 CHAPTER I was crying up in old Monsieur Gravel's tallest pear tree. She had gone down to the farthest corner of the garden, out of sight of the house, for she did not want anyone to know that she was miserable enough to cry. She was tired of the garden with the high stone wall round it, that made her feel like a prisoner. She was tired of French verbs and foreign faces. She was tired of France, and so homesick for her mother and Jack and Holland and the baby that she couldn't help crying. No wonder, for she was only twelve years old, and she had never been out of the little western village where she was born, and until the day she started abroad with her cousin Kate. Now she sat, perched up on a limb in a dismal bunch, her chin in her hands and her elbows on her knees. It was a grey afternoon in November. The air was frosty, although the laurel bushes in the garden were all in bloom. I expect there is snow on the ground at home, thought Joyce, and there is a big, cheerful fire in the sitting-room grate. Holland and the baby are shelling corn, and Mary is popping it. They are me. I can smell it just as plain. Jack will be coming in from the post office pretty soon, and maybe he'll have one of my letters. Mother will read it out loud, and there they all be, thinking that I am having such a fine time, that it is such a grand thing for me to be abroad studying, and having dinner served at night in so many courses, and all that sort of thing. They don't know that I am sitting up here in this pear-tree lonesome enough to die. Oh, if I could only go back home and see them for even five minutes, she sobbed, but I can't. I can't. There's a whole wide ocean between us. She shut her eyes, and leaned back against the tree as a desolate feeling of homesickness that settled over her like a great miserable ache. Then she found that shutting her eyes and thinking very hard about the little brown house at home seemed to bring it into plain sight. It was like opening a book and seeing picture after picture as she turned the pages. There they were in the kitchen, washing dishes. She and Mary, and Mary was standing on a soap-box to make her tall enough to handle the dishes easily. How her funny little braid of yellow hair bobbed up and down as she worked, and how her dear little freckle face beamed as they told stories to each other to make the work seem easier. Mary's stories all began the same way. If I had a witch with a wand, this is what we would do. The witch with a wand had come to Joyce in the shape of cousin Kate Ware, and that coming was one of the pictures that Joyce could see now as she thought about it with her eyes closed. There was Holland swinging on the gate, waiting for her to come home from school and trying to tell her by excited gestures long before she was within speaking distance that someone was in the parlor. The baby had on his best plaid kilt and knew Ty and the tired little mother was sitting, talking in the parlor, an unusual thing for her. Joyce could see herself going up the path, swinging her son bonnet by the strings, and taking hurried little bites of a big June apple in order to finish it before going into the house. Now she was sitting on the sofa beside cousin Kate, feeling very awkward and shy, with her little brown fingers clasped in the stranger's soft-white hand. She had heard that cousin Kate was a very rich old maid, who had spent years abroad studying music and languages, and she had expected to see a stout, homely woman with bushy eyebrows like Miss Tecla Schaum, who played the church organ and taught German in high school. But cousin Kate was altogether unlike Miss Tecla. She was tall and slender, she was young-looking and pretty, and there was a stylish air about her, from the waves of her soft golden brown hair to the bottom of her killer-made gown that was not often seen in this little western village. Joyce saw herself glancing admiringly at cousin Kate, and then pulling down her dress as far as possible, painfully conscious that her shoes were untied and white with dust. The next picture was several days later. She and Jack were playing mumble-peg outside under the window by the lilac bushes, and the little mother was just inside the door, bending over a pile of photographs that cousin Kate had dropped in her lap. Cousin Kate was saying, This beautiful old French villa is where I expect to spend the winter, Aunt Emily. These are views of Tours, the town that lies across the river Lore, from it. And these are some of the chateaux nearby that I intend to visit. They say the purest French in the world is spoken there. I prevailed on one of the dearest old ladies that ever lived to give me rooms with her. She and her husband live all alone in this big country place, so I shall have to provide against loneliness by taking my company with me. Will you let me have Joyce for a year? Jack and she stopped playing, and she were astonishment. Well, cousin Kate went on to explain how many advantages she could give the little girl, to whom she had taken such a strong fancy. Looking through the lilac bushes, Joyce could see her mother wipe her eyes and say, It seems like pure providence, Kate, and I can't stand in the child's way. She'll have to support herself soon, and not to be prepared for it. But she's the oldest of the five, you know, and she has been like my right hand ever since her father died. There'll not be a minute while she is gone that I shall not miss her and wash her back. She's the life and sunshine of the whole home. Then Joyce could see the little brown house turned all topsy-turvy and the whirl of preparation that followed, and the next thing she was standing on the platform at the station with her new steamer trunk beside her. Half the town was there to bid her good-bye. In the excitement of finding herself a person of such importance, she forgot how much she was leaving behind her. Until looking up, she saw a tender, wistful smile on her mother's face, sadder than any tears. Luckily the locomotive whistled just then, and the novelty of getting aboard a train for the first time helped her to be brave at the parting. She stood on the rear platform of the last car, waving her handkerchief to the group at the station, as long as it was in sight, so that the last glimpse her mother should have of her was with her bright little face all a shine. All these pictures passed so rapidly through Joyce's mind that she had retraced the experiences of the last three months in as many minutes. Then, somehow, she felt better. The tears had washed away the ache in her throat. She wiped her eyes and climbed like a squirrel to the highest limb that could bear her weight. This was not the first time that the old pear tree had been shaken by Joyce's grief, and it knew that her spells of homesickness always ended in this way. There she sat, swinging her plump legs back and forth, her long, light hair blowing over the shoulders of her blue jacket, and her saucy little mouth puckered into a soft whistle. She could see over the high wall now. The sun was going down behind the tall Lombardi poplars that line the road, and in a distant field, two peasants still at work reminded her of the picture of the Angelus. They seemed like acquaintances on account of the resemblance, for there was a copy of the picture in her little bedroom at home. All around her stretched quiet fields, slipping down to the ancient village of St. Samphorian, in the river Llerl. Just across the river, so near that she could hear the ringing of the cathedral bell, lay the famous old town of Tours. There was something in these country sights and sounds that soothed her with their homely cheerfulness. The crying of a rooster and the barking of a dog fell on her ears like familiar music. It's a comfort to hear something speak English. She sighed, even if it's nothing but a chicken. I do wish that Cousin Kate wouldn't be so particular about my using French all day long. The one little half hour bedtime when she allows me to speak English isn't a drop in the bucket. It's a mercy that I had studied French then before I came, or I would have alone some time. I wouldn't be able to ever talk at all. It was getting cold up in the pear tree. Joy shivered and stepped down to the limb below. But paused in her descent to watch a peddler going down the road with a pack on his back. Oh! he is stopping at the gate with the big scissors. She cried, so interested that she spoke aloud. I must wait to see if it opens. There was something mysterious about that gate across the road. Like one seared gravels, it was plain and solid, reaching as high as the wall. Only the lime trees and the second-story window of the house could be seen above it. On the top it bore an iron medallion on which was fastened a huge pair of scissors. There was a smaller pair on each gavel of the house, also. During the three months that Joy had been in Monsier Greville's home, she had watched every day to see it open. But if anyone ever entered or left the place, it was certainly by some other way than this queer gate. But lay beyond it no one could tell. She had questioned Gabriel the coachman, and burred to hear the maid in vain. Madame Greville tells us she remembered having heard, when the child that the man who had built it was named Cezoo, and that was why the symbol of this name was hung over the gate and on the gavels. He had been regarded as half-crazy by his neighbors. The place was still owned by a descendant of his who had gone to Algiers and left it in charge of two servants. The peddler rang the bell of the gate several times, but feeling to arouse anyone, shouldered his pack and went off grumbling. Then Joy's climbed down and walked slowly up the gravel path to the house. Cousin Cate had just come back from tours in the pony cart, and was waiting in the door to see if Gabriel had all the bundles that she had brought out with her. Joy's followed her admiringly into the house. She wished that she could grow up to look exactly like Cousin Cate, and wondered if she would ever wear such stylish silk lined skirts, and catch them up in an airy, graceful way when she ran upstairs, and if she would ever have a Paris hat with long black feathers, and always wear a bunch of sweet violets on her coat. She looked at herself in Cousin Cate's mirror as she passed it inside. Well, I am better looking than when I left home. She thought, that's one comfort. My face isn't freckled now, and my hair is more becoming this way than in tight little pigtails, the way I used to wear it. Cousin Cate, coming up behind her, looked over her head, and smiled at the attractive reflection of Joy's rosy cheeks, and straight forward gray eyes. Then she stopped suddenly and put her arms around her, saying, What's the matter, dear? You have been crying. Nothing answered Joy's, but there was a quaver in her voice, and she turned her head aside. Cousin Cate put her hand under the resolute little chin, and tilted it until she could look into the eyes that dropped under her gaze. You have been crying, she said again, this time in English, crying because you were homesick. I wonder if it would not be a good occupation for you to open all the bundles that I got this afternoon. There is a saucepan in one and a big spoon in the other, and all sorts of good things in the others, so that we can make some molasses candy here in my room over the open fire. While it cooks, you can curl up in the big armchair and listen to a fairy tale in the firelight. Would you like that, little one? Oh, yes, cried Joy, statically. That's what they are doing at home this minute, I am sure. We always make candy every afternoon in the winter. Presently the saucepan was sitting on the coals, and Joy's little pug knows to rapturously sniffing the odor of bubbling molasses. I know what I'd like the story to be about. She said as she stirred the delicious mixture with the new spoon, make up something about the big gate across the road with the scissors on it. Cousin Kate crossed the room and sat down by the window where she could look out and see the top of it. Let me think for a few minutes, she said. I have been very much interested in that old gate myself. She thought so long that the candy was done before she was ready to tell the story. But while it cold and plates outside on the windowsill, she drew a joist to a seat beside her in the chimney corner. With her feet on the fender and the child's head on her shoulder, she began this story. And the firelight dancing on the walls showed a smile on Joy's contented little face. End of Chapter 1 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 2 of The Gate to the Giant Scissors. