 section 33 of uncollected short stories of LM Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Uncollected short stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery, chapter 33. The Ghost at Bricksley's. To shame the way Alf Logan and all those corner town roadboys persecute Liege Fondie, said Frank Sheraton as he sat down on the back porch steps beside his cousin Fred. I was down at the blacksmith's forge this evening and Alf was there with a crowd of his satellites bullying and bragging as usual. Liege came along and they guide him in every way they could. He feels so badly over it too. He almost cried today. Alf jeered at him and the other boys laughed and applauded. I told Alf it was a shame but I was only one against a dozen. Liege was on his way to the brook for a pail of water and on his return Tom Clark pretended to run into him and tripped him up. The water was all spilled and it was no easy job for Liege with his week back to carry it up that hill. I carried the second one for him and the corner town bullies didn't dare molest me. The rest of the boys wouldn't be so bad if it were not for Alf Logan. He has a kind of chieftainship over them. What with his bluster and his boasting they think him a regular hero and follow his example and everything. I believe Alf Logan is really a bigger coward than Liege Bondi said Fred indignantly. Of course he is. Do you suppose a boy who wasn't a coward would take pleasure in tormenting a poor simple chap like Liege? Alf likes the bully boys who can't defend themselves but he is very careful to keep clear of those who can. I'd like to take him down a little. We could only make him ridiculous in the eyes of his brothers at Myers. It would destroy his influence over them and perhaps they would then leave Liege in peace. Liege Bondi was a simple-minded fellow of about eighteen. He lived with his widowed mother in a little house at the fork of the corner town in Jersey Roads. Liege was weak physically and mentally. Normally he was harmless and inoffensive but was very angry if laughed at. About a week after the conversation recorded above, Frank came to Fred with another story concerning both Alf and Liege. We had some fun at the Forge today, Fred. I took Bonnie Bell down to be shot and while I was waiting my turn Liege came shambling along and began to spin a yarn. You know that tumbledown old shanty in the hollow of the Jersey Road where the Bricksleys used to live? Folks says it is haunted. Goodness knows by what for unsure the Bricksleys were harmless and peaceable enough though mortally lazy. But that is the story and lots of folks hear about to give that house a wide berth after dark. Well it appears that Liege was passing at about nine o'clock last night and just as he got opposite the door a great tall white figure popped out and flew at him. I suppose he really didn't see something strange. Liege doesn't make up things like that, white cow or sheep or perhaps an owl or even an old newspaper in the wind. But anyway he took to his heels and ran for dear life with a ghost chasing him so he veers as far as Stanley's Hill where it suddenly disappeared. Liege reeled all this rigamarole off in his own peculiar fashion and dilated on the scare he had had quite proudly. Of course the boys hooded him. They pretended they didn't believe a word and badgered him until he got mad. Alf Logan had the most to say as usual. He didn't believe in ghosts, not he. And if he were to meet one he wouldn't be scared, not much. He'd march right up and ask what it wanted. Liege is simple with it but he has gleams of sense now and then. He spoke right up and told Alf Logan that he wouldn't go past the old Brooksley house himself after dark. Alf said he'd just as soon go past it or through it for that matter on the darkest night that ever was is not. Then Liege dared him to do it. I couldn't help chuckling. Alf looked so flat but he couldn't back out after all his bragging, especially when the men around plowed at Liege. Of course I'll go, he said loftily. Don't some of you fellows want to come to for the fun of it? I thought that a pretty bare-faced dodge to get company but the rest let it pass. Most of the boys hung back but Tom Clark, Ned and Jim Bowley and Chad Morrison said they would go. Chad is a bit jealous of Alf and he'll see that there's no shirking. They are to go tomorrow night if it is fine. What are you laughing at, Fred? I've just thought of something, said Fred. The following night was just such a one as a ghost if at all particular in his choice of scenic effects would have scheduled to walk abroad in. It was cloudy but a full moon behind the clouds gave a weird dim light and a chilly east wind moaned and shivered among the trees. Alf Logan and his cronies walking up the Jersey Road shivered too. There isn't any such thing as a ghost anyway, said Tom Clark, breaking a disagreeable silence. Of course there's not said Alf loftily. Nobody believes in them nowadays except fools. Then what was it that Lege saw whispered Ned Bowley nervously? Lege be scared of his shadow grout, Alf. I don't believe he saw anything at all. I think he was just yarning. Suppose when we do see something, suggested Chad Morrison. What will you do, Alf? You heard me say what I'd do, didn't you? Retorted Alf angrily? Shut up you talk about ghosts. You'll scare yourselves and be sneaking off and leaving me first thing. The other boys resented the slur upon their courage and relapsed into sulky silence. As they neared the dreaded hollow, dark and mysterious in the shadow of the furs that surrounded it, they drew closer together. The old Bricksley house had almost fallen into ruins. Doors and windows were gone and the walls were decayed and shaky. With hesitating steps Alf and his comrades shuffled through the weeds in the yard and reached the door. Well, ain't you going in, as Chad, rather tauntingly, as Alf paused? Yes, I am, said Alf desperately. Come on, you fellows. What's here to be scared of? They stumbled in. This small room was quiet and dark, something scurried overhead, a rat or squirrel. The sound made Alf break out into a cold perspiration. No ghost yet, boys, he said, but his voice trembled. You've got to go through all the rooms, you know, said the merciless Chad. There's a bedroom off this and there's the loft. That was the bargain. With a forlorn attempt at a whistle, Alf started across the creaking floor. He had almost reached the inner room when a dreadful thing happened. In the empty doorway appeared a tall white figure whose head reached to the ceiling. Huge shadowy wings flapped and waved about, while apparently in the middle of this terrible apparition was a flaming face with hollow cavernous eyes. At the same moment, a wail of the most discordant agony that ever fell on human ears resounded through the house. With the yell of terror, Alf Logan wheeled about and made a blind dash for the entrance, followed by his comrades, who crossed the yard over the hollow and up the hill they flew with frantic speed, never daring to glance behind, although the dismal wail still followed them on the wind. When the last echo of their flying feet had died away, the ghost burst into a shout of very human laughter and proceeded to divest himself of the pillowcase, stuffed with shavings which surmounted his head. Come here, Fred, and unpin a fellow, he called. I'll never get these sheets off by myself. Fred popped up out of the inner room and laid an old fiddle down on the window ledge. Did you ever see such a complete route, he laughed? How they did run. They're run yet, I bet, said Frank with a grin. As Fred unpin the sheets from his shoulders, that dreadful noise you made on the fiddle scared them worse than I did. Alf will never hear the last of this, and he'll leave Lige Fondy alone for a spell, or I'm much mistaken. There that will do. The phosphorous will have to stay on my face until I get home. Now let's go. If Alf Logan cherished any hope that his ghostly adventure might yet remain a secret, that hope was dispelled when he went to the forge next day. He was greeted with derisive laughter and shouts from the men and boys, while Lige Fondy for once was able to turn the tables on his old enemy. Chad Morrison, who had not made any pretensions to Valor in the matter, and so did not mind owning to a scare, had told the whole story. To make matters worse, the truth soon leaked out, and Alf had not even the sorry compensation of believing that he had seen a real ghost. Alf Logan's homemade ghost, passed into a mocking byword along the corner town road, and Alf's supremacy over the boys was gone forever, since he had shown himself to be a braggart and a coward. Lige Fondy was henceforth left in peace, and as Frank said to Fred, our grand ghost act was a decided success, wasn't it, old fellow? End of Section 33 Section 34 of Uncollected Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Uncollected Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery Elizabeth's Thanksgiving Dinner First published, Western Christian Advocate, November 16, 1904, and November 23, 1904. Well, said Mrs. Murray, laying down the letter she had been reading. That settles the question of our Thanksgiving guests. Your Aunt Margaret writes that her husband's parents wish to have a Thanksgiving reunion at the homestead this year. And so they must go there. Instead of coming here, as usual. I must confess, I'm very sorry, for I thought we might count on them at least. You and I will have to hunt up some new guests if we do not want to eat our Thanksgiving turkey all alone, Elizabeth. What a clean sweep! said Elizabeth, a little blankly. Of course I knew we couldn't have all the old crowd this year. But to think that not even one will come, how strange it will seem. Why, as far back as I can remember, Elizabeth spoke as if her memory were reviewing a period of seventy years instead of seventeen. We've always had so many here at Thanksgiving. Grandpa Murray and Aunt Alice, and Uncle Archibald and Uncle Jeff, and Aunt Margaret and Uncle Howard, with cousins Galore to fill up the chinks. They were all here last Thanksgiving, and not one of us thought then. But that they'd all be back this year. Really, mother-mind, I have an uncomfortable feeling that we ought not to be here either, and will presently be whisked away. Mrs. Murray smiled and sighed. She felt the change in the old order even more keenly than did Elizabeth. Every year the same circle of brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, had come joyously to the big townhouse to eat their Thanksgiving dinner, and now not one would come. Dear old Grandpa Murray was dead, and Aunt Alice was ill. Uncle Archibald and Uncle Jeff had moved out west with their families, and now Aunt Margaret and Uncle Howard must go to the Homestead Reunion. It won't seem a bit Thanksgiving-y, went on Elizabeth dolefully, looking for once grave enough to match her name. As a rule she did not. Her blue eyes were too merry, her fair hair too curly, her laughter and smile too quick and full of mischief to suit her queenly title, which only her mother ever gave her in full. Her friends called her Betty and Bess and Beth and Elsie, interchangeably, and Elizabeth liked it so. She always said that when she wanted to bring herself into a sedate, dignified mood for some special occasion, she said her full name, Elizabeth Patterson Murray, over to herself three times, and it always worked like a charm. I ordered a twenty-pound turkey from Mr. Whiteside last week, said her mother, laughingly. You see, I knew Aunt Margaret's boys had such appetites, and Mr. Whiteside said he had a big gobbler who had taken a prize at the agricultural fair and was foreordained for a Thanksgiving feast, so I bespoke him on the spot. Mother mine, said Elizabeth solemnly, though with dancing eyes. How long do you suppose it will take us to eat up twenty pounds of turkey, not to mention chestnut stuffing, and all the other appointments of any well-regulated Thanksgiving gobbler? Just think of us sitting down, one at each end of the long dining room table, with that foreordained bird between us. You will try to carve him, and you know, darling, many and varied as your accomplishments are. You cannot carve a turkey, and I shall watch you in agony, lest you cut off your own dear, wee fingers instead of the monster's wings. It would destroy my appetite completely, and you'd be so exhausted you couldn't eat anything yourself. That settles it, laughed her mother. We must have enough guests to eat that turkey at least. I'll tell you what I'll do, my dear. I'll put the responsibility on your own young shoulders. This shall be your