The arrival of Letty at Sunnycrest was the herald of many happy days. Of course Mrs. Hartwell-Jones gave grandmother all the particulars of her interview with Mrs. Drake, but the mere fact that Letty was there satisfied the twins; they carried her off to the orchard, completely contented at the new turn events had taken.
“Here’s where we play fairies,” said Jane, leading the way to the orchard. “This is Titania’s throne—this mound with the grapevine twisted into a seat. Kit made it for me. Isn’t he clever? He plays with me, too; sometimes he’s Oberon and sometimes he’s Puck. He’s funniest when he’s Puck.”
“I said something to Bill Carpenter about Puck to-day, and he thought I meant a funny paper,” exclaimed Christopher scornfully. “Just fancy not knowing about Puck!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Letty shyly, her face getting very red at the thought of these children knowing so much more than she did. “Was he a fairy?”
“Oh, yes, and there’s a play about him in the house. Will you read us the story?”
“Some time,” replied Letty hesitatingly, doubtful if she could read well enough. She had not progressed very much in her lessons during these past three years.
“Do you know any stories?” asked Jane, settling herself comfortably upon Titania’a throne.
“I—I make up stories sometimes to myself and—and songs.”
“Oh, do you sing?” put in Christopher. “What sort of songs? Sing us one, that’s a good girl.”
“I only know two or three songs with tunes to them. I’ll sing them for you some time, but not now. I must go see if Mrs. Hartwell-Jones needs me.”
“Everything Mrs. Drake could tell me was satisfactory,” Mrs. Hartwell-Jones was saying to grandmother. “Letty’s mother, it seems, must have been a very unusual woman, a ‘real lady’ Mrs. Drake called her.”
“I remember my daughter-in-law said the same thing,” put in grandmother.
“The son was fond of his little sister but careless of her and too fond of his own good times. The Drakes have kept her on with them since her brother’s death out of pure kindness of heart. Mrs. Drake said she thought of trying to get Letty a place as nursemaid when they went back to the city; she is so fond of children and so patient and good to Mrs. Drake’s baby. You should have seen how Letty cried and hugged that baby when we came away.”
“How sad it would have been,” said grandmother, “to have cast that poor child upon the world at her age.”
“What a mercy it is that your dear little Janey gave me my idea. In the past I have done what I could for charity, as every one does; that is, I have given sums of money to different hospitals and all that. But I have always wanted to have some personal work to do, and now I have it, in bringing up this poor orphaned child.”
“And you will grow fond of her, too,” added grandmother. “She has such a sweet face and such nice, thoughtful ways.”
“I think I am fond of her already; fond and interested.”
“Have you any plans?”
“I suppose I shall send her to boarding-school in the autumn. But the poor child is woefully behind her years in knowledge. I shall write to the city for books and set her a daily task at once.
“And now about my visit to you, dear Mrs. Baker. It is very kind of you to take Letty in as well as me, and those great ponies too. But I must not impose upon your hospitality too long. As soon as arrangements can be made, Letty and I must return to the village. Now that I have a willing pair of little feet to wait upon me and run my errands I shall get on nicely. We stopped on the way home this afternoon at Mr. Parsons’ and bespoke a room for Letty. Mr. Parsons thinks he can make room for the ponies in his stable.”
“We shall be very sorry to see you go,” replied Mrs. Baker regretfully, “but I dare say you will feel freer and more undisturbed in your own rooms. The children will miss you.”
“I hope they will come in to see me often—every day, if they wish. We shall have little tea-parties in my sitting-room or down under the trees. And I trust you will come too, to drink tea with me.”
So matters were arranged; much to the children’s disappointment at first, but when they understood the extent of Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s invitations to them, they were frankly delighted. They did not like the idea of losing Letty and the ponies, but the prospect of almost daily tea-parties made them look forward almost with eagerness to the time of Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s return to her own rooms in the village.
Jane was filled with rapture at the idea of more fairy plays, for Letty had entered into the game of dolls as eagerly and interestedly as Jane herself, her vivid imagination making the dainty waxen creatures seem all but alive. Christopher, for his part, rejoiced secretly over the chances these visits promised of going to the village and continuing his intimacy with Billy Carpenter.
Billy and half a dozen other village boys were trying to get up a baseball nine, and Christopher and Jo Perkins had both been invited to join. Billy Carpenter came out to Sunnycrest nearly every afternoon on his bicycle, and he and Jo Perkins and Christopher had great times practicing pitching and batting down in the long meadow.
Grandmother looked on at this new friendship of Christopher’s with some surprise and a little uneasiness. Until the present time, the twins had been inseparable, sharing their pleasures and enjoying the same games. Jane was hurt sometimes by Christopher’s desertion, but she was too busy and happy to feel badly for long, and after Letty came she was quite reconciled to Christopher’s new friends.