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Gate to the Giant Scissors by Annie Fellows Johnston Chapter 2 A New Fairy Tale Once upon a time on a far island of the sea, they lived a king with seven sons. The three elders were tall and dark, with eyes like eagles and hair like a crow's wing for blackness. And no princes in all the land were so strong and fearless as they. The three youngest sons were tall and fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers and locks like the summer sun for brightness. And no princes in all the land were so brave and beautiful as they. But the middle son was little and lorn, who is neither dark nor fair. He was neither handsome nor strong. So when the king saw that he never won in the tournaments, nor led in the boar hunts, nor sang to his loot among the ladies of the court, he drew his royal robes around him, and henceforth frowned on Ethelreed. To each of his other sons he gave a portion of his kingdom, armor and plumes, a prancing charger, and a trusty sword. But to Ethelreed he gave nothing. When the poor prince saw his brothers riding out into the world to win their fortunes, he feigned would have followed, rowing himself on his knees before the king he cried, Oh Royal Sire, bestow upon me also a sword and a steed, that I may up and away to follow my brethren. But the king laughed him to scorn. Thou, a sword, he quote, Thou who has never done a deed of valor in all thy life. In soothe thou shalt have one, but it shall be one befitting thy maiden size and courage. It so small a weapon can be found in all my kingdom. Now just at that moment it happened that the court-tailor came into the room to measure the king for a new mantle of ermine. Fourthwith the grinning jester began shrieking with laughter, so that the bells upon his motley cap were all set of jangling. What now, fool? demanded the king. I did but laugh to think the sword of Ethelreed had been so quickly found, responded the jester, and he pointed to the scissors hanging from the tailor's girdle. By my troth, exclaimed the king, it shall be even as thou sayest, and he commanded that the scissors be taken from the tailor, and buckled to the belt of Ethelreed. Not until thou hast proved thyself a prince with these shall thou come into thy kingdom, he swore with the mighty oath. Until that far day now get thee gone. So Ethelreed left the palace, and wandered away over mountain and moor with a heavy heart. No one knew that he was a prince. No fireside offered him welcome. No lips gave him a friendly greeting. The scissors hung useless and rusting by his side. One night, as he lay in a deep forest, too unhappy to sleep, he heard a noise near at hand in the bushes. By the light of the moon, he saw that a ferocious wild beast had been caught in a hunter's snare, and was struggling to free itself from the heavy net. His first thought was to slay the animal, for he had had no meat for many days. Then he bethought himself that he had no weapon large enough. While he stood gazing at the struggling beast, it turned to him with such a beseeching look in its wild eyes, that he was moved to pity. Thou shalt have thy liberty, he cried, even though thou shalt run me in pieces the moment thou art free. Better dead than this craven life to which my father hath doomed me. So he set to work with the little scissors to cut the great ropes of the net in twain. At first each strand seemed hard as steel, and the blades of the scissors were so rusty and dull that he could scarcely move them. Great beads of sweat stood out on his brow as he bent himself to the task. Presently, as he worked, the blades began to grow sharper and sharper, and brighter and brighter, and longer and longer. By the time that the last rope was cut, the scissors were as sharp as a broadsword, and half as long as his body. At last he raised the net to let the beast go free. Then he sank on his knees in astonishment. Yet he had suddenly disappeared, and in its place stood a beautiful fairy with filmy wings, which shone like rainbows in the moonlight. Principal Reed, she said in a voice that was like a crystal bells for sweetness, dost thou not know that thou art in the domain of a frightful ogre? It was he who changed me into the form of a wild beast, and set the snare to capture me. But for thy fearlessness and fateful perseverance in the task which thou didst in pity undertake, I must have perished to dawn. At this moment there was a distant rumbling as a thunder. "'Tis the ogre,' cried the fairy, "'we must hasten.' Seizing the scissors that lay on the ground where Ethelry had dropped them, she opened and shut them several times, exclaiming, "'Scissors, grow a giant's height and save us from the ogre's might.' Immediately they grew to an enormous size, with blades extended, shot through the tangled thicket ahead of them, cutting down everything that stood in their way. Bushes, stumps, trees, vines—nothing could stand before the fierce onslaught of those mighty blades. The fairy darted down the path, thus opened up, and Ethelry'd followed as fast as he could, for the horrible roaring was rapidly coming nearer. At last they reached a wide chasm that bounded the ogre's domain. Once across that they would be out of his power, but it seemed impossible to cross. Again the fairy touched the scissors, saying, "'Giant's scissors bridge the path and save us from the ogre's wrath.' Again the scissors grew longer and longer until they lay across the chasm like a shining bridge. Ethelry'd hurried across after the fairy, trembling and dizzy, for the ogre was now almost upon them. As soon as they were safe on the other side the fairy blew upon the scissors and presto they became shorter and shorter until there were only the length of an ordinary sword. Here, she said, giving them into his hands, because thou wast persevering and fearless in setting me free, these shall win for thee thy heart's desire. But remember that thou can't not keep them sharp and shining unless they are used at least once each day in some unselfish service. Before he could thank her she had vanished, and he was left in the forest alone. He could see the ogre standing powerless to hurt him on the other side of the chasm and gnashing his teeth, each one of which was as big as a millstone. The sight was so terrible that he turned on his heel and fled away as fast as his feet could carry him. By the time he reached the edge of the forest he was very tired and ready to faint from hunger. His heart's greatest desire being for food. He wondered if the scissors could obtain it for him as the fairy had promised. He had spent his last coin and knew not where to go for another. Just then he spied a tree, hanging full of great yellow apples. By standing on tiptoe he could barely reach the lowest one of the scissors. He cut off an apple, and was about to take a bite, when an old witch sprang out of a hollow tree across the road. So you are the thief who has been stealing my gold apples all this last fortnight, she explained. Well, you shall never steal again that I promise you. Oh, frog I fearsome, seize on him and drag him into your darkest dungeon. At that, a hideous looking fellow, with eyes like a frog's, green hair, and horrid, clammy webbed fingers clutched him before he could turn to defend himself, who was thrust into the dungeon and left there all day. At sunset, frog I fearsome, opened the door to slide in a crust and a cup of water, saying in a croaking voice. You shall be hanged in the morning, hanged by the neck until you are quite dead. Then he stopped to run his webbed fingers through his damp green hair and grin at the poor captive prince, as if he enjoyed his suffering. But the next morning no one came to take him to the gallows, and he sat all day in total darkness. At sunset, frog I fearsome, opened the door again, thrust in another crust and some water and say, In the morning you shall be drowned, ground in the witch's meal pond with a great stone tied to your heels. Again the croaking creature stood and gloated over his victim, then left him to the silence of another long day in the dungeon. Third day he opened the door and hopped in, rubbing his webbed hands together with fiendish pleasure, saying, You ought to have no food and drink tonight, for the witch has thought of a far more horrible punishment for you. In the morning I shall surely come again, and then beware. Now has he stopped to grin once more at the poor prince, a fly darted in, and blinded by the darkness of the dungeon, flew straight into a spider's web above the head of the apple-read. Poor creature, thought apple-read, thou shalt not be left a prisoner in this dismal spot, while I have the power to help thee. He lifted the scissors and with one stroke destroyed the web and gave the fly to read him. As soon as the dungeon had ceased to echo with the noise that frog-eyed fearsome aid in banging shut the heavy door, apple-read heard a low buzzing near his ear. It was the fly which had lighted on his shoulder. That an insect in its gratitude teach you this was the fly. Tomorrow, if you remain here, you must certainly meet your doom, for this witch never keeps a prisoner past the third night. But escape is possible. Your prison door is a viron, but the shutter which bars the window is only of wood. Cut your way out at midnight, and I will have a friend in waiting to guide you to a place of safety. A faint glimmer of light on the opposite wall shows me the keyhole. I shall make my escape there at, and go to repay thy unselfish service to me. But know that the scissors move only when bitten in rhyme. Farewell. The prince spent all the following time until midnight trying to think of a suitable verse to say to the scissors. The art of rhyming had been neglected in his early education, and it was not until the first cock-crowing began that he succeeded in making this one. Giant scissors serve me well and save me from the witch's spell. As he uttered the words, the scissors leaped out of his hand and began to cut through the wooden shutters as easily as through a cheese. In a very short time the prince had crawled through the opening. There he stood outside the dungeon, but it was a dark night, and he knew not which way to turn. He could hear for a guy fearsome snoring like a tempest up in the watchtower, and the old witch was talking in her sleep in seven languages. While he stood looking around him in bewilderment, a firefly alighted down his arm, flashing its little lantern in the prince's face that cried, This way, my friend, the fly sent me to guide you to a place of safety, follow me, and trust entirely to my guidance. The prince flung his mantle over his shoulder and farrowed on with all possible speed. They stopped first in the witch's orchard, and the firefly held its lantern up while the prince filled his pockets with the fruit. The apples were gold with emerald leaves, and the cherries were rubies, and the grapes were great bunches of amethyst. When the prince had filled his pockets, he had enough wealth to provide for all his wants for at least a twelfth month. The firefly led him on until they came to a town where there was a