Thanksgiving dinner, and you may ask all the young folks you please to help you demolish Mr. Whiteside's prize turkey. Elizabeth hopped up from her ottoman, threw her arms around her mother's neck, and gave the little woman a vigorous hug. Mother mine, you are delicious. There, did I mess up your crimps? Never mind, I'll fix them all up pretty again. I wish your daughter had just such lovely brown ripples instead of these disorderly curls that will never stay neat. Why, we'll have a delightful Thanksgiving after all. I'll have in my very dearest girl chums, Agnes Baxter, of course, and Connie Bentley, and Kathleen Black, and the Burton Girls, and Helen Campbell, and Ella Chase. Oh, I have a dozen plants simmering in my brain already. Well, I'll leave it all to you, smiled Mrs. Murray indulgently. Only don't ask more than the turkey will go around. And do have somebody who can carve it? Elizabeth, with a final hug and kiss, ran upstairs. And as she dressed for shopping, she planned out her Thanksgiving day. She was very fond of entertaining her young friends. And her little parties and afternoon teas were always delightful. She was deservedly popular in her set, for she was sweet-tempered, good-hearted, and full of fun. Moreover, her wealth and social position gave her an acknowledged leadership. In the first shop she entered downtown, a bargain sale was in progress, and the counters were crowded. The shop girls looked tired and worn. One of them brightened up as Elizabeth approached her. Elizabeth knew Maggie Black would very well. A year ago, her mother and she spent the summer in a country village, and had boarded at Maggie's home. While the latter was showing her some handkerchiefs, Elizabeth noted that the girl looked pale and tired. Very different from the rosy creature over a year ago. I'm afraid you are working too hard, Maggie, she said kindly. These big sales must be terribly trying. But you'll have a holiday next week anyhow, and I suppose you're going home for it. To Elizabeth's surprise, Maggie's eyes suddenly filled with tears. No, Miss Murray, I can't. You see, it's too far. It would take three days to go and come. I shall have to stay here. Won't it be very lonesome to spend Thanksgiving in the boarding house? Asked Elizabeth, sympathetically. Oh, I suppose there are worse places, said Maggie, trying to speak lightly. Of course I will be lonesome, but there will be hundreds like me. But I was never away from home at Thanksgiving before, and when I think of them all at home, around the table, and me not there... Oh, I mustn't think of it. I know I've a great deal to be thankful for. How many handkerchiefs did you say? Half a dozen, said Elizabeth, absently. But she was not thinking of handkerchiefs. And when Maggie had wrapped them up and handed them to her, she went away, without even a goodbye smile, and walked down the long store like a girl in a dream, pumping into people, and not knowing it at all. As she went down the street, her thoughts ran something like this. How miserable Maggie looks, and to spend Thanksgiving in a boarding house, especially such a boarding house as she can afford. It makes me shiver to think of it. I feel as if I ought to invite Maggie to dinner. But how can I? She wouldn't know my other guests, and she'd feel stiff and out of place among them, and wouldn't enjoy herself a bit. By this time Elizabeth had reached her dressmakers. Ms. Claxton was busy, so she had to wait. Two other girls were waiting also, Bertha and Winnie Burrows. Elizabeth knew them slightly, because they were members of the flower community of the Christian endeavor, of which she was a chairman. They taught in the big uptown school, and were strangers in the city. That was really all she knew about them. But she began to chat to them in her friendly way, and they soon responded. Yes, I like teaching, said Bertha, in answer to Elizabeth's question, but I get tired at times. Sometimes things go wrong, and the children try one's patience, and I feel discouraged, and I get homesick too at times. You'll be going home for Thanksgiving, of course, said Elizabeth. Bertha shook her head. No, we haven't any home now. Mother died last year. We will have a holiday, of course, and we have planned to walk together in the big beech woods over at Rocky Point, but it won't seem like Thanksgiving. Oh, it just seems to me that I'm getting to hate all these special festivities like Thanksgiving and Christmas, said Winnie, impatiently. At other times, one can jog on comfortably enough. At times like these, when nearly everyone else seems to be planning to go home and have a good time, make me remember all that used to be and isn't anymore. It emphasizes our loneliness. There now, Bertha, don't pinch me. I won't grumble anymore. Of course, I know it's foolish, but I just have to break out once in a while. All three girls laughed, but Elizabeth went away with a very serious look on her pretty face. She had other errands, but she forgot them and went musingly home. In her own pretty room, she sat down in a rocker, looked gravely at herself in the mirror, and said, Elizabeth Patterson Murray, three times. Now, what is to be done? My Thanksgiving celebration, as I planned it, has gone out in a puff. I wouldn't enjoy it a bit if I did have it. I'd be seeing Maggie's tired face and Bertha's sad eyes and hearing the bitterness in Winnie's voice all the time. Elizabeth Patterson Murray, just put on your thinking cap and think to some purpose. Evidently she did. For when she went downstairs, she looked bright and serene again. It was twilight, and Mrs. Murray was in the library. Elizabeth curled herself up on the rug at her mother's feet and laid her curly head in the motherly lap. Mother, mine, I want to talk to you. I want your advice and assistance, spelled in capitals. Then she told her mother all about the experiences of the afternoon. Now, Mother, dear, I want to have Maggie and Winnie and Bertha here for Thanksgiving, and I know several other girls like them, whom I mean to invite, too. Girls who are working here in the big city and have no homes or can't go home to them. What do you say to it? Mrs. Murray patted the golden head on her lap tenderly. This is your dinner, as I said, and you may ask anyone you like, but I'll whisper this in your ear, dearie. I like your last list of guests very much better than your first. What excellent judgment I had to select a mother like you! said Elizabeth with a hug. And so it came to pass, that the guests who came on Thanksgiving morning to the handsome uptown house were not those whom Elizabeth had at first planned to ask. Maggie Blackwood was there, looking bright and happy again. Bertha and Winnie Burroughs, Maggie's cousin, who worked at the same counter, the timid little dressmaker who sat next to Elizabeth in her Bible class, the girl who gave Elizabeth embroidery lessons, the clever little girl who was on the staff of a society paper and half a dozen other hardworking girls who had looked forward to nothing more than a boarding house, Thanksgiving, until Elizabeth's invitation came, given with the sweet graciousness that made it seem a favor asked, not conferred. What a merry day they had, those girls who had learned by hard work how to appreciate a holiday when it did come. Mr. Whiteside's turkey was the very ideal of a Thanksgiving gobbler and was carved expertly by the newspaper girl, who amused them all with the story of her first attempt at carving. I was at school. We had turkey one day for dinner, and the teacher who had charge of our table wasn't there. We girls drew lots to see which one of us must carve the turkey, and it fell to me. I didn't know the first thing about it, and the girls all gave advice and rattled me still further. And oh, that turkey was so tough. I sawed away and cut it up after a fashion. But the very next day I bought one of those little books that tell you how to carve, with diagrams and letters, like a geometry problem, you know. I studied up the rules until I knew them off by heart. And when I went home for Christmas, I made father let me carve the turkey, and I've never forgotten. When the girls went home in the clear purple twilight of the autumn evening, Elizabeth had the satisfaction of realizing that her guests had thoroughly enjoyed themselves. I just dreaded this Thanksgiving, whispered Winnie, and it has been the very pleasantest I ever spent. I never once thought of being homesick, said Maggie radiantly. Each and all had some such sentence to whisper to Elizabeth when they beat her good night, and Elizabeth, with shining eyes, told them that they must come often to see her after this, and that she meant to have them all back again at Christmas. This Thanksgiving has taught me something, she said to her mother when they were once more all alone. You've often said I hadn't any hobby, mother, but I'll have one after this, and it is to be all the busy girls who are working so bravely and cheerfully in this big city, without homes, and with few friends. I'm sure I can help them, and I mean to try. End of Section 34 Section 35 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery 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 Jordan P. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Mod Montgomery The Jewel of Consistency Stephen Winslow backed his horses down to the brook to drink before turning in at his gate, as had been his lifelong custom. Today he felt tired, and even after the animals had lifted their heads from the water, he still sat there, leaning back contentedly against the sacks of flour piled up behind him. The fur woods were all around, warm and resinous, in that deep tinted sunshine of autumn, which seems to possess the power of extracting the very essence of the odors that summer had stored up in wood and field, for the delectation of happy mortals who can wander over the hills in the ripe of the year. The woods, cleft asunder by the red gash of the main road, lay in a great mellow over silence, beneath which a score of finely wakened sounds made a sort of felicitous music. There was a far away stir of winds in the lazy branches, and a faint, elfin-like rustle in the sear grasses along the bleached snake fence that skirted the farther edge of the brook. In the thicket of young saplings at the curve of the road, some squirrels were chattering fussily, and the chirping of myriad crickets filled in all the pauses. Clear through all came the noise of the brook over the pebbles by the gate, a friendly laughter that never failed the summer through, from the melting April afternoons until the ice of December throttled it. Stephen Winslow listened to it with unconscious pleasure. He had heard it so often as he came around the curve homeward that it seemed like the voice of an old comrade, that quick leap of the water in a diamond dance of spray, then the long gurgle of triumph, dying down into a placid murmur, as the water gushed out from the ferns and imperiled grasses to cross the road under the bridge, whose loose planks always rumbled with a noise-like thunder in the bowl of the woods when a carriage crossed it. I shouldn't wonder if I missed that brook, said Stephen reflectively. When you've heard a thing for sixty odd years it's apt to ring in your dreams, maybe. Listen to that laugh now. One would think the thing was human. Laws, I'm lazy. Priss would laugh as she saw me now. It seems too much of an undertaking to give the critters out of this hollow. Fact, time you was given up work, Stephen. Time you was giving up. He was a small, lean, old man, half lost in loose clothes that seemed far too large for himself. His white beard, combed into straggling locks by his nervous fingers, flowed in a patriarchal fashion over his breast, but his grizzled hair, in sharp contra-distinction, grew straight off his forehead and stood up in a stiff, uncompromising bush all over his head. His face was narrow and wrinkled, with mild, short-sighted blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice was as thin and squeaky as he looked himself. Presently, he chirruped to his horses, and they lumbered through the water and up the steep little rise to the turn. As he drove through the open gate, he began to sing. The result would have surprised anyone who did not know him. His voice rose in an old Scotch love song, clear, full, and strong, of astonishing power and compass. Stephen Winslow had enjoyed a local fame as a singer all his life. He was proud that his voice had not yet failed. Most everything else has, he would say whimsically. I've lost my beauty as is plain to be seen, and my eyesight ain't what it was, and sad to say I'm getting