Letty was a delightful playfellow, always ready for whatever game Jane was pleased to suggest, and as Mrs. Hartwell-Jones demanded very little of her new companion’s time, she was able to devote herself to Jane. Every morning Letty drove Mrs. Hartwell-Jones out in the pony carriage, Jane and Christopher taking turns in the little seat behind; then there was an hour’s work over arithmetic and reading. After that the two little girls might amuse themselves as they pleased.
Huldah enjoyed having them in the kitchen. Letty soon proved to be more of a helper than Jane herself, and was so genuinely interested in the art of cooking that Huldah good-naturedly offered to give her a few practical lessons.
It was while these cooking lessons were going on that Jane generally wrote her letters to her mother. It was a positive rule that the twins were to write either to their father or mother at least once a week. It may sound hard to say that this had to be made a rule but if you, my dears, are like most children, you will understand how difficult it is to find time to write letters even to those you love best in the world. But Jane rather liked it when she got started—if there was some one at hand to help with the spelling and the letters need not be long. Before sailing on the big steamer, Mrs. Baker, Jr., had given each of her children a little writing-case containing paper, envelopes, a box for pens and pencils, a tiny compartment for stamps and an ink-bottle, all complete. It was the first time Jane had ever been allowed to write with ink, and that added to the importance of her weekly letter-writing.
So while Huldah and Letty talked busily over recipes—“three cups of sifted flour; the whites of four eggs beaten stiff; two even teaspoonfuls of baking-powder” and other mysteries, Jane toiled away over her foreign correspondence. Jane loved her mother dearly and missed her—at times—more than any one guessed. As it was her joy when they were all at home to pour out into mother’s sympathetic ears all the little details of each day’s happiness, so now she told, in shorter form but with as faithful accuracy, the events of Sunnycrest. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s accident, the finding of her by the twins and her coming to Sunnycrest, had all been told in a previous letter. Now there was the account of the circus and the finding of Letty to relate, and when the crooked, blotty little letter reached Mrs. Christopher Baker, Jr., in Berlin, I am sure she was touched by the story of the orphaned circus girl who had been given a home by a kind, generous woman. And, mother-like, her heart must have glowed with pride at the thought that her little girl’s sympathy and love for a fellow creature had spoken the word which brought Letty a reward for her act of heroism long ago.
Letty was supremely happy. She was hardly old enough to realize all that she had been saved from, but the joy of being well fed and cared for filled her cup of happiness to overflowing. This change in her circumstances did not make the child selfish and lazy, as it might have affected some natures, easily spoiled by comfort; but more eager and willing to serve those who had been so kind to her. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and grandmother agreed that there was no fear of being disappointed in Letty’s disposition, and the “lady who wrote books” found Mrs. Baker’s prophecy already coming true. She was growing fond of Letty.
UNDER A LARGE TREE IN THE GARDENUNDER A LARGE TREE IN THE GARDEN
UNDER A LARGE TREE IN THE GARDEN
“I find myself looking forward quite eagerly to my return to the city in the autumn,” she said to grandmother. “Letty will need some clothes before she goes to school, of course, and it will be such a pleasure to buy them. It has been so long since I have had any one to buy clothes for,” she added, the tears coming to her eyes. “I dare confess now, Mrs. Baker, how much I have envied you Janey and Kit this summer.”
“They are dear children,” agreed grandmother with a sigh, “but they are growing up so fast! Until this year they were always ‘the children.’ Now Jane is a girl and Kit a boy.” Grandmother paused a moment as if she wished to say something more, but she was afraid of boring her visitor by discussing the children too much and changed the subject.
It happened that the afternoon of the day before that set for the return of Letty and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones to the village was very hot, and all the grown-ups had retired to their own rooms to lie down. The children were told to stay quietly in the shade until the sun was lower, and Letty agreed to tell them stories. So they settled themselves under a large tree in the garden close to the house and, as it happened, just underneath Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s window.
Letty began with “Jack the Giant Killer,” which she had read in one of Jane’s old books, but found that she was listened to with only polite interest.
“I think Jack ought to have saved the giant’s wife before he cut down the beanstalk,” said Christopher disgustedly, when the story was ended, “after she had treated him so kindly and all. It was a shame to leave her up there without any way of getting down.”
“She was the fairy, you goose,” exclaimed Jane, “who first told Jack that all the giant’s treasure belonged to his mother, and so she could easily get down, because fairies can go anywhere.”
“Don’t you know any other stories, Letty?” asked Christopher. “New ones?”
“Make up one!” urged Jane. “You know you said you did sometimes.”