fine inn. There he left him and flew off to report the prince's safety to the fly, and received the promised reward. Here Ethelred stayed for many weeks, living like a king on the money that the fruit jewels brought him. All this time the scissors were becoming little and rusty, because he never once used them as the fairy bait him in unselfish service for others. But one day he rethought himself of her command, and started out to seek some opportunity to help somebody. Soon he came to a tiny hut where a sick man lay moaning, while his wife and children wept beside him. What is to become of me? cried the poor peasant. My grain must fall and rot in the field from overripeness because I have not the strength to rise and harvest it. Then indeed must we all starve. Ethelred heard him, and that night when the moon rose he stole into the field to cut it down with the giant scissors. They were so rusty from long idleness that he could scarcely move them. He tried to think of some rhyme with which to command them, but it had been so long since he had done any thinking, except for his own selfish pleasure, that his brain refused to work. However, he toiled on all night, slowly cutting down the grains stock by stock. Towards morning the scissors became brighter and sharper, until they finally began to open and shed of their own accord. The whole field was cut by sunrise. Now the peasant's wife had risen very early to go down to the spring, and dip up some cool water for her husband to drink. She came upon Ethelred as he was cutting the last row of the grain, and fell on her knees to thank him. From that day the peasant and all his family were firm friends of Ethelred's, and would have gone through fire and water to serve him. After that he had many adventures, and he was very busy, for he never again forgot what the fairy had said, that only unselfish service each day could keep the scissors sharp and shining. When the shepherd lost a little lamb one day on the mountain, it was Ethelred who found it caught by the fleece in a tang of cruel thorns. When he had cut it loose and carried it home, the shepherd also became his firm friend, and would have gone through fire and water to serve him. The grand dame whom he supplied with faggots, the merchant whom he rescued from robbers, the king's counselor to whom he gave aid, all became his friends. Up and down the land, beggar or lord, homeless wanderer or high-born dame, he gladly gave unselfish service, all unsought, and such as he helped straight away became his friends. Day by day the scissors grew sharper and sharper and ever more quick to spring forward at his bidding. One day a herald dashed down the highway, shouting through his silver trumpet that a beautiful princess had been carried away by the ogre. She was the only child of the king of this country. And the knights and nobles of all other realms and all the royal potentates were prayed to come to her rescue. To him who could bring her back to her father's castle should be given the throne and kingdom, as well as the princess herself. So from far and near, indeed from almost every country under the sun came knights and princess to fight the ogre. One by one their brave heads were cut off and stuck on poles along the moat that surrounded the castle. Still the beautiful princess languished in her prison. Every night at sunset she was taken up to the roof for a glimpse of the and told to bid good-bye to the sun for the next morning would surely be her last. Then she would ring her lily white hands and wave a sad farewell to her home, lying far to the westward. When the knights saw this they would rush down to the chasm and sound a challenge to the ogre. They were brave men and they would not have feared to meet the fiercest wild beasts, but many shrunk back when the ogre came rushing out. They dared not meet in single combat this monster with the gnashing teeth, each one of which was as big as a millstone. Among those who drew back were Ethelred's brothers, the three that were dark and the three that were fair. They would not acknowledge their fear. They said, We are only waiting to lay some wildly plant to capture the ogre. After several days Ethelred reached the place on foot. See him, laughed one of the brothers that was dark to one that was fair. He comes afoot. No prancing steed, no waving plume, no trusty sword, middle and lorn. He's not fit to be called a brother to princes. But Ethelred he did not their taunts. He dashed across the drawbridge and opening his scissors cried. Giant scissors rise in power. Grant me my heart's desire this hour. The crowds on the other side held their breath as the ogre rushed out, brandishing a club as big as a church steeple. Then whack, bang! The blows of the scissors warding off the blows of the mighty club could be heard from miles around. At last Ethelred became so exhausted that he could scarcely raise his hand. It was plain to be seen that the scissors could not do battle much longer. By this time a great many people, attracted by the terrific noise had come running up to the moat. The news had spread far and wide that Ethelred was in danger, so everyone whom he had ever served dropped whatever he was doing and ran to the scene of the battle. The peasant was there, and the shepherd, and the lords and beggars and high-born dames, all those whom Ethelred had ever befriended. As they saw that the poor prince was about to be vanquished, they all began a great lamentation, and cried out bitterly. He saved my harvest, cried one. He found my lamb, cried another. He showed me a greater kindness still, shouted the third, and so they went on, each telling of some unselfish service that the prince had rendered him. Their voices all joined at last, and to such a roar of gratitude that the scissors were given fresh strength on account of it. They grew longer and longer and stronger and stronger until with one great swoop they sprang forward and cut the ugly old ogre's head from his shoulders. Every cap was thrown up and such cheering rent the heiress has never been heard since. They did not know his name. They did not know that he was Prince Ethelred, but they knew by his valour that there was royal blood in his veins. So they all cried out, long and loud. Long live the prince! Prince Cizal! Then the king stepped down from his throne and took off his crown to give to the conqueror, but Ethelred put it aside. Nay, he said, the only kingdom that I crave is the kingdom of a loving heart and a happy fireside. Keep all but the princess. So the ogre was killed, and the prince came into his kingdom that was his heart's desire. They married the princess, and there was feasting and merry-making for seventy days and seventy nights, and they all lived happily ever after. When the feasting was over and the guests had all gone to their homes, the prince pulled down the house of the ogre and built a new one. On every gable he fastened a pair of shining scissors to remind himself that only through unselfish service to others comes the happiness that is highest and best. Over the great entrance gate he hung the ones that had served him so valiantly same. Only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts and happy homes can ever enter here. One day the old king, where the brothers of Ethelrede, the three that were dark and the three that were fair, came riding up to the portal. They thought to share in Ethelrede's fame and splendor. But the scissors leaped from their place and snapped so angrily in their faces that they turned their horses and fled. Then the scissors sprang back to their place again to guard the portal of Ethelrede, and to this day only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts may enter the gate to the giant scissors. CHAPTER III BEHIND THE GREAT GATE That was the tale of the giant scissors, as it was told to Joyce in the pleasant, fire-lighted room. But behind the great gates the true story went on in a far different way. Back of this she saw house was a dreary field, growing drearier and browner every moment as the twilight deepened, and across its rough furrows a tired boy was stumbling wearily homeward. He was not more than nine years old, but the care-worn expression of his thin white face might have belonged to a little old man of ninety. He was driving two unwilly goats towards the house. The chase they led him would have been a laughable sight had he not looked so small and forlorn plotting along in his clumsily wooden shoes and a peasant's blouse of blue cotton, several sizes too large for his thin little body. The anxious look in his eyes changed to one of fear as he drew nearer the house. At the sound of a gruff voice bellowing at him from the end of the lane he winced as if he had been struck. Ha! there, jewels, thou lazy vagabond, late again! Canst thou never learn that I am not to be kept waiting? But, brosard, quavered the little boy in his shrill, anxious voice. It was not my fault. Indeed it was not. The goats were so stubborn tonight. They broke through the hedge and I had to chase them over three fields. Have done with thy lying excuses, was the rough answer. Thou shalt have no supper tonight. Maybe an empty stomach will teach thee when my commands fail. Hasten and drive the goats into the pen. There was a scowl on brosard's burly red face that made Jewel's heart bump up in his throat. Brosard was only the caretaker of the chousseau place, but he had been there for twenty years, so long that he felt himself the master. The real master was an augeur, nearly all the time. During his absence the great house was closed, excepting the kitchen and two rooms above it. Of these brosard had one and Henri the other. Henri was the cook, a slow, stupid old man not to be dogged out of either his good nature or his slow gait by anything that brosard might say. Henri cooked and washed and mended and hod in the garden. Brosard worked in the fields and shaved down the expenses of their living closer and closer. All that was thus saved fell to his share, or he might not have watched the expenses so carefully. Much saving had made him miserly. Old Paris, the woman with the fish cart, used to say that he was the stingiest man in all Torrain. She ought to know, for she had sold him a fish every Friday during all those twenty years, and he had never once failed to quarrel about the price. Five years had gone by since the master's last visit. Brosard and Henri were not likely to forget that time, for they had been awakened in the dead of night by a loud knocking at the side gate. When they opened it, the sight that greeted them made them rub their sleepy eyes to be sure that they saw a right. There stood the master, Omar-t'en-chissot, his hair and fiercely bristling mustache had turned entirely white since last they had seen him. In his arms he carried a child. Brosard almost dropped his candle in his first surprise, and his wonder grew until he could hardly contain it, when the curly head raised itself from most sure's shoulders and the sleepy baby voice list something in a foreign tongue. By all the saints, muttered Brosard, as he stood aside for his master to pass. It's my brother Jules' grandson, was the curt explanation that Moshe offered. Jules is dead, and so is his son, and all of the family, died in America. This is his son's son, Jules, the last of the name. If I chose to take him from a foreign poor house and give him shelter, it's nobody's business, Louis Brosard, but my own. With that he strode on up the stairs to his room, the boy still in his arms. This sudden coming of a four-year-old child into their daily life made his little difference to Brosard and Henri as the presence of the four-month-old puppy. They spread a cot for him in Henri's room when the master went back to Algiers. They gave him something to eat three times a day when they stopped for their own meals, and they went on with their work as usual. It