because you are the very loveliest girl I ever saw in this world,” and then Randy blushed and looked down to cover her confusion.

“And because you are the princess,” chimed in Prue, who had been still an unusually long time.

“The princess!” echoed Helen. “Whatever do you mean, dear? I am not a princess,” and Randy hastened to explain. She told all about the fairy book, and how on Sunday in church little Prue had felt sure that Miss Dayton was the princess of the fairy tales.

“Well, of all things!” said Helen; “now I must assure you, little one, that I am not a princess, only Helen Dayton of Boston.”

“But you look like one,” persisted the child, looking at her with round, admiring eyes. Mrs. Weston had slipped from the room, while the children entertained their visitor, and as she bustled about the kitchen, doing many things, she murmured softly to herself, “Randy’s right, the girl is lovely.”

A pretty picture they made—the young girl and the two children—as they sat in the best room, chatting now like old acquaintances. Helen had taken little Prue upon her lap, where she sat looking admiringly up into that young lady’s face, while Randy sat beside her on the floor, telling her all her small confidences.

“Randy’s such a homely name,” she was saying. “’Tain’t so bad as Jerushy, but it’s homely enough.”

“But that isn’t the whole name, is it? Isn’t it ‘Miranda’?” asked Helen.

“Why, yes,” said Randy, “and it sounds almost fine when you say it; but, generally, it’s just Randy. And there’s Prue. Her name is Prudence, after Aunt Prudence.”

“Who’s just horrid,” said Prue, so vehemently that Helen and Randy laughed. After a pause Randy asked, abruptly, “If you belong in Boston, how could you come here to board; Boston’s a city, my geography says so, and this is just country.”

“That is just why I came here,” said Helen. “The spring found me very tired, after a long, gay winter, and I came here to be quiet, and get rested.”

“How funny!” said Randy. “I was wishing and wishing the other day that it wasn’t always so quiet here, and the other night when father was talking to Jason Meade about buying the big piece of meadow land, Mr. Meade was saying that he was going to Boston for a spell—he’s been there once—and he told about the streets full of people, and cars running all day, and teams and everything; and I did wish things would fly around here awhile.”

Randy paused for breath, and looking at the pretty, eager face, Helen stooped, and touching the curly head ever so lightly with her lips she said, “Dear Randy, I’ll try to stir things up a bit, and we will see if we cannot have some pleasant times while I am here.”

“Oh, will you?” said Randy, eagerly.

“I never went anywhere ’cept to a sewing-circle once.”

“What will you do?” asked Prue.

“Oh, you shall see,” said Helen, laughingly. “We are planning a picnic now,” said she, “and if we really have it, I’ll invite you, and you shall go with me.”

“With you!” said Randy. “I’d love to, but I shouldn’t look fit,” and she looked admiringly at Helen Dayton’s dainty outing suit, and glanced up at the trim sailor hat perched upon her pretty head.

“Oh, you will look every bit fine enough with a shade hat—we shall all wear broad-brimmed hats—and a clean gingham dress,” said Helen, cheerily.

“But I’ve got nothing but sunbonnets,” said Randy, “’less father will buy me one next time he takes eggs and vegetables to the village. I mean to ask him to if that would be soon enough,” and she looked up eagerly at Helen.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Helen, “we’ve planned to have it in about two weeks.”

“I want to go, too,” said little Prue.

“Of course, dear, so you shall,” said Helen, “and now I must be going, but I’ll tell you all about the picnic the next time we meet. Do you know where Mrs. Gray lives, Randy?”

Randy laughed. “Of course I do,” said she.

“Well, when father brings home your new shade hat, and of course he will, if you wish it so much, suppose you take a walk over to Mrs. Gray’s and make a little call upon me, and when you come bring the new hat with you; I shouldn’t wonder if I had something with which to trim it.”

“Oh, I will, I will!” said Randy, eagerly, “and then you’ll tell me all about the picnic.”

With sheer excitement little Prue was executing a funny little jig, which reminded Helen to inquire for the injured foot.

“It’s all well. See!” and Prue hopped upon that one foot to assure her that it was quite itself again.

“I should call that foot very well indeed,” said Helen. Then together they walked out to the kitchen where, bidding good morning to Mrs. Weston, Helen said that she had enjoyed her call, admired Randy’s tasteful decoration, and asked if she might borrow Randy once in a while.

“Why, yes, you may have Randy whenever I can spare her,” said Mrs. Weston, “’though she seems so took up with you, and so delighted, that when she comes home from a call on you I’m afraid she’ll about tread on air.”