“But they aren’t really stories; I mean not long ones. They’re just little thoughts about the birds and flowers and things talking. But I will try to tell you a story I read once, that I love dearly. It was a story in a magazine that a girl lent me at school, and I loved it so that I read it over and over again. I think I know it by heart and I’ll tell it to you if you think it will interest you. It’s not exactly a boy’s story,” she added apologetically, looking at Christopher.
“Oh, never mind, fire away,” answered Christopher grandly.
Christopher was very comfortable, sprawled on his back in the shade, and was ready to be amused by anything except a nursery tale.
“Well, then, here is the story. It is called ‘Thistledown.’”
“‘Thistledown,’” repeated Christopher, “that’s a funny name.”
“Thistledown was the fairy’s name, and you’ll see what he got for being naughty and mischievous. Well——”
“Before you begin, Letty,” broke in Jane, “please make Kit promise one thing—that he won’t interrupt.”
“Huh, I’d like to know who was the first to interrupt,” mocked Christopher.
“I didn’t interrupt. The story hadn’t begun yet. Make him promise, Letty, do.”
“I don’t see why I have to promise.”
“Because it spoils a story so, Kit. Please promise. Letty’s going to recite the story, just as we do our poetry at school, and she might forget something if she had to stop in the middle. Besides, explanations cut up a story so. Come on, say you won’t interrupt, like a good boy. I know you won’t if you only promise.”
“Well, I’ll not interrupt if you don’t,” conceded Christopher. “Go on, Letty, let’s hear what happened to Thistledown.”
“Well,” commenced Letty cheerfully, “it began like this:
“Thistledown was a roguish elf and, I am afraid, rather a selfish little fellow. The sight of good examples did not make him want to be useful or helpful at all. Indeed, nothing could make him work except to threaten to take away his liberty. For Thistledown prized his liberty dearly. Not from the high, noble motives of honor and self-respect that are the reasons why most people insist upon having their rights, but because to Thistledown his liberty meant his happiness. It meant nice long, warm hours in which to float idly about the great sunshiny world with never a thought or care in his feather-brained head.
“He was not a bothersome elf, as idle folk are so apt to be. He was too lazy to tease—except to give an occasional passing tickle to the long nose of some serious old gnome bent over his work, when Thistledown’s merry laugh at the goblin’s sneeze and start of surprise was so jolly that the gnome had to laugh too, and so no cross words were spoken.
“The breezes were Thistledown’s best friends. They were as lazy and careless as himself, and the kindred spirits got on splendidly together. The breezes would carry him on long, swift rides astride their backs, or float with him lazily along over sweet-smelling fields of flowers. Sometimes they would dip him in the brook, but Thistledown did not mind that, for he shed water like a duck and the little plunge served finely to cool him off on hot summer days.
“But lazy folk are bound to be punished sooner or later, for it is not right to be lazy, and everything that is not right in the world is sure to be punished some time or other. And so it happened—but I am going to let Thistledown tell his story in his own way. (Yes, Kit, that is just the way it was in the magazine.)
“One day as Thistledown was floating over a field of daisies, he spied a spot of yellow among the flowers that was very much larger than any of the daisy centres, and much shinier and softer. Too lazy to wonder what the new kind of blossom could be, but thinking that it looked like a snug, silky place for a nap, he dropped down upon it. Immediately his downy wings became mixed up in a soft tangle of long golden threads that curled and twined about in a distressfully confusing way, all around him.
“Thistledown became frightened, but the more he struggled to free himself the more tangled he became in the golden mesh. At last he saw approaching him what he knew to be a person’s hand and his little heart sank within him as he felt this new prison closing about him. The touch of the small hand was very gentle so that not one of Thistledown’s feathers was crushed. But he was very much frightened nevertheless, poor little fellow, and closed his eyes tight for a minute.
“When he dared to open them again he found himself being surveyed very seriously by a pair of big blue eyes.
“‘Now, sir,’ said the little girl (I am sure you have guessed before now that Thistledown’s golden prison was a little girl’s curls), ‘Now, sir,’ she said, ‘before I let you go, you must tell me a story, please.’
“She was a very polite little girl and although she knew that she held Thistledown in her power and that he simply had to do whatever she told him to, whether he wanted to or not, still she said ‘sir’ and ‘please’ when she asked for her story, for she was a very polite little girl.
“The politeness pleased Thistledown—as nice manners always do please every one—but his little wits could not think of anything like a story.
“‘I’m afraid I don’t know any story,’ he replied, trying to be as polite as the little girl.
“‘Oh, yes, you do. You’re sure to,’ she declared, with a grave little nod of her head. ‘Tell me about your ad-ven-tures!’