made no difference to them that he sobbed in the dark for his mother to come and sing him to sleep. The happy young mother who had petted and humored him in her own fond American fashion, they could not understand his speech. More than that, they could not understand him. Why should he mope alone in the garden with that beseeching look of a lost dog in his big mournful eyes? Why should he not play and be happy, like the neighbor's children or the kittens or any other young thing that had life and sunshine? Brosard snapped his fingers at him sometimes at first, as he would have done to a playful animal. But when Jules drew back, frightened by his foreign speech and rough voice, he began to dislike the timid child. After a while he never noticed him except to push him aside or to find fault. It was from Henri that Jules picked up whatever French he learned, and it was from Henri also that he had received the one awkward caress and the only one that his desolate little heart had known in all the five loveless years that he had been with them. A few months ago, Brosard had put him out in the field to keep the goats from straying away from their pasture, two stubborn creatures whose self-willed wanderings had brought many a scolding down on poor Jules' head. Tonight he was unusually unfortunate, for added to the weary chase they had led him was this stern command that he should go to bed without his supper. He was about to pass into the house, shivering and hungry, when Henri put his head out the window. Brosard, he called, there isn't enough bread for supper, there's just this dry end of a loaf. You should have bought, as I told you, when the baker's cart stopped here this morning. Brosard slowly measured the bit of hard black bread with his eye and seeing that there was not half enough to satisfy the appetites of two hungry men, he grudgingly drew a frank from his pocket. Here, Jules, he called, go down to the bakery and see to it that thou art back by the time that I have milked the goats or thou shall go to bed with a beating as well as supperless. Stay, he added, as Jules turned to go. I have a mind to eat white bread tonight instead of black. It will cost an extra sun, so be careful to count the change. It is only once or so in a twelfth month. He muttered to himself as an excuse for his extravagance. It was half a mile to the village, but downhill all the way so that Jules reached the bakery in a very short time. Several customers were ahead of him, however, and he awaited his turn nervously. When he left the shop, an old lamplighter was going down the street with torch and ladder, leaving a double line of twinkling lights in his wake as he disappeared down the wide Paris road. Jules watched him a moment and then ran rapidly on. For many centuries the old village of St. Sinforian had echoed with the clatter of wooden shoes on its ancient cobblestones, but never had footfalls in its narrow crooked streets kept time to the beating of a lonelier little heart. The officer of customs at his window beside the gate that shuts in the town at night nodded in a surly way as the boy hurried past. Once outside the gate Jules walked more slowly for the road began to wind uphill. Now he was out again in the open country where a faint light lying over the frosty fields showed that the moon was rising. Here and there lamps shone from the windows of houses along the road across the field came the bark of a dog welcoming his master. Two old peasant women passed him in a creaking cart on their glad way home. At the top of the hills Jules stopped to take a breath leaning for a moment against the stone wall. He was faint from hunger for he had been in the field since early morning with nothing for his midday lunch but a handful of boiled chestnuts. The smell of the fresh bread tantalized him beyond endurance. Oh to be able to take a mouthful just one little mouthful of that brown sweet crust. He put his face down close and shut his eyes drawing in the delicious odor with long deep breaths. What bliss it would be to have that whole loaf for his own. He little Jules who was to have no supper that night. He held it up in the moonlight hungrily looking at it on every side. There was not a broken place to be found anywhere on its surface not one crack in that hard brown glaze of crust from which he might pinch the tiniest crumb. For a moment a mad impulse seized him to tear it in pieces and eat every scrap regardless of the reckoning with Brassard afterwards but it was only for a moment. The memory of his last beating stayed his hand. Then fearing to dally with temptation lest it should master him he thrust the bread under his arm and ran every remaining step of the way home. Brassard took the loaf from him and pointed with it to the stairway a mute command for Jules to go to bed at once. Tingling with a sense of injustice the little fellow wanted to shriek out in all his hunger and misery defying this monster of a man but a struggling sparrow might as well have tried to turn on the hawk that held it. He clenched his hands to keep from snatching something from the table set out so temptingly in the kitchen but he dared not linger even to look at it. With a feeling of utter helplessness he passed it in silence, his face white and set. Dragging his tired feet slowly up the stairs he went over to the casement window and swung it open. Then kneeling down he laid his head on the sill in the moonlight. Was it his dream that came back to him then or only a memory? He could never be sure for if it were a memory it was certainly as strange as any dream unlike anything he had ever known in his life with Henri Embressard. Night after night he had comforted himself with the picture that it brought before him. He could see a little white house in the middle of a big lawn. There were vines on the porches and it must have been early in the evening for the fireflies were beginning to twinkle over the lawn and the grass had just been cut for the air was sweet with the smell of it. A woman standing on the steps under the vines was calling him, Jules, Jules, it's time to come in little son. But Jules in his white dress and shoulder knots of blue ribbon was toddling across the lawn after a firefly. Then she began to call him another way. Jules had a vague idea that it was part of some game that they sometimes played together. It sounded like a song and the words were not like any that he had ever heard since he came to live with Henri Embressard. He could not forget them though, for had they not sung themselves through that beautiful dream every time he had it, little boy blue oh where are you oh where are you. He only laughed in the dream picture and ran on after the firefly. Then a man came running after him and catching him, tossed him up laughingly and carried him to the house on his shoulder. Somebody held a glass of cool creamy milk for him to drink and by and by he was in a little white knight gown in the woman's lap. His head was nestled against her shoulder and he could feel her soft lips touching him on cheeks and eyelids and mouth before she began to sing. Oh little boy blue lay down by your horn and mother will sing of the cows in the corn till the stars and the angels come to keep their watch where my baby lies fast asleep. Now all of a sudden Jules knew that there was another kind of hunger worse than the longing for bread. He wanted the soft touch of those lips again on his mouth and eyelids, the loving pressure of those restful arms a thousand times more than he had wished for the loaf that he had just brought home. Two hot tears that made his eyes ache in their slow gathering splashed down on the window sill. Down below Henri opened the kitchen door and snapped his fingers to call the dog. Looking out Jules saw him set a plate of bones on the step. For a moment he listened to the animals contented crunching and then crept across the room to his cot with a little moan. Oh he sobbed even the dog has more than I have and I'm so hungry. He hid his head a while in the old quilt then he raised it again and with the tears streaming down his thin little face sobbed in a heartbroken whisper mother mother do you know how hungry I am? A clatter of knives and forks from the kitchen below was the only answer and he dropped despairingly down again. She's so far away she can't even hear me he moaned. Oh if I could only be dead too. He lay there crying till Henri had finished washing the supper dishes and had put them clumsily away. The rank odor of tobacco stealing up the stairs told him that Bressard had settled down to enjoy his evening pipe. Through the casement window that was still a jar came the faint notes of the accordion from Monsieur Gravel's garden across the way. Gabriel the coachman was walking up and down in the moonlight playing a wheezy accompaniment to the only song he knew. Jules did not notice it first but after a while when he had cried himself quiet the faint melody began to steal soothingly into his consciousness. His eyelids closed drowsily and then the accordion seemed to be singing something to him. He could not understand it first but just as he was dropping off to sleep he heard it quite clearly. Till the stars and the angels come to keep their watch while my baby lies fast asleep. Late in the night Jules awoke with a start and sat up wondering what had aroused him. He knew that it must be after midnight for the moon was nearly down. Henri was snoring. Suddenly such a strong feeling of hunger came over him that he could think of nothing else. It was like a knowing pain as if he were being led by some power outside of his own will he slipped to the door of the room. The little bear feet made no noise on the carpetless floor. No mouse could have stolen down the stairs more silently than timid little Jules. The latch of the kitchen door gave a loud click that made him draw back with a shiver of alarm but that was all. After waiting one breathless minute his heart beating like a trip hammer he went on into the pantry. The moon was so far down now that only a white glimmer of light showed him the faint outline of things but his keen little nose guided him. There was half a cheese on the swinging shelf with all the bread that had been left over from supper. He broke off great pieces of each and eager haste. Then he found a crop of goat's milk. Lifting it to his mouth he drank with big quick gulps until he had to stop for breath. Just as he was about to raise it to his lips again some instinct of danger made him look up. There in the doorway stood Bressard bigger and darker and more threatening than he had ever seemed before. A frightened little gasp was all that the child had strength to give. He turned so sick and faint that his nerveless fingers could no longer hold the crock. It fell to the floor with a crash and the milk splattered all over the pantry. Jules was too terrified to utter a sound. It was Bressard who made the outcry. Jules could only shut his eyes and crouched down trembling under the shelf. The next instant he was dragged out and Bressard's merciless strap fell again and again on the poor shrinking little body that writhed under the cruel blows. Once more Jules dragged himself upstairs to his cot, this time bruised and sore, too exhausted for tears, too hopeless to think of possible tomorrows. Poor little Prince, in the clutches of the ogre, if only fairy tales might come true, if only some gracious spirit of elf and lore might really come at such a time with its magic wand of healing, then there would be no more little desolate hearts, no more grieved little faces with undried tears upon them in all the earth. Over every threshold where a child's wee feet had patterned in and found a home, it would hang its guardian scissors of avenging, so that only those who belonged to the kingdom of loving hearts in gentle hands would ever dare to enter. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Gate of the Giant Scissors This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Cary Hayes. The Gate of the Giant Scissors by Annie Fellows Johnston Chapter 4 A Letter and a Meeting Nearly a week later, Joyce sat at her desk, hurrying to finish a letter before the postman's arrival. Dear Jack, it began, you and Mary will each get a letter this week. Hers is the fairy tale that cousin Kate told me about an old gate near here. I wrote it down as well as I could remember. I wish you could see that gate. It gets more interesting every day and I'd give most anything to see what lies on the other side. Maybe I shall soon, for Marie has a way of finding out anything she wants to know. Marie is my new maid. Cousin Kate went to Paris last week to be gone until nearly Christmas, so she got Marie to take care of me. It seems so odd to have somebody button my boots and brush my hair and take me out to walk as if I were a big doll. I have to be very dignified and act as if I'd always been used to such things. I believe Marie would be shocked to death if she knew that I had ever washed dishes or pulled weeds out of the pavement or romped with you in the barn. Yesterday when we were out walking, I got so tired of acting as if I were a hundred years old that I felt as if I should scream. Marie, I said, I have a mind to throw my moth in the fence corner and run and hang on behind that wagon that's going downhill. She had no idea that I was an earnest. She just smiled very politely and said, Oh, Meta Moselle, impossible. How you Americans do love to jest. But it was no joke. You can't imagine how stupid it is to be with nobody but grown people all the time. I'm fairly aching for a good old game of high spy or prisoner's base with you. There is nothing at all to do but to take pokey walks. Yesterday afternoon, we walked down to the river. There's a double row of trees along it on this side and several benches where people can wait for the tram cars that pass down the street and then across the bridge into tours. Marie found an old friend of hers sitting on one of the benches. Such a big fat woman and oh, such a gossip. Marie said she was tired so we sat there a long time. Her friend's name is Clotide Robar and they talked about everybody in St. Sophorian. Then I gossiped too. I asked Clotide if she knew why the gate with the big scissors was never opened anymore. She told me that she used to be one of the maids there before she married the spice mongren was Madame Robar. Years before she went to live there when the old Moser Sissot died, there was a dreadful quarrel about some money. The son that got the property told his brother and sister never to darken his doors again. They went off to America and that big front gate has never been opened since they passed out of it. Clotide says that some people say that they put a curse on it and something awful will happen to the first one who dares go through. Isn't that interesting? The oldest son, Mr. Martin Sissot, kept up the place for a long time just as his father had done, but he never married. All of a sudden, he shut up the house, sent away all the servants but the two who take care of it and went off to Algiers to live. Five years ago he came back to bring his little grand-nephew, but nobody has seen him since that time. Clotide says that an orphan asylum would have been a far better home for Jewel. That's the boy's name. For Bursar, the caretaker is so mean to him. Doesn't that make you think of Prince Ethelred in the fairy tale? Little and lorn, no fireside welcomed him and no lips gave him a friendly greeting. Marie says that she has often seen Jewels down in the field back of his uncle's house tending the goats. I hope that I may see him sometime. Oh dear, the postman has come sooner than I expected. He's talking down in the hall right now and if I do not post this letter now, it will miss the evening train and be too late for the next mail steamer. Tell Mama that I will answer all her questions about my lessons and close next week. Oceans of love to everybody in the dear little brown house. Hastily scrawling her name, Joyce ran out into the hall with her letter. Anything for me? She asked anxiously, leaning over the banister to drop the letter into Marie's hand. One, Mademoiselle, was the answer, but it has not a foreign stamp. Oh, from cousin Kate, exclaimed Joyce, tearing it open as she went back to her room. At the door she stooped to pick up a piece of paper that had dropped from the envelope. It crackled stiffly as she unfolded it. Money, she exclaimed in surprise, a whole twenty frank note. What could cousin Kate have sent it for? The last page of the letter explained. I have just remembered that December is not very far off, and that whatever little Christmas gifts we send home should soon be started on their way. Enclosed, you will find twenty franks for your Christmas shopping. It is not much, but we are too far away to send anything but the simplest little remembrances. Things that will not be spoiled in the mail and on which little or no duty need be paid. You might buy one article each day so that there will be some purpose in your walks into tours. I am sorry that I cannot be with you on Thanksgiving Day. We will have to drop it from our calendar this year. Not the Thanksgiving itself, but the turkey and mince pie part. Suppose you take a few franks to give yourself some little treat to mark the day. I hope my dear little girl will not be homesick all by herself, I never should have left just at this time if it had not been very necessary. Joyce smoothed out the banknote and looked at it with sparkling eyes. Twenty whole franks. The same as four dollars. All the money that she had ever had in her whole life put together would not have amounted to that much. Dimes were scarce in the little brown house, and even pennies seldom found their way into the children's hands when five pairs of little feet were always needing shoes, and five healthy appetites must be satisfied daily. All the time that Joyce was pinning her treasures securely in her pocket and putting on her hat and jacket, all the time that she was walking demurely down the road with Marie, she was planning different ways in which to spend her fortune. Mademoiselle is very quiet, ventured Marie, remembering that one of her duties was to keep up an improving conversation with her little mistress. Yes, answered Joyce, half impatiently, I've got something so lovely to think about that I'd like to go back and sit down in the garden and just think and think until dark without being interrupted by anybody. This was Marie's opportunity. Then Mademoiselle might not object to stopping in the garden of the villa which we are now approaching, she said. My friend Clotide Brevard is housekeeper there and I have a very important message to deliver to her. Joyce had no objection. But Marie, she said as she paused at the gate, I think I'll not go in. It is so lovely and warm out here in the sun that I'll just sit here on the steps and wait for you. Five minutes went by and then ten. By that time, Joyce had decided how to spend every centime in the whole twenty francs and Marie had not returned. Another five minutes went by. It was dull sitting there, facing the lonely highway down which no one ever seemed to pass. Joyce stood up, looked all around and then slowly sauntered down the road a short distance. Here and there in the crevices of the wall blossomed a few hearty wildflowers which Joyce began to gather as she walked. I'll go around this bend in the road and see what's there, she said to herself. By that time Marie will surely be done with her messages. No one was in sight in any direction and feeling that no one could be in hearing distance either in such a deserted place, she began to sing. It was an old mother goose run that she hummed over and over in a low voice at first, but louder as she walked on. Around the bend in the road there was nothing to be seen but a lonely field where two goats were grazing. On one side of it was a stone wall, on two others a tall hedge, but the side next to her sloped down to the road, unfenced. Joyce with her hands filled with the yellow wildflowers stood looking around her, singing the old rhyme the song that she had taught the baby to sing before he could talk plainly. Little boy blue, come blow your horn. The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn. Little blue blue, oh where are you? Oh where are you? The gay little voice that had been rising higher and higher, sweet as any birds, stopped suddenly in mid-air. For as if in answer to her call there was a wrestling just ahead of her and a boy who had been lying on his back, looking at the sky, slowly raised himself out of the grass. For an instant Joyce was startled, then seeing by his wooden shoes an old blue cotton blouse that he was only a little peasant watching the goats, she smiled at him with a pleasant good morning. He did not answer but came towards her with a dazed expression on his face as if he were groping his way through some strange dream. It is time to go in, he exclaimed, as if repeating some lesson he learned long ago and half forgotten. Joyce stared at him in open mouthed astonishment. The little fellow had spoken in English. Oh you must be jewels, she cried. Aren't you? I've been wanting to find you forever so long. The boy seemed frightened and did not answer, only looked at her with big troubled eyes. Thinking that she had made a mistake, that she had not heard a right, Joyce spoke in French. He answered her timidly. She had not been mistaken. He was jewels. He had been asleep, he told her, and when he heard her singing, he thought it was his mother calling him, as she used to do, and had started up expecting to see her at last. Where was she? Did Mademoiselle know her? Surely she must if she knew the song. It was on the tip of Joyce's tongue to tell him that everybody knew that song, that it was as familiar to the children at home as the chirping of crickets on the hearth, or the sight of dandelions in the springtime. But some instinct warned her not to say it. She was glad afterwards, when she found out that it was sacred to him, woven in as it was with his one beautiful memory of a home. It was all he had, and the few words that Joyce's singing had startled from him were all that he remembered of his mother's speech. If Joyce had happened upon him in any other way, it is doubtful if their acquaintance would have grown very rapidly. He was afraid of strangers, but coming as she did with the familiar song that was like an old friend, he felt that he must have known her some time, that other time when there was always a sweet voice calling, and fireflies twinkled across the dusty lawn. Joyce was not in a hurry for Marie to come now. She had a hundred questions to ask, and made the most of her time by talking very fast. Marie will be frightened, she told Jules, if she does not find me at the gate, and will think that the gypsies have stolen me. Then she will begin to hunt up and down the road, and I don't know what she would say if she came and found me talking to a strange child out in the fields, so I must hurry back. I am glad that I found you. I've been wishing so long for somebody to play with, and you seem like an old friend, because you were born in America. I'm going to ask Madame to ask Broussard to let you come over sometime. Jules watched her as she hurried away, running lightly down the road, her fair hair flying over her shoulders, and her short blue skirt fluttering. Once she looked back to wave her hand. Long after she was out of sight, he still stood, looking after her, as one might gaze longingly after some visitant from another world. Nothing like her had ever dropped into his life before, and he wondered if he should ever see her again. The gate of the giant scissors by Annie Fellows-Johnston. In our