Helen laughed, and taking Randy’s hand they walked together as far as the road where Randy, perched upon the wall, watched her new friend out of sight.

Helen turned many times to wave her hand until a bend in the road hid her from view. Then Randy walked slowly to the house, followed by Prue, and as they walked they talked of nothing but Helen’s beauty and sweetness and the wonderful picnic.

CHAPTER VI—THE PICNIC

“Yes, yes, land sakes! I b’lieve I’ll bring ye home a dozen to pick from,” and the good man chuckled to himself—he had his own plan for doing Randy’s errand. His eggs and vegetables disposed of, he turned to start for home, when he ejaculated, “Bless me! if I didn’t most forgit Randy’s hat.” Back into the store he went. “What have ye got for hats?” said Mr. Weston. “My Randy’s set her mind on havin’ a fine shade hat for the picnic, and nothin’ but a white one will do.”

Silas Barnes reached under his counter and brought forth a dozen straw hats, which lie spread out for Mr. Weston to select from.

“Wal’, that beats all! Randy and her mother told me just how it ought to look, but I don’t see any difference in ’em, do you, Barnes?”

“Why, yes,” replied the genial storekeeper, “that one’s twice as fine as the other, an’ it’s worth twice as much.”

“Wal’, I guess it’s ’bout good enough for Randy, then, and I’ll take it.”

When her father returned that night Randy met him at the door, and with a little cry of delight took the parcel which he handed her, and she could not find words to express her pleasure when the fresh, white hat lay before her on the table.

“Dear me! Ye might have had one before, if it delights ye so,” said her mother; “I didn’t think of it before, because most every girl here wears a sunbonnet.”

“Well, I’ve got it now,” said Randy, “and to-morrow I’ll go over to Miss Dayton’s and she’ll trim it for me; she said she would.” On the following day, true to her promise, Helen gave Randy a cordial welcome, and trimmed the hat with some gay ribbons which, although not new, were very pretty, and to Randy seemed nothing short of gorgeous.

On the day of the picnic no happier heart than Randy Weston’s beat fast with anticipation; and with Prue’s hand held tightly in her own she started, as they had planned, for Mrs. Gray’s house to join Helen.

“Don’t forget to take care of Prue,” called her mother.

“I won’t forget,” answered Randy.

Mr. Weston stepped back into the house after watching the children until a bend in the road concealed them from view, and sat down for a moment before going out to the field. “I tell ye what, mother,” said he, “I mean those girls shall have a chance. I’d no idee what a difference there was between a hat and a sunbunnit. I say, why don’t you have a new bunnit yourself, mother? You were every bit as pretty as our Randy when you were young, and I b’lieve you’d look a good deal the same now, with a little fixin’. Just see the difference in Randy with a bran’ new hat! When we was a-payin’ off the mortgage we had to scrimp; but now, I think ye might have a few duds, once in a while.”

He stopped, expecting a rebuff, and was surprised when his wife turned with a sweet smile and said, “I b’lieve I will have just a few things.”

“Ye can have what ye want,” was the hearty rejoinder, “and we’ll go to the village next week and do some shoppin’,” and with a jolly whistle he started for the barn.

When they arrived at Mrs. Gray’s, the children were surprised to find almost every man, woman, and child who had been invited to the picnic already there, and, as they were all talking at once, it was impossible to understand what any one person was saying.

Very conscious of her new hat was Randy, and she longed to find Helen that she might talk with her. She knew that any one with whom she stopped to speak would mention her new finery, so she only nodded pleasantly to the girls whom she passed, and walked toward the house, hoping there to find Helen. Helen saw her and came out to meet her; but as Randy passed the Babson girls, she heard Phœbe Small say to them: “Look at Randy Weston! Isn’t she getting fine!”

“Dunno how fine she is,” responded Belinda Babson; “but I don’t see as she need walk right by us, just because she’s got a new hat.”

Poor Randy! She had not the least idea of being vain or silly. “Why need the girls spoil the fun of my having a new hat,” said she, and a hot flush crept up on her cheek, but soon Helen’s merry chatter caused Randy to forget Phœbe’s unkindness, and she was laughing and talking as gayly as Helen herself.

Miss Dobbs, the little soprano of the choir, hearing Randy’s laugh, turned and smiled, an unusual thing for her to do, saying: “How are ye, Randy? That’s a dreadful pretty hat.”