“This was a very big word for such a little girl, but she got it out quite correctly. Besides, she knew very well what the word meant, because she had seen it so often on the back of a book on her sister’s book-shelf. ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’
“Thistledown squirmed and wriggled and began to grow warm and cross.
“‘I don’t know any stories. And I never had any adventures—except once,’ he added, remembering something all at once.
“‘Oh, please do tell me about it,’ coaxed the little girl.
“She looked so pretty, and besides, she held him so firmly, that Thistledown saw that the sooner he told his story the sooner he would be free, so he began at once:
“‘It happened so long ago that I may forget parts, but I’ll tell it the best I know how. I was flying home from a party one afternoon and as it was almost dark I was in a good deal of a hurry. Pretty soon, down at the edge of a field of tall grasses, I saw an old firefly poking about as if he were looking for something. I stopped to see what was the matter, for it was too dark to hope to find anything, and the old firefly’s lantern gave out hardly any light at all.
“‘I supposed his light was dim because the old fellow was too lazy to make it shine brighter. I had seen the gnomes blowing up their forge fires with a pair of bellows to make them burn brighter and I supposed the firefly’s lantern worked the same way. So I got behind the old fellow as he stooped to look under a clump of violet leaves, and I gave a quick, sharp little blow—pouf—like that, at his lantern. But what do you suppose happened? It went out!
“‘I was terribly surprised and a bit frightened, for that horrid old firefly thought that I had done it on purpose. He whirled around before I could spread my wings, and caught hold of me.
“‘“You wicked, wicked little sprite!” he exclaimed, almost squeezing the breath out of me. “How dared you, oh, how dared you!”
“‘I never dreamed he could move so fast and I was too surprised to get out of his way. If you have ever had a firefly on your hand you know how sticky their legs feel. Well, the old firefly held me by all his legs, squeezing me tight and mussing my party feathers. Lifting me off the ground, he flew away with me, scolding all the while.
“‘“You are a vicious little vagabond,” he said. I don’t know what he meant, but those are the very words he used and I know they meant something disagreeable. He thought I had blown out his light, just for mischief. “But you shall be punished for it,” he went on. “I’ll see to it. I shall take you to the King himself!”
“‘I grew more and more frightened. His voice was so very cross and he clutched me so tight. Then, too, we were flying along through the dark over fields I had never visited before. I have always been afraid in the dark’ (here the little girl nodded her head understandingly and looked about her at the bright sunshine gratefully). ‘And the grasses rustled so queerly. I began to be afraid that they, too, meant to do me harm.
“‘At last, after we had been flying for what seemed to me to be hours, we reached a sort of open place, all bare and cold looking, with high rocks all about it. There were thousands of fireflies inside this place, all with their lanterns brightly burning. On one side a great many flies were bunched together to light a kind of throne, and on this throne sat the King and Queen of the Fireflies. My heart was in my mouth as my captor carried me across to them, for the King was ever so much bigger than any of the other fireflies and I did not know what he might do to punish me.
“‘There were two or three other fireflies talking to the King, but they all stopped and moved aside when they saw the old firefly coming up with his lantern gone out, and carrying me.
“‘“Why, what’s this, what’s this?” asked the King in a surprised voice as the fly sank down, all out of breath, at the foot of the throne.
“‘“Oh, Your Majesty,“ he gasped, as soon as he could get breath enough to speak, “I was hunting for corn-flowers down in the big meadow, trying to find enough honey to finish my supper before it grew too dark, for you know I am growing old and my light was giving out.”
“‘“Yes, yes, I know,” replied the King kindly. “We have all felt very sorry about it. And I am greatly shocked to see that it has now gone out altogether.”
“‘“Ah, but hear how that happened, Your Majesty. I was hunting about, very busy and never dreaming of the dreadful thing that was to happen, when this little creature”—he did not call me a vicious little vagabond to the King, but his voice sounded as if he would like to—“stole up behind me and blew out my light!”
“‘Everybody exclaimed at this and crowded about the old firefly to tell him how sorry they were. I was sorry too, as sorry as I could be, for I had not known that the firefly’s light was dim because he was growing old. I had not meant any harm, but rather to help him. I tried to explain this to the fireflies but no one would listen when I talked about the gnomes and their forge fires. I thought the Queen was listening, for she kept looking at me; but she did not say anything.
“‘The King ordered me off to prison, and appointed the old fly, whose light I had blown out, to be my keeper. There were two other guards to the prison too, and it was horrid. My prison was a long, narrow crack in one of the brown rocks and I don’t know how long a time I spent there. It seemed like years. At the back, very cold and dark indeed, was my bed. The front looked down on the open space which, I learned, was called the throne glade, and one could see everything that went on. But the two keepers always sat one on each side of the door, and the old fly in the middle so that I could not see out. If the King went by, or anything interesting happened, I would try to peep over their shoulders, but the guards scolded me so and made such unkind remarks that I was ready to cry.