country, the very minute you wake up, you can feel that it is a holiday. Outdoor is its nearly always cold and gray, with everything covered with snow. Inside, you can smell turkey and pies, and all sorts of good, spicy things. Here it is so warm that the windows are open, and flowers blooming in the garden, and there isn't a thing to make it seem different from any other old day. Here, her grumbling was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Madame Grévis, maid Bertet, came in with a message. Madame and Monsieur intends spending the day in tours, and since Mme Oselle Roir has written that Mme Oselle Joyce is to have no lessons on this American holiday, they will be pleased to have her accompany them in the carriage. She can spend the morning with them there, or return immediately with Gabrielle. Of course I want to go, cried Joyce, I'd love to drive, but I'd rather come back here to lunch and have it by myself in the garden. Bertet, ask Madame if I can't have it served in the little kiosk at the end of the arbor. As soon as she had received a most gracious permission, Joyce began to make a little plan. It troubled her conscience somewhat, for she felt that she ought to mention it to Madame, but she was almost certain that Madame would object, and she had set her heart on carrying it out. I won't speak about it now, she said to herself, because I'm not sure that I'm going to do it. Mama would think it was all right, but foreigners are so queer about some things. Uncertain as Joyce may have been about her future actions, as they drove towards town, no sooner had Madame and Monsieur stepped from the carriage on the rue nationale than she was perfectly sure. Stop at the baker's, Gabrielle, she ordered as they turned homeward, then at the big grocery on the corner. Cousin Kate told me to treat myself to something nice, she said, apologetically to her conscience, as she gave up the twenty francs to the clerk to be changed. If Gabrielle wondered what was in the little parcels which she brought back to the carriage, he made no sign. He only touched his hat respectfully as she gave the next order. Stop where the road turns by the cemetery, Gabrielle, at the house with the steps going up to an iron-barred gate. I'll be back in two or three minutes, she said, when she had reached it, and climbed from the carriage. To his surprise, instead of entering the gate, she hurried on past it around to the bend in the road. In a little while she came running back, her shoes covered with damp earth, as if she had been walking in a freshly plowed field. If Gabrielle's eyes could have followed her around that bend in the road, he would have seen a sight past his understanding. Madam Waselle Joyce, running at the top of her speed to meet a little goat herd in wooden shoes and blue-cutten blouse, a common little peasant goat herd. It's Thanksgiving Day, Jules, she announced, gasping as she sank down on the ground beside him. We're the only Americans here, and everybody has gone off, and Cousin Kate said to celebrate it in some way. I'm going to have a dinner in the garden. I've bought a rabbit, and we'll dig a hole and make a fire, and barbecue it the way Jack and I used to do at home, and we'll roast eggs in the ashes and have a fine time. I've got a little lemon tart and a little iced fruit cake, too. All this was poured out in such breathless haste and in such confusion of tongues, first a sentence of English and then a word of French, that it is no wonder that Jules grew bewildered in trying to follow her. She had to begin again at the beginning, and speak very slowly in order to make him understand that it was a feast day of some kind, and that he, Jules, was invited to some sort of a strange, wonderful entertainment in Monsieur Crevy's garden. But Prussar is away from home, said Jules, and there is no one to watch the goats, and keeps them from straying down the road. Still, it would be just the same if he were home, he added sadly. He would not let me go, I am sure. I have never been out of sight of that roof since I first came here, except on errands to the village, when I had to run all the way back. He pointed to the peaked gables adorned by the scissors of his crazy old ancestor. Prussar isn't your father, cried Joyce, indignantly, nor your uncle nor your cousin, nor anything else that has a right to shut you up that way. Isn't there a field with a fence all around it that you could drive the goats into for a few hours? Jules shook his head. Well, I can't have my Thanksgiving spoiled for just a couple of old goats, exclaimed Joyce. You'll have to bring them along, and we'll shut them in the carriage-house. You come over in about an hour, and I'll be at the side gate waiting for you. Joyce had always been a general in her small way. She made her plans and issued her orders, both at home and at school, and the children accepted her leadership as a matter of course. Even if Jules had not been willing and anxious to go, it is doubtful if he could have mustered courage to oppose the arrangements that she made in such a masterful way. But Jules had not the slightest wish to object to anything whatsoever that Joyce might propose. It is safe to say that the Old Garden had never before even dreamed of such a celebration as the one that took place that afternoon behind its moss-coated walls. The time-stained statue of Eve which stood on one side of the fountain looked across at the weather-beaten figure of Adam on the other side, in stony-eyed surprise. The little marble satyr in the middle of the fountain, which had been grinning ever since its endless shower-bath began, seemed to grin wider than ever as it watched the children's strange sport. Jules dug the little trench according to Joyce's directions, and laid the iron grating which she had borrowed from the cook across it, and built the fire underneath. We ought to have something especially patriotic and thanksgiving-y, and said Joyce, standing on one foot to consider. Oh, now I know she cried after a moment's thought. Cousin Kate has a lovely big silk flag in the top of her trunk. I'll run and get that, and then I'll recite the landing of the pilgrims to you while the rabbit cooks. Presently a savory odor began to steal along the winding paths of the garden between the laurel bushes, a smell of barbecued meat sputtering over the fire. Above the door of the little kiosk, with many a soft swish of silken stirrings, hung the beautiful old flag. Then a clear little voice floated up through the pine trees. My country-tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. All the time that Joyce sang, she was moving around the table, setting out the plates and rattling cups and saucers. She could not keep a little quaver out of her voice, for as she went on, all the scenes of all the times that she had sung that song before came crowding up in her memory. There were the thanksgiving days in the church at home, and the Washington's birthdays at school, and two decoration days when as a granddaughter of a veteran she had helped scatter flowers over the soldier's graves. Somehow it made her feel so hopelessly far away from all that made life dear to be singing of that sweet land of liberty in a foreign country with only poor little alien jewels for company. Maybe that is why the boy's first lesson in patriotism was given so earnestly by his homesick little teacher, something that could not be put into words stirred within him as, looking up at the soft silken flutterings of the old flag, he listened for the first time to the story of the Pilgrim Fathers. The rabbit cooked slowly, so slowly that there was time for jewels to learn how to play mumble-peg while they waited. At last it was done, and Joyce proudly plumped it onto the platter that had been waiting for it. Marie had already brought out a bountiful lunch, cold meats and salad and a dainty pudding. By the time that Joyce had added to her contribution to the feast, there was scarcely an inch of the table left uncovered. Jewels did not know the names of half the dishes. Not many miles away from that garden, scattered up and down the Loire, throughout all the region of Fair Tourine, rise the turrets of many an old chateau. Great banquet halls, where kings and queens once feasted, still stand as silent witnesses of a gay bygone court life. But never, in any chateau or palace among them all, was feast more thoroughly enjoyed than this impromptu dinner in the garden where a little goat herd was the only guest. It was an enchanted spot to jewels, made so by the magic of Joyce's wonderful gift of storytelling. For the first time in his life that he could remember, he heard of Santa Claus and Christmas trees, of Bluebeard and Aladdin's lamp, and all the dear old fairytales that were so entrancing he almost forgot to eat. Then they played that he was the Prince, Prince Ethelred, and that the goats in the carriage house were his royal steeds, and that Joyce was a queen who may come to visit. But it came to an end, as all beautiful things must do. The bells in the village rang four, and Prince Ethelred started up as Cinderella must have done when the pumpkin coach disappeared. He was no longer a king's son, he was only Jules, the little goat herd, who must hurry back to the field before the coming of Broussard. Joyce went with him to the carriage house. Together they swung open the great door. Then an exclamation of dismay fell from Joyce's lips. All over the floor were scattered scraps of leather and cloth and hair, the kind used in a pollstering. The goats had wild away the hours of their imprisonment by chewing up the cushions of the pony-cart. Jules turned pale with fright. Knowing so little of the world, he judged all grown people by his knowledge of Henri and Broussard. What will they do to us, he gasped. Nothing at all, answered Joyce bravely, although her heart beat twice as fast as usual, as Monsieur's accusing face rose up before her. It was all my fault, said Jules, ready to cry. What must I do? Joyce saw his distress, and with quick womanly tack recognized her duties as a hostess. It would never do to let this, his first thanksgiving day, be clouded by a single unhappy remembrance. She would pretend that it was part of their last game, so she waved her hand and said in a theatrical voice, You forget, Prince Ethelrede, that in the castle of Ehrmengard, she rules supreme. If it is the pleasure of your royal steeds to feed upon cushions, they shall not be denied, even though they choose my own coach-pillars of gold cloth and velour. But what if Gabrielle should tell Broussard, questioned Jules, his teeth almost chattering at the mere thought? Ah, never mind, Jules, she answered, laughingly. Don't worry about a little thing like that. I'll make it all right with Madame as soon as she gets home. Jules, with utmost faith in Joyce's power to do anything that she might undertake, drew a long breath of relief. Half a dozen times between the gate and the lane that led into the seizo field, he turned around to wave his old cap and answered at the hopeful flutter of her little white handkerchief. But when he was out of sight, she went back to the carriage-house and looked at the wreck of the cushions with a sinking heart. After that second look, she was not so sure of making it all right with Madame. Going slowly up to her room, she curled up in the window-seat to wait for the sound of the carriage-wheels. The blue parrots on the wallpaper sat in their blue hoops in straight rows from floor to ceiling and hung all their dismal heads. It seemed to Joyce as if there were thousands of them and that each one was more unhappy than any of the others. The blue roses on the bed curtains that had been in such gay blossom a few hours before looked ugly and unnatural now. Over the mantle hung a picture that had been a pleasure to Joyce ever since she had taken up her abode in this quaint blue room. It