lazy. But the sing is all there yet, ain't it, hey? Guess they must have some choir work cut out for me in the new Jerusalem. He sang lustily as his horses trotted over another loop of the brook and began to climb the hill. Above him were the gray old buildings of the homestead. Standing at the door, you might have thought yourself on some lone clearing in the primeval woods. Owing to a trick of the landfall, not another house was visible from the Winslow place. It crested a small steep circular hill. All around the base was a valley, thick set with feathery young firs, and beyond it the hills, overgrown with trees, rose like the rim of a verdant basin. On their outward slopes were the houses and farms of Rose Neath, within ten minutes' walk, but their invisibility gave a sense and appearance of isolation to the dwellers at the Winslow farm. To be sure, the ventilator on Emmanuel Henderson's barn might be seen over the treetops to the north if one knew just where to look for it. And Stephen, who was the most sociable soul on earth, was wont to declare that, but for the ventilator, he would have sold out and moved away years ago. I smoke my pipe along in the evenings on the back veranda and look at Emmanuel's ventilator. It's company. Yes, sir, it's company. You wouldn't believe now. The little valley was full of cool green shadows, but the crest of the hill was basking in sunshine as the team lumbered into the tidy backyard. At the front of the house there was a large garden, its gorgeousness of autumn flowering toned down by the dark green of cherry trees that grew at hat-pazard all over it, as if someone had once stuck them down on the peck of potatoes principle. A woman who was walking about it now came out through the narrow gate between the stiff, berry-laden Rowens, the ample skirt of her dark print dress gathered up to cradle a lap full of glowing asters. Stephen placidly rolled out the chorus of his ballad before he spoke or moved. Then he scrambled down spryly and said, Your old nuisance is back again, you see, Priss. Spose your thought I'd tumbled into the brook. Fact was, I called at the store, and there. I guess I'd needn't say another word. You know my failing. Priss smiled, although not as one might have supposed at hearing herself called Priss. She had never been called anything else, incongruous as the name seemed with her dignified face and figure. The full Priscilla would have been better, although there was in it a savor of primness out of keeping with her full-blown matronliness. She looked much younger than her husband, but there was really little difference in their ages. She was taller than he, with a stout, majestic figure and a placid, meditative fashion of moving. She gave the impression of serenity and self-reliance. Her face was fresh and unlined, with deep set gray eyes and a resolute line of jaw. She had a good forehead and the profile of a thoughtful intellectual woman. The same face, somewhat intensified, was to be found in her son, who was president of the university in Redmond. While Priscilla carried some store parcels and her asters into the house, Stephen put away the flower and turned the horse's heads into a clover aftermath on the southern slope. T was ready in the kitchen when he came in. The table was set opposite the open door, through which Priscilla might see the western hills, with the sun hanging low above them. Stephen did not care for that view. It was too lonesome, he said, but Priscilla loved it. Well, everything is about wound up at last, Pris, he said contentedly. I went into Dan McCulloch's on my way to the mill, and we made the dicker. He's rented the farm for a year. T would have been better to have sold out right, I suppose, and I wished I could, but nobody wanted to buy just now. Dan's a good farmer. The land'll be all right in his hands. We can call an auction right off now and sell the stock and machinery and what furniture we don't want to take. Then we'll go. Laws, Pris, it makes me young again to think of it. Seems if we were starting out in life all over again, don't it now. Priscilla smiled. Maybe you'll be wanting to get back before you've lived long in Redmond, she said. Stephen chuckled as if had a joke. That was all the talk at the store today. Peter Shackford says, says he, Winslow, you'll never be contented in city life. You'll be wild to get back here before next spring, says he, Shackford like, as if he knew it all. I says to him, Pris, says I, look here, Peter, I guess you don't rightly know what you're talking about. I'm tired of living in a place as far from anywhere as Roseneath. I want to live where a man can open his door and see something besides a ventilator, says I. And that's the truth, Pris, I'm tired of the old rut, says I to Peter, three miles from a church and 100 from a library, 65 years of that of tire any man. I want to get right into the thick of things once before I die. I want to live among men who are thinking and talking of what goes on in the world, not just of potato bugs and local politics, men who read something more than a little one horse partisan paper, it ain't more given to gossip than their wives. Peter didn't like it, I tell you now, Pris, but he pretended to laugh, says, says he, Big talk, Steven, big talk, you were always good at it, but we'll see, then he winked at the others. They're all kind of narrow minded, bound up in crops as it were. It's creeping on me, I dare say, and I want to get away from it. I ain't so old, but I can expand a bit yet. The folks around here don't care for anything they can't see. As long as the local member looks after the bridges and sprinkles some jobs among his biggest supporters, they don't care who's making history in the world. I don't know that I care a great deal myself, said Priscilla placidly, but I'm tired of this lonesome life too now that the children have all gone. I have so much spare time on my hands, I want to be where I can do something with it, be interested in what other women are interested in, see things, do things, learn things that are worthwhile. I'm sure of myself, but I'm not so sure of you, father. You are as full of enthusiasm as a boy over moving to the city, but perhaps you won't find it all you expect, and you may feel discontented. No, I won't press, protested Steven. I've thought it all out, I tell you. I've worked hard all my life. I want a resting spell now, and I'll enjoy it never fear. There'll be no hankering for Rose Neath on my part. You're more likely to be homesick yourself. Not I, said his wife with emphasis. I'll never want to come back. I've always had a longing for city life, though I've been very happy here, father. I must say that. We're getting old, and we have enough money to keep us in comfort. So we may as well take satisfaction out of it and suit ourselves before we die. Just what I said to Peter, said Steven triumphantly. Just what I said to him, press, I guess you and I see things pretty well in line. There ain't never been any pulling different ways with us has there now. They looked at each other across the table, full of contentment. Steven and Priscilla Winslow had decided to sell or rent their farm and move to Redmond for the remainder of their days. Their three children were settled there, and they wished to be near them. Gordon, the oldest, was president of the university. Besides the natural tie, there was a bond of intellectual comradeship between him and his mother, from whom he had inherited his most marked characteristics. Theodore, commonly called Ted, was a prominent Redmond lawyer, and Edith, who was the youngest, had recently been graduated from college and was the teacher of mathematics in the Redmond Seminary. She was a clever woman, and she was very anxious that her parents should come to Redmond. Mother has been giving us chances all her life, she said to her brothers. It's time she had a chance herself. She really is cleverer than any of us. The day after the auction, Steven and Priscilla went to Redmond. Theodore and Edith had come to accompany them, and in the general excitement they did not feel particularly sorrowful at leaving their old home. The next three weeks were busy ones. They rented a townhouse in a good locality, and furnished it comfortably. A servant girl was also included in the scheme of things. Priscilla thought they did not need one, but Edith insisted. You will want your time for study and social life, mother, she said. You don't want to burden yourself with housework, too. You've done enough of that. Priscilla yielded gracefully, but she put her foot down with firm decision when Mrs. Ted suggested two girls, a cook and a housemaid. One is enough, said Priscilla, and one it was. A good general girl who came highly recommended. Mrs. Ted looked out for that. By Christmas they were settled down. I'm glad it's finished, said Priscilla. I've had enough of shopping and harmonizing. I must say I like the result, though. Don't you, father? Yes, piped Stephen with alacrity. In his heart he was wondering if he would ever feel like anything but a visitor in this fine new house of his. But he would not say so to Priscilla. He was ashamed and alarmed to find that he was longing for Roseneath. After all my bragging, he reflected sheepishly. He grew more ashamed as the winter went by. He could not feel like anything but a stranger in the city, like a pilgrim and a sojourner, as he told himself. At first the bustle and excitement, the sense of busy life and accomplishment had interested him. He did not like it now. He found himself remembering the quietness of the homestead, where one could think easily. He missed his old cronies of the store. He had been want to laugh at them to Priscilla, but he had in reality enjoyed his simple preeminence among them. He had been looked up to as a clever, well-read man. Now he did not like being a nobody. Things disappointed him. Men in Redmond were doing clever things, but were too busy in the doing of them to talk about them. The men who did talk to Stephen did not care to listen to. He was shrewd enough to see that they were not worth it. In the scholarly circle which revolved around Gordon, he felt hopelessly behind hand. They were too far in advance of him. In the social set where Theodore and Mrs. Theodore shone like fixed stars, he was still more out of place. He thought their amusements and pursuits as trivial as anything in Roseneath had been. I do not amount to a row of pins anywhere, he groaned to himself, feebly groping after his lost individuality. He missed his old work. When he grew tired of reading, there was nothing for him to do, nowhere he cared to go. There was nothing in Redmond answering to the corner store, where he had been want to be take himself and hold forth on the subjects of his reading. He had been accustomed to complain to Priscilla that none of his listeners understood them or could discuss them intelligently, but now he suspected that he had really liked this and the distinction his superior knowledge conferred on him. In other ways he was out of joint with his surroundings. He could not get over that irritating sense of being a stranger in his own house. He felt afraid of the servant girl, a dashing, energetic young person with very modern ways of doing things. That she did them well was indisputable, but Stephen held her in uncomfortable awe. He would never have dared to go into her kitchen or invade her pantry in search of a snack at odd hours. He even developed a fashion of tiptoeing about the house as if he were a burglar or trespasser. But no one knew of his unhappiness. He would not admit it after all his confident anticipations. It became his great aim to hide it. He grew very quiet and taciturn, but this was not noticed in a place where everybody was deeply absorbed in something. Even his sons, although they thought their father was not so chatty as he used to be, did not realize the difference in him. They had lived away from him too long. Not one of his skeptical, rose-need neighbors who had listened to all his confident boasts must ever hear of his disappointment. His children, who had done so much for him, must not know that he hated Redmond. Above all, Priscilla must never suspect it. Priscilla, who so evidently enjoyed the new life as fully as she had predicted. Priscilla was now a very busy woman, brisk, alert, absorbed. Already she was a shining light in the mother's club, which was dear to Mrs. Ted's heart, and in the charitable organization whereof Edith was secretary. But it was in a purely intellectual woman's club, which Mrs. Gordon Winslow herself had founded, that Mrs. Winslow Sr. shown most brilliantly. Even her children, who