“‘It was a dreadful time. I was getting thinner, for I was not used to living in the dark and I did not like the things they gave me to eat. My wings were getting so weak from not being used that I began to be afraid they would never hold me up again.
“‘The only thing that was at all pleasant was a visit from the Queen. She was very kind and said that she had heard what I said about not meaning to injure the old fly, but that I must understand that almost as much harm and sorrow happened in the world through “not meaning to” as from real naughtiness. She said that it is always dangerous to meddle with things we don’t know about and most dangerous of all to meddle with fire. And I promised her that I would never do it again.
“‘The keepers were a little more kind to me after the Queen’s visit and I tried to show the old firefly, whose lamp I had blown out, that I was sorry. I was hoping that the Queen would send some one to set me free, but she did not and it was very lonely. I began to be afraid I should have to stay in that gloomy prison all the rest of my life.
“‘Then, one day, a young firefly came bustling up to the prison in great excitement. The King and Queen had been invited to a big party given by the June beetles, and all the fireflies were asked to go along to help light up the party. The June beetle’s country was pretty far off and the fireflies would have to start early in the afternoon to reach it before dark. Every single one of them was to go except my old keeper, who was left to guard me.
“‘“Of course I would not be wanted anyhow,” I heard him say crossly. “I’m of no use without my lantern.”
“‘I was very sorry that the poor old fly had to stay behind and miss the party, but I realized that my chance had come to escape. So, every day, while the three guards sat in the doorway, busy watching what went on below and talking about the party, I stayed in the dark corner beside my bed and exercised my wings by lifting myself up to the ceiling and down again on them, to bring back the strength.
“‘At last the day of the party arrived and every single firefly had gone except my old keeper and me. We sat side by side in the doorway and watched the sun go down. I really think the old fly was as unhappy to have me sit in the doorway as he had been to miss the party. But he could not fill up the whole doorway by himself, although he crowded me a great deal, nor could he forbid me to stay there, so I sat and looked down at the throne glade and tried to see where the opening was that led back to the world.
“‘It always got dark early in this place and as soon as the sun had set, the old fly got up and said I must go to bed. I got up without saying anything and he turned around and started back toward my bed, thinking that I was following right behind. You remember that his light was out and he could not see.
“‘But I did not lose a second of time. The instant his back was turned I spread my wings and flew down into the throne glade. My poor wings were so weak that I almost fell, but they soon got stronger as I skimmed through the fresh air. The old fly did not miss me at first, and I had time to get out through the narrow opening of the glade before he realized what had happened and started to follow me.
“‘My wings grew stronger every minute, and I was oh, so happy to be free and on my way back to my own dear, sunshiny world again, that I did not feel a bit frightened when presently I heard the blind old fly coming after me. He was oh, so cross! He could not see me at all and could only tell where I was by the rustle of my wings. But although he was older than I he was stronger and could fly faster. I heard him coming closer and closer. What if I should be captured again! I should die, I knew!
“‘On I flew, faster and faster, and at last I found myself again in the field of high grasses near the edge of which I had first seen the old fly. The noises and darkness of the grasses had frightened me then, but now they seemed like home to me. I was too tired to fly another inch, so I just dropped down, right into the middle of a clump of grasses.
“‘It was now much too dark to see anything and the grasses made such a rustle in the wind that the old firefly did not miss the sound of my wings at first and had flown quite some distance ahead before he realized that I was not in front of him any longer. Then, how angry he was! He knew that I must be hiding somewhere near by, and he went bumping back and forth over the field, hitting his poor head against stalks and getting crosser every minute. He flew quite close to me two or three times and I held my breath for fear he would pounce upon me. But after a long, long time he gave up hunting for me and flew angrily away.
“‘And not any too soon, either, for the moon came out presently and shone so bright that he could have seen me down in the clump of grasses at once. I waited until I was quite sure that he was out of sight and would not come back, then I sprang up and flew home as fast as my poor weak wings would carry me. And you may be sure that I have kept out of the way of fireflies ever since.’
“Thistledown stopped talking, quite out of breath and tired with his long story.
“‘It was a very interesting story,’ said the little girl, ‘and I thank you very much for telling it to me. And I’ll remember, too, what the Queen of the Fireflies told you about not meddling,’ she added thoughtfully.
“Then the little girl stood up, still holding Thistledown gently in her chubby hand.
“‘I am going to do what you did to the firefly—only I hope it won’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘Get behind you and say pouf—like that,’ and puffing out her rosy cheeks, she sent Thistledown sailing merrily away through the warm, sunshiny air.”
