 Section 59 of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. Chapter 7 Since 4th Eric was a constant visitor at the Marshall House. He soon became a favourite with Thomas and Janet, especially the latter. He liked them both, discovering under all their outward peculiarity, sterling worth and fineness of character. Of Neil he saw little. The Italian boy avoided him, or if they chanced to meet, passed him by with sullen downcast eyes. He did not trouble himself much about Neil, but Thomas Marshall bluntly told Una that she must not make such an equal of Neil as she had done. You've been too kind to that lad, lassie, and he's got presumptuous. He must be taught his place. Most of the idyllic hours of Eric's wooing were spent in the Old Garden. It was a wilderness of roses now. White roses and pink roses and white roses and pale yellow roses, roses full-blown and roses and buds that were sweeter than anything on earth except Una's face. Their petals fell in silken heaps along the old paths or clung to the lush grasses among which Eric lay and dreamed while Una played on her old brown violin. Eric promised himself that when she was his wife her wonderful gift should be cultivated to the utmost. Her power of expression seemed to deepen and develop every day, growing as her soul grew, taking on new colour and richness from her ripening heart. To Eric the days were all pages in an inspired idyll. He had never dreamed that love could be so mighty, that the world could be so beautiful. All his life was for the time being bounded by that garden where he wooed his sweetheart. All other ambitions and plans and hopes were set aside in the pursuit of this one aim, the attainment of which would enhance all others a thousandfold, the loss of which would rob all others of their reason for existence. His own world seemed very far away and the things of that world forgotten. His father had written him a testy letter on hearing that he had taken the Stillwater School for another year, but running through its testiness was a chord of regret and longing to which Eric's heart responded. He wrote a filial letter in return, promising to come home and be a good boy at the end of the year. I'll go into the business with heart and soul then, dad, he wrote, but I want to have this one year for myself. It could not long remain a secret in Stillwater that the master was going to the marshal place on courting thoughts and tent. Mrs. Williamson kept her own and Eric's counsel. The marshals said nothing, but the secret leaked out and great was the surprise and gossip and wonder. One or two incautious people ventured to express their opinion of the master's wisdom to the master himself, but they never repeated the experiment. Curiosity was rife. A hundred stories were circulated about Una, greatly exaggerated in the circulation. Wise heads were shaken, and the majority opined that it was a great pity. The master was a smart young fellow. It was too bad that he should take up with that queer dumb niece of the marshals who had been brought up in such a heathenish way. They guessed Neil Marshall didn't like it. He seemed to have got dreadful moody and sulky of late. Thus the buzz of comment and gossip ran. Those two in the old garden did not heed it. Una knew nothing of gossip. Stillwater was as much of an unknown world to her as the city of Eric's home. Her thoughts strayed widely in the realm of fancy, but they never wandered out to the little realities that hedged her strange life around. In that life she had blossomed out a fair, unique thing. They were times when Eric almost regretted that one day he must take her out of her white solitude to a world that, in the last analysis, was only Stillwater on a larger scale, with just the same pettiness of thought and feeling and opinion at the bottom of it. He wished he might keep her to himself forever in that old spruce-hidden garden where the roses fell. One day he indulged himself in the fulfilment of the whim he had formed when Una had told him she thought herself ugly. With Janet's cooperation a mirror was brought to the house and hung in the parlor. "'There hasn't been such a thing in the house for twenty years, Master,' said Janet, looking at it rather dubiously, as if after all she distrusted its pearly depth and richly carved frame. "'I never saw such a big one. I hope it won't make her veen. She is very bunny, but it may not do her any good to knew it.' "'It won't harm her,' said Eric confidently. When a belief in her ugliness hasn't spoiled a girl, a belief in her beauty won't.' Janet did not understand, epigrams. "'I can't think what made her suppose she was so ugly, Master.' "'Her mother told her so,' said Eric rather bitterly. "'Ah,' Janet shot a quick glance at the picture of her sister. Marguerite was a strange woman, Master. I suppose she thought her own beauty had been a snare to her. "'Well, have