knew her so well, were surprised at the ease and readiness with which she took and held her own in its charmed circle of women, who had breathed the atmosphere of culture all their lives. Once she read a paper before the club on an historical subject, it was thoughtful and well-written, and was discussed appreciatively by the foremost members of the club. Stephen was immensely proud of his wife's success, even though it emphasized his own loneliness. He reveled in every word of praise he heard about her. In this new life she was expanding like a flower in its native air. In part it reconciled him to his exile, although it could not dull the ache. Priscilla, under Mrs. Ted's wing, blossomed out socially also. She went to afternoon teas and luncheons, and found herself popular among the city matrons. Between all her children she got to almost everything worth hearing and seeing in the city, lectures, concerts, and plays. She enjoyed them all, too. There was no doubt of that. She read a great deal, and got through with a surprising amount of committee work. She was far busier than she had been on the farm. There she and Stephen had had long hours of leisure to talk to each other or sit together in happy silence. There was nothing of this now, and Stephen missed their old companionship bitterly. She seemed to have suddenly outstripped him in everything. She belongs here, but I'm only a miserable old square peg in a round hole, he reflected dolefully. But I'll never give into it, never. When April came, his homesickness grew worse. The spring air wakened in him a keen desire to get back to the farm and its old homely ways. One day it overpowered him. He had been to a scientific lecture that afternoon with Gordon. It was on a subject he had been interested in on the farm, but he seemed to have lost his grasp of it now. The lecturer went beyond him. He walked home with his son and two of the other professors. He would have liked to join in their discussion of the lecture, but as usual it left him behind. He could not keep up with their trained intellects. He was very tired when he got home, and he sat down in the parlor to rest. He was hungry also, but he was afraid of Henrietta if he ventured to prowl about her domain. Priscilla had gone to some of her interminable committee meetings. Things will be wakening up in Roseneath by now, he thought. These evenings the store will be full. Wish I could drop in. Spose Dan will be getting ready to work the farm. Wonder what he'll put in the South Hill field. Taught to be wheat, but like as not, he'll sew it with oats. Wish I was there. Stephen, Stephen, did you ever think you'd come to this? Presently Priscilla came in, flushed and bright-eyed from her walk. There was an air of excitement about her. Stephen looked at her admiringly and wistfully. She was dressed with quiet elegance in a dark street suit that suited her fine figure. Stephen admired her smart, well-groomed appearance even while he resented its element of strangeness. It never seemed quite possible to him that this handsome, fashionably gowned woman could really be that Priscilla Winslow he had always known. The wife of his youth, the mother of his children, the keeper of his home and hearth. Priscilla did not concern herself much with household matters now, beyond keeping an untroubled eye on Henrietta. She had apparently sloughed off her old life with an ease that left Stephen breathless with astonishment. Did you have a good meeting of your club, Priss? He asked with his usual affectation of spruce interest. Very good. Did you go to the lecture with Gordon? Yes, and it was great, Priss. Great. It's worth hearing things like that, something you wouldn't get in Roseneath, I can tell you. Father, said Priscilla, abruptly, do you think you can get along without me for a couple of days next week? The mother's council meets in St. Andrew's, then, and I've been appointed one of the delegates. Think of that now, said Stephen admiringly. Of course you must go. I'll be all right. I'll be jolly as a sand-boy. If I go, I will leave here Tuesday morning and not be back until Wednesday evening. Why, Father, what is the matter? Stephen had sat bolt upright with an exclamation. Nothing, nothing, he said hastily as he subsided. I just thought of something I'd forgotten, but it's of no importance. Yes, you were saying you'd go on Tuesday, Priss. Well, all right, all right. It settled, then, said Priscilla, absently. She usually talked over her club-doings with him and explained their significance, but she did not seem anxious to discuss this matter. She gathered up her gloves and card case and went upstairs in a slow, meditative way. Left alone, the weasened little figure in the wicker chair sat up and slapped its right leg smartly thrice. I'll do it, said Stephen excitedly. I'll do it. She'll never know. I'll come back Tuesday night. He was silent for a minute, then added explosively. I am dod-gasted sick of the town. There was some satisfaction in voicing his heresy aloud, getting rid of it, as it were, even at the expense of what he remorsefully considered a swear word. Stephen went about for the next few days with an almost jaunty exultation, tempered by a guilty doubt that he was in some way disloyal to Priscilla. He was uncomfortable in her presence, lest she should suspect his design, and he avoided her all he could. Early Tuesday morning he went to the station with her and saw her off on the St. Andrews Flyer. His own train did not leave until later. It landed him at Roseneeth Station in the mid-four noon. Roseneeth proper was three miles from the station, and Stephen started to walk it over the long, moist road that wound and twisted up to the wooded hills through the young, green saplings. As he tramped onward, Peter Shackford overtook him, jogging along with all of the Shackford placidity in what was locally known as a go-devil. Peter pulled in his lank rone with a whistle of astonishment. If it ain't Stephen Winslow, get in, man, get in. Stephen came over, shook hands with his former neighbor, and climbed in. Fine day, isn't it, Peter? Yes, I thought I'd come out and see how the old place was. Priss went to St. Andrews today as a dilly-gate to that big Mother's Council they're holding there, and I thought I might as well run out to the country for the day. Stephen looked furtively at Peter as he spoke of the Mother's Council, with as much pride as was possible with the furtiveness. He wanted Peter to take in the full significance of the honour. Peter was quite unmoved. Hasn't enough gumption to understand what it means, thought Stephen, in disgust? Nevertheless, his heart was very warm to his old, friendly antagonist. And so you like city life, Stephen, queried Peter? E-mensly, answered Stephen, lying splendidly. It just suits me to a Tee, me and Priscilla. You ought to see that woman, Peter, a dilly-gate to the Mother's Council. Of course, he added warily, knowing that to overdue was fatal with Peter. I haven't forgotten Roseneath and never will. It was home to me for sixty-five years, and I'll always take an interest in it and the folks here. That's why I came out here to-day. He enjoyed every minute of the drive in the jolty go-devil, and he listened greedily to Peter's gossip. The latter insisted that Stephen should go home to dinner with him. After dinner he started for his own farm. As he struck into the woods and saw their green barriers close behind him, shutting him out from all the world, his heart expanded with pleasure. He stepped along the muddy road with his old-time briskness. Presently he began to sing. He had never sung since he left Roseneath. His voice had not failed either, he reflected comfortably. He stopped singing when he heard the gurgle of the brook, stopped and listened, slapping his leg with delight. It had not changed, that long, clear laughter of his old friend. Your foot's on your native heat, Stephen, he said as he walked up the hill. Your Stephen Winslow again here. Back there in town yank nobody. He stood with his arms on the yard gate, feasting his eyes on the gray buildings and gardens. There was a lonely, deserted look about the place that hurt him. But it was home. He would spend the whole afternoon here. He would go over the farm in its length and breadth and visit every field and nook. The Shackfords had asked him back to tea. In the evening he would visit the store and pose before the old circle of wise heads in all his city glamour. He could return to town on the night express. Turning, he saw the Henderson ventilator over his trees and again slapped his leg in exuberant delight. Look at that, now look at that, he exclaimed. It's like an old friend. Does me good just to see that? How peaceful and quiet everything is. He went through the barns and outbuildings, but he did not go into the house. The shutters were nailed up and it would be dark and lonesome. Then he followed the brook back to the spring over the damp, spongy pasture field under the red-budded maples that filled the hollow. When he came back he went into the garden. The moist buds were swelling on the cherry trees and Priscilla's perennials, many of them planted in her bridal days, were pushing green spears through the rich mold along the paths. He wandered about contentedly in the fresh, chill air, feeling a kinship with all the living, growing things about him. He was down on his knees by the day Lily plot when he heard the eastern gate swing back with its old peculiar creek. Stephen Hastily got up on his feet. A woman was coming through it, a majestic figure in a smart traveling suit, carrying her hat in her hand. The delicate April sunshine was streaming on her hair as she walked. Stephen's mouth fell open. I'll be dodgasted if it ain't Priscilla, he said helplessly. Priscilla it was. She came leisurely up the middle path, stooping here and there over the beds to pull away a mat of dead leaves or loosen the earth around the up-spring emerald spikes. She held her skirt up with one hand and her shoes were very muddy, as if she had walked for it. She did not see Stephen until she came around the last cherry tree on the path. Father, she exclaimed. They stood and looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Stephen's brain worked in a succession of jerks. He had begun to understand things before Priscilla had recovered herself. Priscilla, Priscilla, he said solemnly, but with a twinkle in his mild eyes. Where are the mothers? Priscilla had to laugh. There in St. Andrew's, no doubt, Father. You know I didn't tell you I was going there. I just said the council met there and I was appointed one of the delegates. I never meant to go. I meant to come here, but I couldn't bear to admit to you that I was so crazy for Roseneath that I had to start off in mud and mire for it. And after all my talk last fall, too. How did you find out I came here? Her question showed Stephen that it was still possible to retreat with honor. But he did not mind Priscilla knowing the truth now and she was the only one who really mattered. I didn't know you did come, he answered. I thought you was safe in St. Andrew's. I came on my own account, because I was so homesick I couldn't stand it a day longer and because I was literally dying to get out of sight and sound of that town if only for a day. Why, Father, said Priscilla in astonishment. You don't mean to say that you are not contented in town. Why, you seem so interested in everything. I thought you were just as happy as you expected to be. All put on, Pris, all put on, said Stephen, walking all over the day Lily bed in his excitement. I've hated it. Name a goodness what a relief it is to say it at last. But I wouldn't let on for the world for fear you'd laugh at me and say you told me so for all my brag. I didn't think you were hankering for Roseneath. You seemed so taken up with everything in town and as busy and happy as if you were just in the place that fitted you. Oh, I just pretended to hide the truth from you, cried Priscilla. I—I couldn't bear to admit how disappointed I was after being so sure of myself. Oh, the clubs and committees and things. Well, Stephen, I did enjoy them and I liked being of some importance, but altogether it wasn't enough to make up for other things. I wanted to be back here. Why, Father, I missed the loneliness of it. I just wanted to feel lonely again with all my heart. And the worst of it was, it came between us. I was determined you should not suspect what I felt like. I don't care now when you're feeling the same way. So I came out today. I brought a lunch with me, and I meant to stay all night at the Henderson's. I've been all over the farm already. I wish we'd never left it. We were old fools to run after new things at our time of life. Good as they are, it's too late. We can come back, Pris, said Stephen eagerly. Oh, if only we could, cried Priscilla, but the children. Never mind the children. See here, Pris. It's not going to do them any good for us to be miserable. They'll be willing enough to let us come when they find out how we feel. And we'll come, whether or no. We are our own bosses yet, I guess, Pris. We'll move out as soon as come good roads. Won't them Shackford's cackle with delight over my back down? But I don't care a mite since you're in it, too. I can just snap my fingers at the whole world. He laughed squeakily with joy. Priscilla smiled and drew a long breath. It'll be good to be in my own kitchen again, doing things my own way, she said emphatically. I've ached for it, Father. That Henrietta makes me dizzy the way she whisks around. I never feel provincial or green among all those club women, but I do with Henrietta. She just makes me feel raw. Does she now? Does she, Pris? Why, I thought you didn't mind her a bit. I tell you, we'll have good times when we get back here. Dan can have the farm this year, and we'll have a good, lazy time pottering around. I've worked so hard at being consistent all winter that I feel as if I needed a rest. Isn't it nice to look around and not see anybody but our two selves, said Priscilla slowly, just you and me, Father? We belong here, with the hills and the woods and the brook. They're part of us, grown into us in long years, and we might have known we could never leave them behind. And you and I, we belong to each other, and those new interests only came between us. Isn't it a good thing we happened to come out here? If we hadn't, we might never have found each other again. Won't the Shackfords rub it in, though, said Stephen, reflectively? Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery by The Grace of Sarah Maud Nesbitt panted into the station, too late. The train, with its load of picnickers, was gone, and there was no other train going west until late in the afternoon. Confound it, he said, blackly, and confound merchison, he added, thinking of the acquaintance who had delayed him on the street to discuss a slight matter of business. He was left. There was no blinking that fact. The selected picnic ground was fifty miles away, so that the wild notion that had crossed his brain of getting a team and driving there, too, had to be dismissed. No, there was no picnic for him, and as things had fallen out, much depended on that picnic. Nesbitt left the station in a mood of sickening depression. All the hope and exhilaration of the morning had vanished. Betty would think he did not care, and Clark was on the train. For a whole day, Clark could wander with Betty through romantic haunts while he, Nesbitt, sulked in town. Only a fool could fail to make use of such a golden opportunity, and Clark was no fool. That is my role, Nesbitt thought miserably. He was in love with Betty Stewart, but Betty was independent. They had had some tiffs with a resulting half-coolness. Nesbitt had not been sure enough of his welcome to call for a fortnight. Then, with her usual caprice, Betty unbent. She had sent him a note the previous day, inviting him to join a private picnic party to Maiden Lake. We will leave on the ten-fifteen train, she wrote, so be a good boy, stop sulking, and come with us. If you come, I shall know how to be very nice to you, but if you don't, I shall know you are still sulking, and I shall be nice to other people. Nesbitt had not been sulking, take his word for it, he was merely on his dignity. That, of course, went to the winds at Betty's beck, and this was the result. He was wandering homeward alone, through the people's square behind the station, and Betty and Clark were on their way to Maiden Lake. Nesbitt sat down on a bench in the square, and was about to give himself over to sulking in right good earnest when he heard somebody crying. Some twisting of neck discovered a small girl of about eight or nine curled up on a bench across the walk behind him, with her face buried in her arms and the ragged sailor hat on her head shaking in the emphasis of her woe. She was sniffling in an unrestrained luxury of grief, evidently thinking herself alone. Hello, said Nesbitt, who hated to see children or animals suffering. It seems there is somebody besides myself in the world who is miserable after all. This must be seen to. He went over and sat down on the other bench. What is the matter, Sissy, he asked gently. Sissy squirmed around with a start, revealing a freckled, tear-spotted face and a very red little nose. She was not shy, and she did not at all resent his intrusion into her private troubles. I can't get to the pick or nick, she said between sobs. Did you miss your train, too? Asked Nesbitt with a smile. He could still smile, even in the wreck of all things, and his smile was very winning. It won Sarah Maud Malloy's young heart on the spot. Train nothing. We wasn't going on a train. We was going to ride out to Deerville in livery rigs, all Miss Beecham's mission school kids. We was going to have a bully time, ice cream, you know. Oh gee, and I can't go. Sarah Maud's pale blue eyes brimmed up with tears again. Won't you tell me why, implored Nesbitt? That is, if it isn't a secret, I'd like to know. Say, you're funny. Taint any secret. I hadn't got any dress but this. Touching the faded print she wore. And ma, she said at first I could go. And then the Jones kids got new white dresses for to wear. And ma, she said she won't let me go because she can't get me a new dress. And she ain't going to have the Jones kids better dressed than her in a pickernick. And I just howled. And ma, she said she'd scalp me if I didn't dry up. So I came out here and I feel awful bad. I'd gone to the pickernick, thawed any dress at all, rather than miss it. I never was in the country of four and I want to see it. I'm very sorry for you, said Nesbitt gravely. I can sympathize with you for I also have missed my pickernick today. Your clothes look pretty good, said Sarah Maud, eyeing them critically. It's not a matter of clothes in my case, but the principle remains the same. Now look here, but first, what's your name? It's a good one, Sarah Maud Malloy. Very well, Sarah Maud, listen to me. We have both been disappointed. Let us cool our disappointment and have a strictly exclusive pickernick of our own. There's a train leaving in half an hour for the east. Come with me and we'll go out to the junction and turn ourselves loose in the woods there. I don't know whether I can manage any ice cream, but we'll have heaps of good things. Sarah Maud put her finger in her mouth. Say, are you bluffing? No indeed, I'm in downright earnest. Go and ask your mother if she'll lend you to me for the day. Can't do that because she's gone up to the north end to scrub for a woman and she won't be back till night, but she won't care. If you ain't putting up a job, I'll go, Mr. It's a bargain. You wait here while I rush up to town and invest all my loose cash in some ready-to-wear eatables. We've been unjustly cheated out of our picnic, Sarah Maud, but we'll get even with fate yet. Nesbit, smiling at his own whim, hurried to the nearest fruit and confectionery store and soon came back loaded with parcels. Sarah Maud was waiting for him. She pushed her carody hair back under her hat, scrubbed her face dry with her apron, and was ready to adventure forth on any quest with this astonishing new friend of hers. Gee, but you've got whacks of things, she exclaimed. What's them? Oranges? Oranges are the clear stuff. Give me one to suck on on the train. Ain't I glad you came along, though. I'm not sorry myself, said Nesbit. You are what I really needed, Sarah Maud. A diversion. Ain't, said Sarah Maud, indignantly. I'm Irish. Oh, it's all the same thing, dearie, he assured her. Come, let us go away to Arkady now. Be gone, dull care and haunting remorse. We'll daft the world and sneering rivals and overdressed triumphant Joneses aside for one day at least, Sarah Maud. You talk just like a crazy uncle of me fathers, said Sarah Maud, tolerantly. They got on a lazy little freight train that took half an hour to crawl out to the junction, a small village where the east and west roads branched off. When Nesbit left the train, his eye caught the sign over a small restaurant near the station, and he took Sarah Maud in and treated her to unlimited ice cream. Sarah Maud ate two saucer foals and chattered blithely between rapturous gulps. Evidently, Sarah Maud had no sorrow that ice cream could not cure. Then they went away into the big beach woods beyond the village, following a winding forest path until they came to the banks of a brook, where they sat down and had another feast, Sarah Maud rummaging cheerfully in Nesbit's parcels and squealing with delight over her discoveries. Say, ain't it great here, she said, when they had finished their lunch, pillowing her elbows in the moss and looking up into the great green arches above her. These woods make me feel, I don't know how, like I do at mass sometimes, all kind of solemn and happy-like. The country is all right, mister. Would you like to live out here, asked Nesbit? Sarah Maud shook her head decidedly. Nope, it would be too lonesome for a steady thing. I'd rather people than trees, but for a day it's fine. Say, mister, let's mosey on a bit. I want to see all that's to be seen. Accordingly, they moseyed on. Sarah Maud seemed tireless and they rambled through woods and fields and country lanes the whole afternoon. They gathered flowers and hunted for birds' nests, and Nesbit answered Sarah Maud's questions of which she asked a few thousand, more or less. The inquisition was wholesome for Nesbit. He could not brood much over what he might be doing at Maiden Lake when he had satisfied Sarah Maud's rapacious appetite for information about everything she saw. It was sunset when Sarah Maud's legs gave out. Nesbit sat her up on the gate of a wood lane on the hill above the junction and they watched the sunset together while they waited for their train. It's been boss, said Sarah Maud with a deep breath of satisfaction. I'll bet I wouldn't have had half as good a time if I'd gone with the other kids. Them Joneses would have put on too much side. I wished I could go to a pickernick with you every week. Much obliged, said Nesbit absently. You'd rather gone to the other, though, said Sarah Maud shrewdly. You've been thinking about it all time. Why, did your girl go on it? Yes, said Nesbit, moved by a whimsical impulse of confidence in this red-headed might of the slums. And you see, Sarah Maud, the other fellow went too. I savvy, Sarah Maud nodded comprehendingly. Then, desiring to comfort him in drawing on her own feminine possibilities, she added, that needn't worry you because she'll be so mad at you not coming that she'll likely give him the cold shoulder and the marble heart for spite, see? You're a comforting young woman, Sarah Maud, but I'm afraid you see. I think she is my girl, but I'm not sure she thinks so. Does she want the earth with a guilt fence around it? Demanded Sarah Maud scornfully. I'll bet the other fellow ain't half as good looking as you. I wished I was grown up. Thank you. I wish she had your excellent taste. I suppose she's a good looker, queried Sarah Maud curiously. She is the most beautiful woman in the world, Deary. Look, do you see that little cloud away down the northwest corner, that bright gold one? That is just the color of her hair. And do you see that sky in the southwest with that one clear star in it? Her eyes are as blue and tender as that sky, Sarah Maud. And those wild roses you picked by the brook today have never seen her face or they would not think it worthwhile to be roses. Say, but you've got it bad, commented Sarah Maud drowsily. Her red head nodded against Nesbit's arm. He lifted her off the gate and carried her down to the station where a train presently rolled in. Nesbit got on the rear car with Sarah Maud in his arms. Her head was cuddled on his shoulder and in one of her scrawny little hands she still clutched her big bouquet of wild roses and limp daisies. Nesbit had supposed the train was the freight they had come out on. He now discovered that it was the western train and the car was full of the returning Maiden Lake picnickers. Nesbit's appearance was hailed with laughter and jests. He felt foolish, but he looked nobly serene as he stalked down the aisle and dropped into the only vacant place in the car, beside Betty Stewart. He wondered why it was vacant, where in the world