was called a message from Noelle and showed an angel flying down with gifts to fill a pair of little wooden shoes that some child had put on a window sill below. When Madame had explained that the little French children put out their shoes for San Noelle to fill instead of hanging stockings for Santa Claus, Joyce had been so charmed with the picture that she declared that she intended to follow the French customer self this year. Now even the picture looked different since she had lost her joyful anticipations of Christmas. It is all Noelle to me now, she sobbed, no tree, no Santa Claus, and now, since the money must go to pay for the goat's mischief, no presents for anybody in the dear little brown house at home, not even Mama and the baby. A big salty tear trickled down the side of Joyce's nose and splashed on her hand, then another one. It was such a gloomy ending for her happy Thanksgiving day. One consoling thought came to her in time to stop the deluge that threatened. Anyway, Jules has had a good time for once in his life. The thought cheered her so much that when Marie came in to light the lamps, Joyce was walking up and down the room with her hands behind her back singing. As soon as she was dressed for dinner she went downstairs but found no one in the drawing room. A small fire burned causally on the hearth for the November nights were growing chilly. Joyce picked up a book and tried to read, but found herself looking towards the door fully as often as the page before her. Presently she set her teeth together and swallowed hard, for there was a rustling in the hall. The portier was pushed aside and Madame swept into the room in a dinner gown of dark red velvet. To Joyce's waiting eyes she seemed more imposing, more elegant, and more unapproachable than she had ever been before. At Madame's entrance Joyce rose as usual, but when the velvet train had swept onto a seat beside the fire she still remained standing. Her lips seemed glued together after those first words of greeting. Be seated, mademoiselle, said the lady, with a graceful motion of her hand towards a chair. How have you enjoyed your holiday? Joyce gave a final swallow of the choking lump in her throat and began her humble confession that she had framed upstairs among the rows of dismal blue wallpaper parrots. She started with Clotilde Robert's story of jewels, told of her accidental meeting with him, of all that she knew of his hard life with Bressard and of her longing for someone to play with. Then she acknowledged that she had planned the barbecue secretly, fearing that Madame would not allow her to invite the little goatherd. At the conclusion she opened the handkerchief, which she had been holding tightly clenched in her hand, and poured its contents into the red velvet lap. There's all that's left of my Christmas money, she said sadly. Seventeen francs and two souses. If it isn't enough to pay for the cushions, I'll write to cousin Kate, and maybe she will lend me the rest. Madame gathered up the handful of coin, and slowly rose. It is only a step to the carriage-house. If you will kindly ring for Berthe to bring a lamp, we will look to see how much damage has been done. It was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a few minutes later. First came Berthe, in her black dress and white cap, holding a lamp high above her head and screwing her forehead into a mass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness. After her came Madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in her high-heeled little slippers. Joy spread up the rear, stumbling along in the darkness of Madame's large shadow, so absorbed in her troubles that she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinning sader in the fountain. Eve, looking across at Adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes as much to say, somebody else has been getting into trouble. There's more kinds of forbidden fruit than one, pony cart cushions, for instance. Berthe opened the door, and Madame stepped inside the carriage-house. With her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among the wreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slipper now and then. Madame wore velvet dinner-gowns, it is true, and her house was elegant and its fine old furnishings bought generations ago. But only her dressmaker and herself knew how many times those gowns had been ripped and cleaned and remodeled. It was only constant house-wifely skill that kept the antique furniture repaired and the ancient brocade hangings from following into holes. None but a French woman trained in petty economies could have guessed how little money and how much thought was spent in keeping her table up to its high standard of excellence. Now as she looked and estimated, counting the fingers of one hand with the thumb of the other, a wish stirred in her kind old heart that she need not take the child's money. But new cushions must be bought, and she must be just to herself before she could be generous to others. So she went on with her estimating and counting, and then called Gabrielle to consult with them. Much of the same hair can be used again, she said finally, and the cushions were partly worn, so that it would not be right for you to have to bear the whole expense of new ones. I shall keep sixteen—no, I shall keep only fifteen francs of your money, mademoiselle. I am sorry to take any of it, since you have been so frank with me. But you must see that it would not be justice for me to have to suffer in consequence of your fault. In France, children do nothing without the permission of their elders, and it would be well for you to adopt the same rule, my dear mademoiselle. Here she dropped two francs and two souses into Joyce's hand. It was more than she had dared to hope for. Now there would be at least a little picture book apiece for the children at home. This time Joyce saw the grin on the sader's face when they passed the fountain. She was smiling herself when they entered the house, where Monsieur was waiting to escort them politely into dinner. Monsieur Cizou was coming home to live. Gabrielle brought the news when he came back from market. He had met Henri on the road and heard it from him. Monsieur was coming home. That was all they knew. As to the day or the hour no one could guess. That was the way with Monsieur, Henri said. It was so peculiar. One never knew what to expect. Although the work of opening the great house was begun immediately and a thorough cleaning was in progress, from Garrett to Seller, Brossard did not believe that his master would really be at home before the end of the week. He made his own plans accordingly. Although he hurried Henri relentlessly with the cleaning. As soon as Joyce heard the news, she made an excuse to slip away and ran down to the field to Jules. She found him paler than usual and there was a swollen look about his eyes that made her think that maybe he had been crying. What's the matter? She asked. Aren't you glad that your uncle is coming home? Jules gave her a cautious glance over his shoulder towards the house and then looked up at Joyce. Here to force some inward monitor of pride had closed his lips about himself whenever he had been with her. But since the Thanksgiving day that had made them such firm friends, he had wished every hour that he could tell her of his troubles. He felt that she was the only person in the world who took any interest in him. Although she was only three years older than himself, she had that motherly little way with her that eldest daughters are apt to acquire when there is a whole brood of little brothers and sisters constantly claiming attention. So when Joyce asked again, what's the matter, Jules? With so much anxious sympathy in her face and voice, the child found himself blurting out the truth. Brossard beat me again last night, he exclaimed. Then in response to her indignant exclamation, he poured out the whole story of his ill treatment. See here he cried in conclusion, unbuttoning his blouse and bearing his thin little shoulders. Great red welts lay across them and one arm was blue with a big modelled bruise. Joyce shivered and closed her eyes an instant to shut out the sight that brought the quick tears of sympathy. Oh, you poor little thing, she cried. I'm going to tell, madam. No, don't, begged Jules. If Brossard ever found out that I told anybody, I believe that he would half kill me. He punishes me for the least thing. I had no breakfast this morning because I dropped an old plate and broke it. Do you mean to say, cried Joyce, that you have been out here in the field since sunrise without a bite to eat? Jules nodded. Then I'm going straight home to get you something. Before he could answer, she was darting over the fields like a little flying squirrel. Oh, what if it were Jack, she kept repeating as she ran, dear old Jack, beaten and starved without anybody to love him or to say a kind word to him. The mere thought of such misfortune brought a sob. In a very few minutes, Jules saw her coming across the field again, more slowly this time, for both hands were full and without their aid she had no way to steady the big hat that flopped forward into her eyes at every step. Jules eyed the food, ravenously. He had not known how weak and hungry he was until then. It will not be like this when your uncle comes home, said Joyce, as she watched the big mouthfuls disappear down the grateful little throat. Jules shrugged his shoulders, answering tremulously. Oh, yes, it will be lots worse. Brossard says that my uncle Martin has a terrible temper, and that he turned his poor sister and grandfather out of the house one stormy night. Brossard says he shall tell him how troublesome I am, and likely he will turn me out, too. Or if he doesn't do that, they will both whip me every day. Joyce stamped her foot. I don't believe it, she cried indignantly. Brossard is only trying to scare you. Your uncle is an old man, and he is only trying to scare you. Your uncle is an old man now, so old that he must be sorry for the way he acted when he was young. Why, of course he must be, she repeated. Or he never would have brought you here when you were left a homeless baby. More than that, I believe he will be angry when he finds out how you have been treated. Maybe he will send Brossard away when you tell him. I would not dare to tell him, said Jules, shrinking back at the bare suggestion. Then I dare, cried Joyce with flashing eyes. I'm not afraid of Brossard or Henry, or your uncle, or any man that I ever knew. What's more, I intend to march over here just as soon as your uncle comes home and tell him right before Brossard how you have been treated. Jules gasped in admiration of such reckless courage. Seems to me Brossard himself would be afraid if you looked at him that way. Then his voice sank to a whisper. Brossard is afraid of one thing. I've heard him tell Henry so. And that is, ghosts. They talk about them every night when the wind blows hard and makes queer noises in the chimney. Sometimes they are afraid to put out their candles for fear some evil spirit might be in the room. I'm glad he's afraid of something, the mean old thing, exclaimed Joyce. For a few moments nothing more was said. But Jules felt comforted, now that he had unburdened his long pent-up little heart. He reached out for several blades of grass and began idly twisting them around his finger. Joyce sat with her hands clasped over her knees and a wicked little gleam in her eyes that boated mischief. Presently she giggled as if some amusing thought had occurred to her. And when Jules looked up inquiringly, she began noiselessly clapping her hands together. I've thought of the best thing, she said. I'll fix old Brossard now. Jack and I have played ghost many a time and have even scared each other while we were doing it because we were so frightful looking. We put long sheets all