your own wee. You would have it anyway, I think, Glad. You are one of those men who always get their own wee.' Eric went to look for Una and found her in the rose garden. "'Down to the house, Una. I have something beautiful there to show you,' he said with boyish pleasure shining in his eyes. "'I want you to go and put on that muzzle and dress you wore last Sunday. Pin your hair up in the same way you did then. Run along. Don't wait for me. I want to pick some of these lilies.' When Eric returned to the house with an armful of the long-stemmed white August lilies that bloomed in the garden, Una was just coming down the steep narrow staircase with its carpeting of homespun drug it. Her marvellous loveliness brought out into brilliant relief by the dark woodwork of the dim old hall, almost took away his breath. She wore a trailing, clinging dress of creamy, tinted fabric that had been her mother's. It had not been altered in any respect, for fashion held no sway at the marshal homestead, and Una thought that the dress left nothing to be desired. Its quaint style suited her admirably. Her neck was cut slightly away to show the round white throat, and the sleeves were long, full bishop ones, out of which her beautiful slender hands slipped like flowers from their sheaths. She had crossed her long braids at the back, and pinned them about her head like a coronet. A late white rose was fastened low down on the left side. A man has given all other bliss, and all his worldly wealth for this, the waist is whole-hard, and one kiss upon her perfect lips, quoted Eric in a whisper. Allowed, he said, hold these lilies on your arm, so, now, give me your hand, and shut your eyes, don't open them until I tell you. He led her into the parlor, and up to the mirror. Look! he cried proudly. Una opened her eyes, and looked straight into the mirror, where, like a lovely picture of a dark frame, she saw herself reflected. For a moment she was bewildered. Then she realized what it was. The lilies fell from her arms to the floor, and she turned pale. With a low involuntary cry of delight, she put her hands over her face. They pulled them boyishly away. Una, do you think you are ugly now? Look! Look! Look! Did you ever imagine anything fairer than yourself, dainty Una? She was blushing now, and stealing shy glances at the mirror. For this mile she took her slate, and broke naively. I think I am pleasant to look upon. I cannot tell you how glad I am. It is so dreadful to believe that one is ugly. But why did mother tell me that I was? I think perhaps she found that beauty was not always a blessing, Una, and thought it wiser not to let you know you possessed it. Come, let us go back to the garden now. The mirror will hang here. It is yours. Don't look into it too often, or Aunt Janet will disapprove. She's afraid it will make you vain. Una gave one of her rare musical laughs, which Eric never heard with other recurrence of the old wonder that she could laugh so when she could not speak. She blew an airy little kiss at her mirrored face, and turned from it smiling. On their way to the garden they met Neil. He went by them with averted face, but Una shivered, and involuntarily drew closer to Eric. I don't understand Neil at all now, she wrote nervously. He is not nice as he used to be, and sometimes he will not answer when I speak to him, and he looks so strangely at me too. Don't mind Neil, said Eric lightly. He's probably sulk-y because of some things I said to him when I found he had spied on us. That night, before she went to bed, Una stole into the parlor for another glimpse of herself by the light of the dim candle she carried. She was still standing there dreamily when Aunt Janet's grim face appeared in the shadows of the doorway. Are you thinking that you're Bonnie Lassie? Aye, but remember his handsome is that handsome does, she said, with grudging admiration. For the girl with her flush cheeks and star-like eyes was something that even dour Janet Marshall could not look upon unmoved. Una smiled softly. I'll try to remember, she wrote, but oh Aunt Janet, I am so glad that I am not ugly. It is not wrong to be glad of that, is it? The older woman's face softened. No, I don't suppose it is Lassie. A comely face is something to be thankful for. The master thinks you are wonderful Bonnie, Una, she added, looking kingly at the girl. Una started, and a scarlet blush burned over her face. The expression that plashed into her eyes told Janet Marshall all she wished to know. With a half-size she bathed her niece good night and went away. Una ran fleetily upstairs to her dim little room that looked out into the spruces and flung herself on her bed, burying her burning face in her hands. Her aunt's words had revealed to her the secret of her heart. She knew that she loved Eric Murray, and the knowledge brought with it a strange heartbreak. For was she