Letty ended her story with a little laugh.
“I feel as out of breath as Thistledown did, when he had finished his adventure,” she laughed.
“Ho!” ejaculated Christopher, who had nearly burst in his effort to keep his promise not to interrupt. “He couldn’t have blown out the old firefly’s lamp. They’re not made that way. They’re a part of the firefly—the light they make, I mean. The person who wrote that story did not know very much about beetles and things.”
The curtains parted in an up-stairs window and a smiling face looked down upon them.
“I know who wrote the story, Kit,” called Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. “Can you guess?” she asked merrily.
Letty looked up with her face all aglow, enlightened by Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s expression.
“Oh, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones,” she exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say that you wrote it!”
“Yes,” laughed the lady gayly. “I wrote it ever so many years ago. How wonderfully you remembered it, my dear.”
“I loved it,” replied Letty simply. “But I should never have believed it then if any one had told me that some day I should know the writer,” and she sighed happily.
“I’ll write another one some time—just for you and Janey,” promised Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. “And now wouldn’t you children like to drive Punch and Judy into the village to carry some of my things to Mr. Parsons’ house?”
The twins jumped up with a whoop. They were always delighted to go for a drive in the pony carriage.
When Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Letty drove away from Sunnycrest in the pony carriage, amid a general waving of pocket handkerchiefs and shouts of farewell, everybody looked at everybody else rather blankly, as if something had happened and nobody was quite sure just what it was.
“Mrs. Hartwell-Jones said that we had done so much to brighten her life,” grandmother told grandfather, when they were talking it all over on the veranda that afternoon. “But it seems to be the other way on. It is she who has done us all good. We shall all miss her and Letty, each for different reasons. I enjoyed my talks with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and the children were perfectly happy with Letty.”
“We shall all of us miss Letty,” agreed grandfather.
“Yes, Jane is disconsolate and Huldah declares that her cake will never be so good again.”
It really was wonderful how quickly Letty had filled a place in the simple home life, and how happy she had been. No word or look had ever reminded her that she was a poor little outcast; every one had welcomed her with loving kindness.
“Grandmother,” Jane had said one evening when she was saying her prayers, very soon after Letty’s arrival, “I think Letty must be ‘our sister in heaven.’ You know the Bible says that everybody is brother and sister in heaven and that is what Letty must be to us.” And as such Jane had taken her into her loving child’s heart.
Letty was sorry to leave Sunnycrest; it was so lovely, so quiet and peaceful. But she loved and admired Mrs. Hartwell-Jones so extremely that she would have been glad to go anywhere with her. There were lessons to be studied every day, to prepare for the glorious prospect of school in the autumn, and little drives to take about the countryside. Then it was understood, before Mrs. Hartwell-Jones left Sunnycrest, that the twins were to come into the village nearly every afternoon for a tea-party, and grandmother was to come with them as often as she could.
And the very next day after Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s departure, Jane proposed a visit. Grandmother thought it too soon, but Jane and Christopher were urgent.
“I think we ought to go, to see if Mrs. Hartwell-Jones got home all right and how her lame foot is,” remarked Jane in a grown-up tone. “Don’t you think it would be polite, grandmother?”
“And maybe she’ll have some jolly little apple turnovers, like she gave us once,” added Christopher.
So grandmother gave her consent; Joshua brought round the comfortable big carryall and grandmother and the twins got in, Jane carrying Sally, dressed in her best. Christopher got on the front seat with Joshua, to discuss the prospect of Jo Perkins being allowed enough time off to join the baseball nine. Christopher had counted on seeing Billy Carpenter in the village. Billy lived next door to Mr. Parsons, but he was nowhere to be seen, nor answered Christopher’s shrill whistle.
“I’m going on up to the post-office with Josh,” said Christopher as his grandmother and Jane descended. “I’ll be back before you get started on the party.”
“You will have to walk back, Kit,” replied his grandmother. “Joshua is going to have the horses shod.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a little walk like that,” answered Christopher loftily. “Besides, if Bill’s there he’ll probably give me a lift back on the step of his bicycle.”
Christopher thought it likely that Billy Carpenter was at the post-office helping his father with the letters, and that by going on there he would not only see his chum but would miss all the “how do you do’s” and small talk at Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s, arriving in time for the real pleasure of the occasion—the tea-party.
Jane stood still a moment at the gate and watched the carriage drive off a bit regretfully. She knew that Christopher wanted to see Billy Carpenter and she felt a little forlorn.
“We won’t have the party until you get back, Kit,” she called after him. Then she turned to her grandmother, her lip quivering a little. “Do you suppose Kit likes that Carpenter boy better than me, grandmother?”