was Clark? Then he saw Clark was down at the other end, scowling moodily out of the window. Betty said good evening very icily and completely ignored the fact of Sarah Maud. Nesbit made the little red head more comfortable on his shoulder before he spoke. Then he said slowly, did you take the trouble to wonder why I did not show up this morning? I supposed you were not sufficiently interested in the picnic or picnickers to come. Said Betty in an indifferent tone, which had the effect of adding, and then I dismissed the matter from my mind. I missed the train, said Nesbit. My watch was slow to begin with, and then I met Murchison and he delayed me. You were gone ten minutes when I reached the station. I can't tell you how I felt about it. On my way back I found this baby crying in the people's square because she couldn't get to a mission picnic. So I took her out to the junction for an outing and I think she had a good time at least. He paused in suspense. He expected Betty to give a cruel little laugh and make some satirical speech about his newly fledged philanthropy. But Betty could always be depended on for the unexpected. Her eyes softened. She gave him a look that gladdened him and said in a low tone as she bent forward and gently pushed back the moist sandy locks from Sarah Maud's flushed face. I think it was lovely of you. Her touch, or the jerk of the train as it came to a stand still at the water tank, wakened Sarah Maud. She lifted her head rather dazed by the lights and strangers around her and found herself looking into the face of the very prettiest young lady she had ever seen. Sarah Maud sat upon Nesbit's knee, pointed a brown finger at Betty, and said sleepily but in a voice whose awful distinctness was heard to the farthest end of the car. Are you his girl? Nesbit gasped and looked for the end of all things. At that awful moment he wished he had never seen Sarah Maud. But Betty smiled again and said in a voice, low but equally distinct. Yes, dear, I am. End of Section 36 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery. Section 37 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery. 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 Anita Sloma Martinez. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter 37 of Butterfly Queen. Tom was collecting butterflies. He had three cases full of them already. Most people who saw them said the collection was a very fine one for a boy of his age to have made, and Tom was very proud of it. But Bertha, Tom's little sister, looked on disapprovingly. Bertha admired Tom immensely, and she felt that it was a terrible thing to disapprove of him. But Bertha loved the butterflies, and she thought it dreadful that they should be caught and chloroformed and impaled on a pin. She was too shy to implore Tom to give it up, and anyway, she knew he would only laugh at her. But Bertha grieved over those poor, beautiful, murdered butterflies. One vacation day, Tom's greatest friend called for him to go on a fishing expedition. Just as they were starting, a butterfly flew past over the sweet briar hedge into the garden. It was a very large butterfly, with gold and purple wings, and the minute Tom saw it, he dashed after it. Bertha, watching him from the door, hoped with all her heart that the butterfly would escape. But alas, in an evil moment, it alighted in the sweet dusky heart of a big red rose, and balanced itself there, its beautiful wings glowing like jewels. Then slap, dash, darkness! Tom's cap came down on the rose, and the butterfly was a prisoner. Tom whistled. What a beauty! He had none in his collection so big as this. Holding it carefully so that he wouldn't brush the gold dust from its trembling wings, Tom dashed upstairs to his room and shut the butterfly in a glass box. His friend was in a hurry, so Tom couldn't wait to chloroform and impale it just then. Bertha tiptoed in after Tom had gone and looked at the butterfly. How sorry she felt for it! How would Tom like it to be caught and impaled on a pin of a big giant were to come along some day, seeking to add to his collection of small boys? Tom always assured her that it didn't hurt the butterflies, but Bertha felt doubtful. The longer she looked at the butterfly, the sorry her she felt for it, and at last she made up her mind to set it free again. Of course Tom would be very angry at her, but Bertha simply could not see that beautiful butterfly done to death. She took the box down to the rose garden, but on the way down a doubt assailed her. It was Tom's butterfly. Had she the right to lose Tom's property? As she stood hesitating, the cover of the box slid out in her hand, propelled merely by its own weight. Out flew the butterfly, and away it went over the roses and lilies and sweet peas, away, away through the orchard, until it was lost in the sunshine. Oh, I'm so glad, whispered Bertha to herself with a sigh of relief, for after all she had not opened the box. On her way back to the house she met Uncle Jack, and told him what she had been doing for she thought it would be just as well to have a friend on her side if Tom should be very cross. That's a good girl, said Uncle Jack. Always keep on the good side of the butterflies. Of course you know that they are fairies in disguise. No, I didn't know, said Bertha round-eyed. Oh yes, assured Uncle Jack, why I thought everybody knew that. They are butterflies all day, but just as soon as the sun sets they resume their rightful shape and become fairies again. Bertha wondered if Uncle Jack was in earnest. She could never tell what he meant when that funny twinkle was in his eyes. Tom scoffed at the idea of their being fairies at all, but Bertha believed that they really did exist. Of course Tom was cross when he came home and found what Bertha had done. But Uncle Jack took her part, and after all Tom behaved very well. Girls were foolish anyway, he reflected. They were born so and couldn't help it, poor things. You just had to make allowances for them. At sunset Bertha was sitting alone by the window of her own room looking out on the rose garden. There was a butterfly on the sill right beside her. Bertha sat so still that it was not frightened away. It was a tiny yellow butterfly, and it made Bertha think of Uncle Jack's story. I wonder if the butterflies do really turn into fairies at sunset, she said aloud. Why of course we do, said a voice close by her ear. Bertha jumped with astonishment. There on the sill was the very tiniest person you could imagine. Not over two inches high, certainly. Dressed in a filmy robe of glittering yellow and long floating golden hair, and yes, two tiny, gauzy wings at her shoulders. Bertha knew that this must be a fairy. Why, where on earth did you come from, she exclaimed? The fairy balanced herself on her tiny toes and laughed. The laugh sounded like the wind when it ruffles running water. Dear me, I've been here right along. Didn't you see a yellow butterfly on the sill? That was I. Of course as soon as the sun set I turned into a fairy again. Then what Uncle Jack said was true, said Bertha delightedly. Of course it is true. That Uncle Jack of yours is a very wise person, but I can't linger here any longer. The queen of the butterfly fairies has sent word by a whiff of honeysuckle that all the members of her court must meet her in the lily-bed at moonrise. There must be some important business on hand. Oh, how I would love to see them all exclaimed Bertha. The fairy looked at her reflectively. Well, that is permissible under certain conditions. One is that you must never have harmed a butterfly in your life. I never did, said Bertha earnestly. But, she added, hesitantly, I'm afraid that some of my family have. Oh, it doesn't matter what anyone else did. The other condition is that, no matter what you see or hear, you mustn't say a word. Now, if you want to come, run down and meet me by the lily-bed. Off flew the fairy, and Bertha ran downstairs and out to the garden. Sure enough, the fairy was waiting for her on the rim of a big daisy. Sit down here behind the sweet pea trellis, she said. You can see through it very well. Dear me, what a big clumsy creature you are! Bertha had always been told that she was very small for her age, but she did feel dreadfully big by the side of the fairy. She sat down obediently, her heart beating with excitement, and the fairy swung herself back and forth on a curled tendril. I'll stay here until the queen arrives, she said. It was now quite dark, and the moon was rising behind the big hill with the elm on it. Presently a whole bevy of tiny winged beings fluttered down on the lily-bed. Bertha barely remembered in time to check an exclamation of delight. How lovely they were, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow! Other fairies kept coming by twos and threes until the whole lily-bed was alive with them. One such an odd-looking company arrived that Bertha could hardly help laughing. They were not a bit like the other fairies, but looked just like the brownies in the picture-book Uncle Jack had given her on her last birthday. Those are the dragonflies and june-bugs and beetles, whispered the fairy. They are the private couriers and retainers of the queen's household. She will soon be here now, and I must leave you, for all must be in their places when she comes. Over the trellis flew the fairy, and just in time for hardly had she perched herself on a lily-bud when the queen arrived and enthroned herself on the biggest lily of all. She was taller than the other fairies. Her robes glittered with diamond dust, and her wings were beautifully dappled with gold and purple. There was a tiny gold crown on her head, and she carried in her hand a long silver wand tipped with a star. Bertha thought there was something strangely familiar about her, but how could that be when she had never seen a fairy before tonight, much less the fairy queen? All the fairies stopped talking, and silence reigned in the lily-bed. The dragonfly and june-bug fairies marshaled themselves in ranks on either side the throne, and one of them bent down a lily-bud to serve the queen as a footstool. When she began to speak, all the fairies listened with might and main, and so did Bertha. Dear fairy subjects all, said the queen, no doubt you have wondered what has cost the sudden summons of the butterfly fairies to Moonlight Council, an event which only happens when something of great importance to our race has taken place. The event which has occasioned this meeting is no less a thing than the rescue of your queen from a position of the utmost distress and danger. A thrill of horror ran through the assembled fairies. You would have thought a gentle breeze was sighing in the lily-bed. This morning resumed the queen. I very thoughtlessly went out without my faithful guard of dragonflies. I was all alone, flying along in the sunshine until I reached this garden, which, as you all know, is one of the favorite haunts of our court. Becoming weary and spying beneath me a fragrant rose, I alighted to rest. Suddenly something dark seemed to blot out the sky above me. What was my horror to find myself a prisoner in the hands of that dreadful boy who lives in Yonder House and who has captured and murdered so many of our race? I gave myself up for loss, and, indeed, had it not been that he was in a hurry, I would have been disposed of then and there. As it was, I gained a brief reprieve. He shut me up in a glass box in a gloomy room, intending, as he brutally informed me, to chloroform and impale me on his return. But fortunately for the race of butterflies this terrible boy has a very kind and good little sister. She it was who released me, not much the worse in body for my terrible experience, although sadly shaken and nerves and disturbed in mind, and this is why I have summoned you to Moonlight Council to consult how we shall best reward this little sister for the service she has rendered to our race. A silence of three seconds followed the queen's speech. Then a grave beetle fairy moved a resolution of congratulation to the queen on her escape from such dire peril. This being seconded and passed unanimously, the business of the council began. Many of the fairies made speeches, mostly the Junebugs, beetles, and dragonflies, who seemed to make up in brains what they lacked in good looks. One dragonfly declared he had heard Bertha lamenting that she couldn't understand fractions at school. He was willing to help her in regard to them. He himself was considered an expert arithmetician, to which fact he owed his position of court treasurer. A beetle, who seemed of great importance in the insect world, suggested that all the