over us and went about with pumpkin jack-o-lanterns on our heads. All we looked awful, all in white with fire shining out of those hideous eyes and mouths. If I knew when Brossard was likely to whip you again, I'd suddenly appear on the scene and shriek out like a banshee and make him stop. Wouldn't it be lovely? she cried. More carried away with the idea the longer she thought of it. Why? It would be like acting our fairy story. You are the prince and I will be the giant scissors and rescue you from the ogre. Now let me see if I can think of a rhyme for you to say whenever you need me. Joyce put her hands over her ears and began to mumble something that had no meaning whatever for Jules. Ghost, post, roast, toast. No, that will never do. Need speedy. No, help, yelp. I wish I could make him yelp. Friend, spend, lend. That's it. I shall try that. There was a long silence during which Joyce whispered to herself with closed eyes. Now I've got it. She announced triumphantly and it's every bit as good as cousin Kate's. Giant scissors, fearless friend, hasten, pray, thy aid to lend. If you could just say that loud enough for me to hear, I come rushing in and save you. Jules repeated the rhyme several times until he was sure that he could remember it and then Joyce stood up to go. Goodbye fearless friend, said Jules. I wish I were brave like you. Joyce smiled in a superior sort of way, much flattered by the new title. Going home across the field, she held her head a trifle higher than usual and carried on an imaginary conversation with Brassard in which she made him quail before her scathing rebukes. Joyce did not take her usual walk that afternoon. She spent the time behind locked doors, busy with paste, scissors, and a big muff box, the best foundation she could find for a jack-o'-lantern. First she covered the box with white paper and cut a hideous face in one side, great staring eyes and a frightful greening mouth. With a bit of wire she fastened a candle inside and shut down the lid. Looks too much like a box yet, she said, after a critical examination. It needs some hair and a beard. Wonder what I can make it of. She glanced all around the room for a suggestion and then closed her eyes to think. Finally she went over to her bed and turning the covers back from one corner began ripping a seam in the mattress. When the opening was wide enough she put in her thumb and finger and pulled out a handful of the curled hair. I can easily put it back when I have used it and sew up the hole in the mattress, she said to her conscience. My, this is exactly what I needed. The hair was mixed white and black, coarse and curly as a negro's wool. She covered the top of the pasteboard head with it and was so pleased that she added long beard and fierce mustache to the already hideous mouth. When that was all done she took it into a dark closet and lighted the candle. The monster's head glared at her from the depth of the closet and she skipped back and forth in front of it wringing her hands in delight. Oh, Jack could only see it if he could only see it, she kept exclaiming. It is better than any pumpkin head we ever made and scary enough to throw old brassard into a fit. I can hardly wait until it is dark enough to go over. Meanwhile the short winter day drew on towards the clothes. Jewels, out in the field with the goats, walked back and forth, back and forth, trying to keep warm. Brassard, who had gone five miles down the Paris road to bargain with some grain, sat comfortably in a little tobacco shop, with a pipe in his mouth and a glass and bottle on the table at his elbow. Henri was at home, still scrubbing and cleaning. The front of the great house was in order, with even the fires laid on all the hearths ready for lighting. Now he was scrubbing the back stairs, his brush bumped noisily against the steps and the sound of its scouring was nearly drowned by the jerky tune which the old fellow sung through his nose as he worked. A carriage drove slowly down the road and stopped at the gate with the scissors. Then in obedience to some command from within the vehicle drove on to the smaller gate beyond. An old man with white hair and bristling mustache slowly alighted. The master had come home. He put out his hand as if to ring the bell. Then on second thought drew a key from his pocket and fitted it in the lock. The gate swung back and he passed inside. The old house looked gray and forbidding in the dull light of the late afternoon. He frowned up at it and it frowned down on him, standing there as cold and grim as itself. This was his only welcome. The doors and windows were all shut so that he caught only a faint sound of the bump thump of the scrubbing brush as it accompanied in reese high-pitched tune down the back stairs. Without giving any warning of his arrival he motioned the man beside the coachman to follow with his trunk and silently led the way upstairs. When the trunk had been unstrapped and the man had departed Mosir gave one slow glance all around the room. It was in perfect readiness for him. He set a match to the kindling laid in the grate and then closed the door into the hall. The master had come home again. More silent. More mysterious in his movements than before. And Rhee finished his scrubbing and his song and going down into the kitchen began preparations for supper. A long time after, jewels came up from the field, put the goats in their place, and crept in behind the kitchen stove. Then it was that Joyce, from her watchtower of her window, saw Brassard driving home in the market cart. Maybe I'll have a chance to scare him while he's putting the horse up and feeding it, she thought. It was in the dim gloaming when she could easily slip along by the hedges without attracting attention. Bear headed and in breathless haste to reach the barn before Brassard, she ran down the road, keeping close to the hedge, along which the wind raced also, blowing the dead leaves almost as high as her head. Slipping through a hole in the hedge, just as Brassard drove in at the gate, she ran into the barn and crouched down behind the door. There she wrapped herself in the sheet that she had brought with her for the purpose, and proceeded to strike a match to light the lantern. The first one flickered and went out. The second one did the same. Brassard was calling angrily for jewels now, and she struck another match in nervous haste, this time touching the wick with it before the wind could interfere. Then she drew her dress over the lantern to hide the light. Wouldn't Jack enjoy this, she thought with a daring little giggle that almost betrayed her hiding place. I tell thee it is thy fault, cried Brassard's angry voice, drawing near the barn. But I tried, began Jules timidly. His trembling excuse was interrupted by Brassard who had seized him by the arm. They were now on the threshold of the barn, which was as dark as a pocket inside. Joyce, peeping through the crack of the door, saw the man's arm raised in the dim twilight outside. Oh, he's really going to beat him, she thought, turning faint at the prospect. Then her indignation overcame every other feeling as she heard a heavy halter strap whizz through the air, and fall with a sickening blow across Jules's shoulders. She had planned to scene something like this while she worked away at the lantern that afternoon. Now she felt as if she were acting apart in some private theatrical performance. Jules's cry gave her the cue and the courage to appear. As the second blow fell across Jules's smarting shoulders, a low blood-curdling wail came from the dark depths of the barn. Joyce had not practiced that dismal moan of the banshee to no purpose in her ghost dances at home with Jack. It rose and fell and quivered and rose again in cadences of horror. There was something awful, something inhumane in that fiendish, long-drawn shriek. Brassard's arm fell to his side, paralyzed with fear, as that same hoarse voice cried solemnly. Brassard, beware, beware! But worse than that voice of sepulchral warning was the white-sheeted figure coming towards him with a wavering ghostly motion. Fire shooting from the demon-like eyes and flaming from the hideous mouth. Brassard sank on his knees in a shivering heap and began crossing himself. His hair was upright with horror and his tongue stiff. Jules knew who it was that danced around them in such giddy circles, first darting towards them with threatening gestures and then gliding back to utter one of those awful sickening wails. He knew that under that fiery head and wrapped in that spectral dress was his fearless friend who, according to promise, had hastened her aid to lend. Nevertheless, he was afraid of her himself. He had never imagined that anything could look so terrifying. The wail reached Henri's ears and aroused his curiosity, cautiously opening the kitchen door. He thrust out his head and then nearly fell backward in his haste to draw it in again and slam the door. One glimpse of the ghost in the barnyard was quite enough for Henri. All together the performance probably did not last longer than a minute, but each of the sixty seconds seemed endless to Brassard. With a final die-away moan, Joyce glided towards the gate, delighted beyond measure with her success. But her delight did not last long, just as she turned the corner of the house. Someone, standing in the shadow of it, clutched her. A strong arm was thrown around her, and a firm hand snatched the lantern and tore the sheet away from her face. It was Joyce's turn to be terrified. Let me go! She shrieked in anguish. With one desperate wrench she broke away, and by the light of the grinning jack-o'-lantern saw who was her captor. She was face to face with Monsignor Zizou. What does this mean? he asked severely. Why do you come masquerading here to frighten my servants in this manner? For an instant Joyce stood speechless. Her bolstered courage had forsaken her. It was only for an instant, however, for the rhyme that she had made seemed to sound in her ears as distinctly as if jewels were calling to her. Giant scissor's fearless friend, hasten, pray thy aid to lend. I will be a fearless friend, she thought. Looking defiantly up into the angry face, she demanded, then why do you keep such servants? I came because they needed to be frightened, and I'm glad you caught me, for I told Jules that I should tell you about them as soon as you got home. Brassard has starved and beaten him like a dog ever since he has been here. I just hope that you will look at the stripes and bruises on his poor little back. He begged me not to tell, for Brassard said you would likely drive him away as you did your brother and sister. But even if you do, thy neighbors say that an orphan asylum would be a fair better home for Jules than this has been. I hope you'll excuse me, Montseur. I truly do, but I'm an American, and I can't stand by and keep still when I see anybody being abused, even if I am a girl. And it isn't polite for me to talk so to older people. Joyce fired out the words as if they had been bullets, and so rapidly that Montseur could scarcely follow her meaning. Then having relieved her mind, and fearing that maybe she had been rude in speaking so forcibly to such an old gentleman, she very humbly begged his pardon. Before he could recover from her rapid change in manner and her torrent of words, she reached out her hand, saying in the meekest of little voices, and will you please give back those things, Montseur? The sheet is Madame Gravel's, and I've got to stuff that hair back in the mattress tonight. Montseur gave them to her, still too astonished for words. He had never before heard any child speak in such a way. This one seemed more like a wild, uncanny little sprite than any of the little girls he had known heretofore. Before he could recover from his bewilderment, Joyce had gone. Good night, Montseur, she called, as the gate clanged behind her.