“I like it,” said Randy, simply, although her eyes showed her delight that some one should approve of it. “Miss Dayton trimmed it for me; didn’t she do it lovely?” continued Randy, anxious that her new friend should have all the glory which belonged to her for her millinery skill.

“Umph!” ejaculated Miss Dobbs, “they do say you’re pretty int’mit with Miss Dayton, considering she’s from the city.” Randy moved away, pleased with the compliment for her hat, but hurt by the last remark. “‘Considering she’s from the city,’” thought Randy. “Anybody’d think I asked her to be pleasant to me. Why, I wouldn’t have dared to. She wanted to be nice, and I was glad enough to let her,” and she brushed away a tear and forced back a sob which rose in her throat.

Just then something happened to cheer Randy and give her a wee bit of triumph.

Phœbe Small moved toward Randy and fastening her small eyes disapprovingly upon the offending hat, she was about to speak, when, without noticing Phœbe at all, Jotham Potts walked awkwardly up to Randy, and, standing upon one foot, then shifting to the other, he said: “Morning, Randy! Be you going to walk to the picnic or ride? Because,” he continued, “I told father I’d like to have you ride with us, seein’s we have a spare seat, and he said he’d be pleased to have your company. Will ye come, Randy? I do wish ye would.”

“I’d like to, and thank you,” answered Randy, sweetly, with a blush and a glance at Phœbe Small, who pretended not to have heard, “but I promised to go in Mr. Gray’s team with Miss Dayton, so I’ll have to.”

“I wish ye was goin’ with us, but as ye can’t, I’ll see ye at the picnic,” said Jotham, and he turned to get into his father’s wagon; then, stepping back to where Randy was standing, he blushed, and from his pocket produced a little package.

“Here, Randy,” he said, “I brought this a purpose for you to enjoy durin’ the ride, so I guess I’ll give it to ye now.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Randy, “how good you are,” and that so completely overcame Jotham that he retired in confusion. By this time the party was about ready to start. The choir had decided to go in the first wagon and enliven the way by singing, and were still discussing as to a selection from their scant repertoire.

“Ye needn’t ask me to join ye,” said Silas Barnes, “and sing ‘Chany,’”—he meant China—“for I don’t think that’s gay enough for a picnic.”

Miss Hobson suggested that they might please Mr. Barnes by singing “Yankee Doodle.” This was meant to suggest that Silas Barnes was too frivolous, but he did not, apparently, feel injured, as he laughingly answered that he would “rather be patriotic than mournful, and he reely guessed they’d better settle upon ‘Yankee Doodle,’ as Miss Hobson suggested.”

On one end of the door-stone old Mrs. Perkins had just convinced her neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, that it was just the right time of the year to gather ‘pennyroyal’ and mouse-ear, and so have them a-drying, and Mrs. Buffum had gathered the six little Buffums under her wing by uttering this awful threat:—

“Johnny! Johnny Buffum! do you and Hitty want to go to the picnic? Katie! do you and Jack and Sophy and Ann want to stay at home? Well, then, come here, or the first thing you’ll know the wagons’ll go without ye!”

From all directions the six young Buffums rushed and crowded closely around their mother. Stay at home from their first picnic? Never!

At last every one had arrived, and they lost no time in clambering into the waiting wagons; then away they jogged toward the grove.

Farmer Gray had taken his wife and Helen Dayton, Randy and little Prue in one wagon, and had told his other boarders that they were welcome to fill his two remaining wagons, allotting places as they chose.

The wagon with the choir had started first, and Randy and Helen could still faintly hear the stirring strains of “Yankee Doodle.” Randy sat with sparkling eyes, enjoying the ride as she had never enjoyed one before. Had she not a fine new hat? Was she not beside the beautiful Miss Dayton? and had not Jotham, to the envy of the other girls, given her a package purchased expressly for her?

“What you got in your bundle what Jotham gave you, Randy?” asked Prue. “Will you let me see?”

“Yes, do let us see,” said Helen Dayton; “I know it must be something nice.”

So Randy untied the package and found a lot of huge pink and white peppermints, which Prue at once commenced to help her eat. Helen pronounced them to be very nice, but as she never liked peppermints, politely excused herself from eating them by saying that she must save her appetite for the spread at the picnic.

Along the dusty road they jogged, Randy never minding the heat, Helen feeling it intensely, even with the protection of her dainty ruffled parasol. Sometimes they rode under overhanging boughs which made long, cool shadows across the road, then over a sunny, dusty stretch with only a fringe of daisies by the roadside and a chain of hazy blue hills in the distance.