butterfly fairies should watch over Bertha's flower bed that summer. Bring gentle do's to it, he said, and kill the evil weeds and keep the buds from harm and blight. Oh! exclaimed Bertha before she thought. Won't you please keep the rust from my asters? I never can. Then she paused in dismay for not a fairy was to be seen. Only the lilies swayed in the moonlight as if an agitated wind had passed over them. Bertha went sorrowfully back to the house. Tom had said that girls could never hold their tongues, and she was afraid he was right. If only she had not made that unlucky exclamation. When Bertha got back to her window, she sat down to think her wonderful experience over. Soon after, Mama came up and found her there. Why, we've been looking for you everywhere, she said. And here you've been asleep. Dear me, I hope you haven't caught cold with your head in that draft. Oh! I haven't been asleep, cried Bertha, as she went downstairs with Mama. Then she told all the family about the fairies and the moonlight council, and she was laughed at for her pains. They all said that she had dreamed the whole thing. Bertha didn't believe she had. To be sure she never saw a fairy again. But that, she sorrowfully concluded, wasn't any wonder. She must have frightened them almost to death by calling out to them as she did. And I happened to know that Bertha did not have any more trouble with fractions. She understood them beautifully. But that may have been because she worked harder and had a new teacher who explained things splendidly. And I also know that her flower bed was the very pink of perfection in flower beds that summer. Neither rust nor blight touched it, and oh how the flowers bloomed! But perhaps it was because Bertha kept it so carefully weeded and pruned and carried water to it so faithfully in the drought. What do you think about it? End of Section 37 Montgomerie Chapter 38 Miss Juliana's Wedding Dress Jean was making her wedding dress, a thing of fine sheer white organdy and cobweb lace. Just such a dress as she had dreamed of having ever since the day that Martin Reed had put the little ring with its three blue turquoises on her slender brown finger. The dress stood for a good deal of extra-economy and a bit of self-sacrifice on the part of the father and mother. Jean knew this and knew that the love so woven into fabric and seam was in itself the finest and most precious of bridal adornments. Her heart sang with joy as she hemmed the froth-like ruffles and no hint of the gloom of the autumn day crept in to shadow it. To Jean, the world was all springtime. Mrs. Milman, passing by, stopped and touched the dress gently. Dearie, me, isn't it pretty, she said wistfully. Seems to me such stuff couldn't be meant for wearing any more than moonshine. I'm real glad we made out to manage it. Your father thought at first that it was kind of foolish to spend money on a white dress when money was so scarce and you needed so many other things. But I stood firm. I remember when I was married I wanted a white dress too, but they all said it was such foolishness that I gave it up and was married in my brown silk. But do you know, Jean, I've had a hankering for that white dress ever since. So I was determined you should have yours. It seemed to me that it would satisfy my own old wish to see you married in a white dress. Dearie, me, there's Miss Juliana coming across the field. Maddie, run to the front door and bring her in that way. I wouldn't have her see the back porch all littered up as it is with Excelsior for the world. Maddie flew to the front door while Jean hurriedly gathered up her ruffles. Mother, help me get these out of sight. Miss Juliana mustn't see the dress. She is such an old gossip and pry. It would be talked over in every house in bright wood in a week, and I should feel that like a desecration. And she'd poke it about with her little claws and peer into the stitches. The white dress was safely out of the way before Miss Juliana came in. Perhaps she suspected something for her sharp black eyes did not fail to notice a snip of organdy on the carpet and a white thread clinging to Jean's dress. But she said nothing about it, although she prolonged her call unreasonably and talked gossip until Jean almost lost her patience. To be sure, poor Miss Juliana's gossip was always harmless enough, but Jean detested all gossip. So Miss Juliana had to go home without having been taken into Jean's confidence. It wouldn't have hurt her to have shown me her things, whispered Miss Juliana resentfully as she fumbled about to unlock her door, blind her by reason of a few stinging tears in her eyes than by the falling dusk. I've been fond of Jean ever since she was a baby, and I've been in and out over there almost every day of my life. They needn't treat me like a stranger. I do hate for folks to be so close. But neither Miss Juliana nor anyone else in bright wood was destined to see that white dress of Jean's. On the day that it was finished, Jean laid it carefully on the spare room bed, and that night fifteen-year-old Maddie went into the spare room to curl her hair for prayer meeting. Maddie was inclined to be absent-minded. She was pondering deeply whether to dress her hair in the categin braid, as Millie Jones wore it, or turn it up over her head like the stylish Patterson girls at the centre. And when she lighted her lamp she gave a little poof at the match and tossed it carelessly away, another habit of hers. The next moment Maddie saw what she had done. The still-blazing match had fallen on the chiffon frill of Jean's wedding dress. A draught was blowing across it from the open window, and before horrified Maddie could open her lips to utter a piercing shriek the frail dainty thing was a mass of twisting flames. Mrs. Millman reached the spare room first, to see Maddie striving to smother the fire with a towel. She snatched the down-comforter from the foot of the bed and in a twinkling the fire was out and the danger over, just as Jean came running in. She saw Maddie crying and nursing her blistered hands. She saw her mother standing pale and trembling in the middle of the room. And she saw on the bed a heap of charred rags that had once been her wedding dress. Mother! she cried. Jean, this is dreadful! said Mrs. Millman helplessly. This is what that child's vanity and carelessness have come to. To be sure, I suppose we ought to be thankful it wasn't the house instead of only a dress. But just then Jean did not feel that she could be thankful for anything. She broke into tears and fled to her room without even touching the pitiful fragments of the gown she had made with such pride and delight. She would have to be married in black silk, and it wouldn't seem like a marriage at all. Jean cried all night and moped all the next day. The Millman household was a rather gloomy one at that time. Maddie, between burned hands and remorse, was almost heartbroken. And poor Mrs. Millman was, as she expressed it to Miss Juliana, quite upset and worried to death. She had run over after T to pour out the dismal story to Miss Juliana. Miss Juliana listened intently, and for once was not forward with comment. When Mrs. Millman had gone on to the reeds, Miss Juliana threw a shawl over her head and hurried across the seer meadow to the Millman homestead. She found Jean curled up on the sofa with her face in a pillow. Miss Juliana sat down beside her and put her arm over the girl's shoulders. I've heard about it, Jean, she whispered. And I'm so sorry. But don't cry anymore. Please come over to my house for a minute. I have something to show you. Jean wiped away her tears and went. Somehow she did not resent Miss Juliana's meddling in the matter. When they reached the latter's tiny house, Miss Juliana took Jean upstairs, before the door of the gable room she paused. I've never taken anyone in here before, Jean, she said tremulously. You won't tell anybody about it, will you? I couldn't bear to have a talk dover. She unlocked the door and led Jean in by the hand like a child. It was a young girl's room, quaint, neat, very old-fashioned, with frilled white Muslim curtains at the window, a white canopy bed, and a high shining chest of drawers topped by a guilt-framed mirror. Scattered about were girlish knick-knacks and belongings, all neatly kept in speckless of dust, but evidently long unused by any human hand. This was my room long ago, when I was a young girl, said Miss Juliana. I've never used it since since I put girlhood behind me for ever one bitter day. But I've always kept it just as it used to be, and nobody but myself has ever been in it since then. Miss Juliana went to the chins-covered chest under the window and opened it, a sweet faint spiciness floated up into the room as she lifted out a dress, a dress of white embroidered muslin I've retented from its long seclusion. This, said Miss Juliana softly, this was to have been my wedding dress, Jean. Long ago I was engaged to a young sea-captain, Malcolm Lennox. When he went away on his last voyage I promised to marry him when he came back. I got all my things ready and then I made my wedding dress from a roll of muslin my uncle had given me. He was a sea-captain too, and he had brought it home from India. Look at it, Jean. It was fit for a queen. So fine you might almost have drawn the whole web through a ring. Well, Jean, the very moment I finished it I heard voices in the kitchen below. I ran out to the landing and recognized old Joe Mark's voice. He was telling mother that the annie-ray had been lost with all on board. The annie-ray was Malcolm's ship. Jean, my youth and happiness died then. I crept back here, broken-hearted, and I put away the wedding dress that was never to be worn. Miss Giuliana's voice broke in a sob. Jean went forward and laid her young arms around the little woman. I didn't bring you here to cry to you, said Miss Giuliana, wiping away her tears. Now, you see this dress? The material is as good as ever and it will bleach white. You see the skirt is long and full and the sleeves are like balloons. That was the fashion then, so that there will be plenty to make over. You must take this dress, Jean, to be married in. Oh, dear Miss Giuliana, cried Jean tenderly. I couldn't. Why, it would seem, wait, dear, interrupted Miss Giuliana. I don't want you to think that I am making any sacrifice in giving you this dress. I am just indulging a whim of mine. I've always wanted to see this dress worn by a bride. That is what it was made for. Do take the dress, Jean. It seems to me that it is full of dreams and hopes and that they will all blossom for you if you wear it. Thank you, said Jean tremulously. Oh, dear Miss Giuliana, thank you. Wasn't it sweet and lovely of her mother, said Jean that night as she showed the dainty old-fashioned gown to Mrs. Milman. I am ashamed to think how I have misunderstood her. I said that she didn't know anything about the sacredness of a wedding dress, but I shall never think of her as a prying gossip again. It's the loveliest thing in the line of material that I ever put my eyes on, said Mrs. Milman practically. And the sewing on it is beautiful. It does seem positive shame to think of cutting it up to make over. Motherly, I have an inspiration, cried Jean. There's nobody coming to see me married except Martin's family and Miss Giuliana, so I'll do it. If you wouldn't mind telling a body what you mean to do, smile the mother and Jean did. Miss Giuliana wondered a little when Jean meant to make over her wedding dress once she offered to help her, but Jean thanked her kindly and said it wasn't necessary. Miss Giuliana felt a little hurt, but on the wedding day, when Jean came down into the parlor and stood simply beside her young bridegroom, Miss Giuliana understood. For the wedding dress, which Jean wore under her snowy bridal veil, was the very wedding dress she had taken from the chintz-covered chest, unaltered in any respect. It had been beautifully bleached and done up, and fitted Jean's lender figure perfectly. No bride could have looked sweeter and fairer, and Miss Giuliana wept tears of happiness in her corner. How lovely of you, she whispered to Jean later on. I did feel a little bit sorry to think of the dress being cut up and made over, but I didn't see any other way if you were to wear it, as I was bound you should. O Jean dear, I'm so pleased and proud and happy. So am I, whispered Jean, with a blush and a shy glance at Martin. Please visit liberalvox.org. Polly and Patty had come from the city to spend a month with grandpa and grandma at Hope Farm. Polly and Patty thought that Hope Farm, with its big orchards, the very nicest place in the world. Of