“Of course not, Janey, dear, but—boys will be boys, you know, and girls girls.”
“But Kit didn’t use to care for boys.”
“Well, he’s getting older,” replied grandmother vaguely.
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones must have been expecting company, for little Anna Parsons ran out of the front door to meet them, and led them around the corner of the house, where a wide, shady expanse of velvety lawn invited rest. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones sat in an easy chair placed on a rug, and other chairs were grouped nearby, while the sight of a low, white-covered table would have done Christopher’s heart good, it was so loaded down with goodies.
“Where is Kit?” was Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s first question, echoed by Letty.
Grandmother explained that he had gone for the mail and would be back directly. Then she sat down beside Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and discussed the question of boys in general and Kit in particular, while Letty told the story of “Thistledown” over again for Anna Parsons’ benefit, the children taking frequent peeps at Mrs. Hartwell-Jones in the meantime and wondering how she could have thought it all out. After which she told parts of “Prince Pietro,” a story she and her little neighbor Emma Haines had been very fond of, and she wondered if Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had written that, too.
In the meanwhile Christopher drove merrily on with Joshua to the post-office, at the other end of the village, his tongue wagging at its usual nimble rate. As they reached the post-office he gave a sudden shrill whistle that made Joshua put his hand over the ear nearest to Christopher’s mouth.
“For the land’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Do you want to make me plumb deaf, boy?”
An answering whistle, followed by a whoop, sounded from inside the building and Billy Carpenter darted out.
“Hi, Bill, bring the mail with you,” called Joshua. “Here you, Kit, you go in and get it, and get Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s too. You might as well take hers to her, as you’re going right back there.”
“Not right back,” objected Christopher, scrambling down over the front wheel.
“Yes, right back,” repeated Joshua sternly, as the horses started to go on. “Mind you go directly back to your grandma and the girls,” he called over his shoulder, right into the listening ear of Billy Carpenter.
“Huh!” jeered that youth, “here comes the boy that’s tied to a girl’s apron-strings! Howdy, Miss Kitty.”
Christopher was ready to cry with mortification, but his pride held him steady.
“They’re going to have a tea-party at the author-lady’s, and they’re waitin’ for me,” he announced grandly. “You know in the city we fellows have to be polite to the ladies.”
“We’re polite to the ladies too,” answered Billy sullenly. It always made him angry when Christopher made remarks which suggested that city ways were superior to those of the country.
“Oh, I dare say you are,” admitted Christopher graciously, “but it’s different in the city, you know. Say, are you going home? Let’s walk back together. Wait till I get the mail and I’ll treat to sour balls.”
In addition to his light duties as postmaster of the little village, Mr. Carpenter sold knitting worsted and sweeties kept in glass jars. Christopher, with the manner of a millionaire, pulled the last five-cent piece of his week’s “’lowance” out of his pocket, handed it over the counter and received in return ten large, semi-transparent yellow sugar balls, striped in red, and done up in a paper bag.
“Here’s another of those pesky special delivery letters for the author-lady at Mr. Parsons’, Bill,” said Mr. Carpenter as he handed out a thick budget; “you’d better take it along with the others. Now run along, both of you, for I’m busy.”
“The author-lady must be awful rich, by the way she spends money on postage stamps,” observed Billy, as the boys strolled along the village street, each with one of the big red and yellow balls of sweet stuff tucked comfortably in his cheek. “She buys dad out sometimes. And she gets stacks and stacks of letters. I wonder what they’re all about?”
He surveyed the bundle he carried with a good deal of curiosity.
“Oh, people who write books always get lots of letters; from magazine editors, asking for stories and all that sort of thing,” replied Christopher airily. “And they pay big prices for stories, so of course Mrs. Hartwell-Jones is rich. Say, Letty was telling us a story the other day—it was an awfully hot day and there wasn’t anything else to do so I lay on the grass and couldn’t help hearing what the girls were talking about—well, Letty told this story that she had read once years before at school and what do you suppose? Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had written it. She hollered down to us about it out of her bedroom window when Letty’d got through. Funny, wasn’t it? And she said she’d write another story some time, just for the girls. They were immensely tickled.”
“You have pretty good times, don’t you?” said Billy enviously. “I guess you won’t care to play with us boys much.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” exclaimed Christopher hastily. “I’ve got a fine scheme that I wanted to talk to you about to-day. Let’s you and Perk and me go off on a lark some time together. We’ll go into the woods. Grandmother’ll give us a lunch and we’ll build a fire to cook potatoes. Maybe we can catch some fish to fry.”
“Oh, say, that would be great!” exclaimed Billy enthusiastically. “Let’s go to-morrow!”