one thing in particular, they were quite sure, in no other place in the world, where there are such pumpkin pies made as those grandma made. She made them every Saturday, because the minister came to see every Sunday after he had driven eight miles to preach his afternoon sermon, and he was very fond of pumpkin pie. Patty and Polly thought it such fun to help grandma make her pies. They were very good little cooks themselves for ten-year-old twins. Mama Rogers had seen to that. Early, one Saturday morning, word came that Uncle John Rogers, down at Clifton, had fallen and broken his leg. Grandpa and grandma got ready in a great flurry and drove straight away to Clifton, leaving Polly and Patty to keep house until they should return at night. Patty and Polly were very sorry about Uncle John, but they were greatly elated over being left to keep house. It makes one feel so responsible, said Patty, who liked to drag in a big word now and then, when no grown folks were by to laugh at her. But, said Polly soberly, what about the minister's pumpkin pie? What indeed! But Patty was equal to the problem. I shall make the pumpkin pies, she said. Oh! Polly was almost scared. She was never so daring as Patty. What if you spoil them? I won't spoil them. You must help me. I'm sure I can make them all right. I know just how grandma goes about it. So the two little maids put on very bright, clean, new Gigham Abrans, and ran down to the cornfield behind the Big Fur Grove. Polly was always a little frightened to go through that grove. It was so thick and gloomy. But Patty never thought of such a thing. The pumpkins were there, round and yellow as gold, and the twins picked the best and ripest to make their pie. Patty, having rolled up her sleeves high above her dimpled ebbles, peeled and diced the pumpkin and put it on to stew. She could not find the granite saucepan grandma always used. But Patty was not to be sucked by a trifle like that. She stewed the pumpkin in a round granite melt pan, and it served the purpose very well. Meanwhile, Polly had hunted the hamone for fresh eggs, had fallen through a hole into the calf pan, and nearly frightened the spotted calf to death. But she found the eggs and brought them in triumph to Patty. Patty made the crust while Polly watched her. Patty clean forgot to put any baking powder in, but Polly remembered it just in the nick of time. Then they strained the pumpkin and beat it up with eggs and sugar and milk and cornstarch and dusted in the cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger very carefully. For the minister it was very particular about the flavoring of his pies. Polly and Patty both tasted the mixture and pronounced it all right, and just like grandma's. Then they popped the pies into the oven, and when they came out they were golden brown and looked delicious. So delighted was Patty that she danced around the kitchen three times, waving a holder aloft. Grandma was very much surprised when she came home and saw the pumpkin pies. Secretly she doubted if the pies could be good enough to put before the minister, but she was careful not to hurt the twins' feelings by saying so. In any way, there was nothing else for him this time. That night Patty had a terrible nightmare and woke Polly up to tell her about it. Polly, I dreamed that we put mustard in those pies instead of ginger. Oh, we didn't, did we? No, of course not, answered Polly reassuringly and went right to sleep again. But Patty couldn't sleep. She was afraid she would dream that terrible dream again. Next afternoon, after preaching, the minister came. When he had finished his second helping a pie, he said politely, Your pumpkin pies are always delicious, Mrs. Rogers, but you have surpassed yourself in this one. It is the most delicious I ever ate. Grandma's eyes twinkled. I'm sorry, I can't claim the credit for it, she said. Patty made it. Patty blushed scarlet beneath the minister's eye. Polly helped me, she said honestly. And the minister, he had driven eight miles, you know, and preached a long sermon and his wife never made pumpkin pies, took a third helping. End of section 39, recording by Laura Oskens. Section 40 of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. 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 Violet Blue. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. By Lucy Maud Montgomery. 40. Elvie Floyd was dressing to go to Nellie Howard's birthday party, and Mrs. Floyd had permitted her, as it was a special occasion, to wear her gold chain necklace. Elvie was not often allowed to wear it because she was only a little girl, and the necklace was very beautiful. It was a finely chased gold chain of exquisite workmanship. Elvie's globetrotting Uncle Raymond had brought it home for his little niece, from his last trip to Europe. Elvie stood before the glass, looking very dainty and pretty in her white dress, with her long brown curls tied back from her face in the very latest fashion for twelve-year-old Mrs. The chain was lying in its silk lined box on her dressing table, and Elvie picked it up and ran it admiringly through her fingers. It was a lovely afternoon for a party, so thought Elvie as she moved over to the window and looked out into the garden, where Danny Haven was just finishing weeding the onion bed. Danny was a boy of twelve. His mother was a widow, and she and Danny lived in a little house down the village street. There were always little jobs to be done that people were glad to have Danny do, and just now it looked as if Mr. Floyd had a good deal of work for him in his garden. Danny straightened up and bowed as Elvie came to the window. Just then Aunt Anna called Elvie from upstairs. Elvie knew Aunt Anna did not like to be kept waiting. She hastily laid her chain on the broad window sill, and ran upstairs to her aunt's room. Aunt Anna was an invalid, and needed a good deal of waiting on. This time she wanted Elvie to hold a skein of yarn for her while she wound it. When that was done it was time to go to the party, and Elvie suddenly remembered the chain which she had left lying on the window sill. She ran down to her own room. The chain was gone! Elvie stared at the bare sill in dismay. It had not fallen on the floor. It could not have fallen out of the window, for the sill was fenced in by her Minionette box. Yet gone it was, and all Elvie's searching failed to discover it. Elvie burst into tears, forgetting all about the party. Her lovely chain was gone. Somebody must have taken it, but who could it be? Mrs. Floyd was out. There was nobody in the house but Aunt Anna and Elvie. Suddenly Elvie remembered Danny Haven. He had been there when she was at the window. He must have seen her lay her chain down, and when she came back he was gone. Elvie's eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed with indignation. It was one of Elvie's faults that she was too quick at jumping to a conclusion and acting upon it. She did not pause to consider that Danny had always been looked upon as an honest and reliable boy, and that she ought to be very careful about casting suspicion on him. She felt too worried and troubled to go to the party, and when Mrs. Floyd came home she was met by a very woe-begone little maid and a sobbing tale of the lost necklace. And I'm sure Danny Haven must have taken it, Mama, said Elvie. It couldn't have fallen off the sill. There was nobody else near, and he saw me put it there. Mrs. Floyd was troubled but warned Elvie that they must not be too ready to accuse Danny. In her heart she thought it very strange, and so did her husband when he heard the story. He was a quick, impulsive man, and like Elvie, he had once believed in Danny Haven's guilt. I'll go right down and see Dan and his mother about this, he declared. I never thought it of the boy. He always seemed so honest and obliging. Mr. Floyd's visit to the Havens did not result very satisfactorily. Danny listened to the accusation like a boy turned to stone. Then he grew crimson and straightened up his shoulders indignantly. Mr. Floyd, I never touched Elvie's chain, he cried. I never even saw it. I'm poor, sir, but I'm honest and always have been. Mrs. Haven cried bitterly, and assured Mr. Floyd that Danny would never do such a thing. Mr. Floyd was distressed but not convinced. He believed that Danny was guilty, but he would not be too hard on him. Look here, Dan, he said kindly. As you say, you have always been an honest boy, and I am sure that this was a great temptation. Elvie had no business to leave such a valuable trinket lying carelessly about. I believe you simply yielded to a sudden wrong impulse. And if you confess and give back the chain, I'll say no more about it. I can't give back what I haven't got, Mr. Floyd, said Danny firmly. Stubbornly, Mr. Floyd thought. I never saw Elvie's chain, and I would not have touched it if I had. And in this statement he persisted. Mr. Floyd grew angry, and left the cottage with threatening words. When he had gone, Danny threw himself into a chair and cried. The accusation had stung him to the heart, and he also foresaw the harm it would do him. It all came about as Danny feared. Mr. Floyd was firmly convinced of his guilt, and the story soon spread through the village. Danny found himself coldly received everywhere. Nobody had any work for him, and on all sides he was treated as a suspect. His Sunday school teacher looked at him with grieved eyes. His few friends refused to have anything further to do with him. Elvie, after crying her pretty eyes half out, had resigned herself to the loss of her chain. The cherry blossoms that had bloomed when the necklace disappeared, had now changed to tempting fruit. The big tree outside of Elvie's window was loaded and haunted by peratical robins who feasted royally on cherries all day, and grew so saucy and bold that they hopped into Elvie's room and twittered about the windowsill as if they were old friends of hers. One day her cousin Will came to see her, and they went out to the garden to eat cherries. What a splendid old tree, exclaimed William when he caught sight of the one at the window. And I say, Elvie, look at all those beauties up on the top boughs. Aren't they big and red, though? I'm going to climb up and get them. Will was soon high up among the topmost boughs. I tell you, Evie, it's a great place up here, he shouted. I can see clear over the whole village. Will in the tree and Elvie on the grass below, ate cherries until they both declared they couldn't eat another one. Guess I'll come down, said Will, with a sigh over his limited capacity. What a time those robins must have. There's a nest of them up here, away over on the other side of the tree. I'm going to scramble over and have a look at it, though I guess there's nothing in it. Will swung himself over to a big bow which hung out over the roof. The robin's nest proved empty, and he was about to descend when something caught his eye. He peered closer, then, with a long whistle of astonishment. He tore the nest from its place and quickly scrambled down. Elvie, look here, he said excitedly. Elvie stood up with a cry of wonder. There, wound in and out, among the twigs and grasses on the outside of the nest, was her long lost gold necklace. Oh, Will, she cried. The robins must have taken it from the window sill that day. And oh, Will, we blamed Danny Haven for it. Oh, we have been dreadfully unjust to him. Mr. and Mrs. Floyd realized this, too, when Will and Elvie ran breathlessly into the house with the necklace and the story. We must go at once and apologize to Danny, said the former. It is too bad the way we have treated that boy. Elvie, you must come with me, and we will go straight to Mrs. Haven's now. Danny's feelings can be better imagined than described when Mr. Floyd told him the story, and Elvie, with tears in her pretty blue eyes, begged him to forgive her for suspecting him. We will do our best to atone to you, my boy, said Mr. Floyd. Mr. Dill was asking me only yesterday if I knew of a boy about your age, whom I could recommend for a vacant place in his factory. If you will take it, I will see that you get it. If he would take it, Danny was overjoyed at his double good fortune, but things cleared themselves up some way, and when the Floyds went home, they left two happy hearts behind them in the little Haven cottage. The gold chain was quite unharmed, saved for a little tarnish, and that the jeweler soon removed, and Elvie, when she once more clasped it around her neck, fingered it thoughtfully. I think I've learned a lesson, Mama, she said frankly. I feel as if I could never forgive myself for all poor Danny Haven must have suffered this summer.