“Well, I don’t know about to-morrow. I was going to ask grandfather to let us have a horse and wagon, and we’ll have to wait till one can be spared from the farm work. But we’ll go soon.”
“Can you swim?” asked Billy suddenly.
“No, not exactly,” confessed Christopher reluctantly. “I had some lessons at a swimming school in town, but somehow I couldn’t seem to get just the hang of it by myself.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve got a start Perk an’ I’ll soon teach you,” Billy promised patronizingly. “I know of a bully swimming hole, safe as anything.”
“I don’t know whether grandfather would let me go in swimming,” said Christopher slowly, feeling that the expedition was growing more serious than he had intended. Yet he found it unbearable to have Billy think him lacking in any manly sport. “But if it’s a perfectly safe place I guess he’ll say——”
“Oh, pshaw, what do you want to tell him for? I guess your grandfather doesn’t want you to be a sissy-boy, does he?”
“Of course not!” answered Christopher indignantly.
“Well, then, he must want you to learn to swim. If you should just go home some fine afternoon and say, ‘Gran’pa, I know how to swim,’ why, he’d be as pleased as—as a pup.”
“But I do know how—almost—already,” boasted Christopher.
They discussed the new plan with great gusto. Billy was for making a huge mystery out of it all, like the meeting of some secret society. He proposed smuggling a luncheon out of the Carpenter and Baker pantries and to keep the spot they were to visit a secret. But Christopher did not see the charm of this. He preferred to tell straight out that the three boys wished to go on a picnic. He knew that he would have a much better time if he “had it out” plainly with Jane, instead of slipping away from her, and that Huldah would certainly put up a much better lunch—if she were asked politely—than he and Billy could ever get together by stealth. The swimming was the only part of the programme he did not care to discuss openly.
“Well, we’ll do it as soon as we can,” he concluded, as they reached Mr. Parsons’ gate. “I’ll send you word by Perk when he comes in for the mail, or mebbe you’d better ride out to the farm on your bike and we’ll talk it over.”
“All right,” replied Billy, lingering a moment as Christopher walked up the path. “I can go any time. I don’t have to scheme to get away from the girls.”
With which parting thrust he vaulted the fence into his own garden. He would have liked to be invited to the tea-party, too, but Christopher never dreamed of suggesting such a thing. He believed that Billy was laughing at him for joining the girls and his cheeks grew very red. He stopped and for a moment was tempted to turn back and sit on the fence with Bill, and talk of swimming, baseball and other manly topics until his grandmother was ready to go home. But just then he looked around—he had reached the corner of the house—and caught sight of the white-covered table, loaded with goodies. He went on.
After the lemonade had all been drunk and most of the cakes eaten—for not even Christopher’s best efforts could quite empty the many plates—Letty offered to go back to her storytelling. She sat down on the grass with her back against a tree trunk and the twins curled themselves up contentedly on each side. Little Anna Parsons sat silent at her feet.
“Why are your stories always about people or fairies who sing beautifully?” asked Christopher unexpectedly, after Letty had related two or three tales of her own invention. “Do you sing, Letty?”
“I should like to. Oh, how I should like to!” sighed Letty, clasping her hands.
“Sing something to us now,” commanded Jane.
“I only know one or two songs,” replied Letty shyly, “and they are old songs. I think you children must know them already. I was never taught to sing,” she added quickly.
“Neither were we, except in Sunday-school, but we’ll sing for you, if you like,” said Christopher politely. “Sit up, Jane, and we’ll give her ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’”
“I think Letty’d like ‘There’s a Work for Me and a Work for You’ better,” objected Jane. “Her stories always have something about doing things in them.”
“Well, don’t the Christian Soldiers do things? They conquer the world and all that sort of thing. I like that song because you can make such a jolly lot of noise over it. It’s a regular shouter.”
“Boys always like to make a noise,” said Jane to Letty with an apologetic air. “But they are not the nicest kind of songs. I like lullabies and such things. Letty, don’t you know a lullaby? I guess you used to have to sing them to Mrs. Drake’s baby, didn’t you?”
Tears filled Letty’s eyes at the memory Jane’s words called up, of the cuddly, drowsy baby she had hushed to sleep so often.
“Yes, I used to sing Mrs. Drake’s baby to sleep. Shall I sing you that song?” she asked.
Once, on the memorable occasion of which she had told Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, Letty’s brother had taken her to a concert. One of the songs was DeKoven’s “Winter Lullaby.” The soft, crooning cadence of the song had thrilled Letty’s heart and she had listened with rapture. The song had been repeated in response to an encore and so, by careful attention, she had managed to memorize the words of the two verses. She sang it now to the children and as she began, grandmother and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones suddenly ceased their talk and sat listening.