not dumb? Eric noticed a change in Una at their next meeting, a change that troubled him. She seemed aloof, abstracted, and almost ill at ease. When he proposed an excursion to the garden, he thought she was reluctant to go. The days that followed convinced him of the change. Something had come between them. Una seemed miles away in spirit. He had a bad week of it, but he determined to put an end to it by plain speaking. One evening in the garden he told her of his love. It was an evening in August and the garden was in its prime of lavish splendor. Everywhere there were lilies, white lilies, and gorgeous tiger lilies. Tawny and Crimson spotted. Una was sitting on the old stone bench where he had first seen her. She had been playing for him, but her music did not please her, and she laid the violin aside with a little frown. Perhaps she was afraid to play, afraid that her new emotions might escape her and reveal themselves in the music. It was difficult to prevent this. So long had she been accustomed to pouring out all her feelings unhindered in harmony. The necessity of restraint irked her and made her bow a clumsy thing that no longer obeyed her wishes. More than ever at that instant did she long for speech, speech that would conceal and protect where dangerous silence might betray. In a low voice that trembled with earnestness, Eric told her that he loved her, had loved her, since the first time he had seen her in the old garden. He spoke humbly, but not fearfully, for he believed that she loved him and had little expectation of any rebuff. Una, will you be my wife? he said, taking her hands in his. Una had listened with averted face. At first she had blushed, but now she had grown very pale. When he had finished speaking and was waiting for her answer, she suddenly pulled away her hands and putting them over her face burst into tears and noiseless sobs. Una, dearest, have I alarmed you? Surely you knew before that I loved you. Don't you love me? Eric said, putting his arm about her and trying to draw her to him, but she shook her head sorrowfully and wrote with compressed lips. Yes, I do love you, but I can never, never marry you because I am dumb. Oh, Una, said Eric, smiling, for he believed his victory won. That doesn't make any difference to me. You know it doesn't, sweetest. If you love me, that is enough. But Una only shook her head again. There was a very determined look on her pale face. She wrote, No, it is not enough. It would be doing you a great wrong to marry you when I cannot speak and I will not do it because I love you. Your world would think you had done a very foolish thing. I have thought it all over since something Aunt Janet said made me understand, and I know I am doing right. I am sorry I did not understand sooner, before you learned to care so much. Una, darling, don't let such an idle fancy disturb you for a moment. Don't you know that you will make me miserably unhappy all my life if you will not be my wife? No, you think so now and you will feel badly for a time. Then you will go away and you will forget me after a while, and then you will see that I was right. I will be very unhappy too, but that is better than spoiling your life. Do not plead or coax because I will not change my mind. Eric did plead and coax, however, at first patiently and smilingly as one might argue with a dear foolish child, then with a distracted earnestness when he began to realize that Una meant what she said. It was all in vain. Una grew paler and paler and her eyes showed suffering. She did not even try to argue with him but only listened patiently and shook her head. Say what he would, in treat and implore as he might, he could not move her resolution a hair's breadth. Yet he did not despair. He thought her love for him must conquer. He did not understand that it was the very intensity of her love that gave her the strength to resist him. It held her back unflinchingly from doing him what she believed to be a wrong. The next day Eric saw Una again and renewed his pleadings but in vain. Nothing he could say was of any avail against her sad determination. When he finally realized that her resolution was not to be shaken, he went in his despair to Janet Marshall. Janet listened to his story with concern and disappointment plainly visible on her face. When he had finished, she shook her head. I'm sorry, master. I hoped for something very different. But if Una says she won't marry her, I'm afraid she will stick to it. But she loves me, cried the young man, and if you and her uncle speak to her, perhaps you can influence her. No, master. It wouldn't be of any use. Una is as determined as her mother was when once she makes up her mind. She has always been good and obedient for the most part. But once or twice we have found out there is no moving her if she does resolve upon anything. It is because she thinks so much of you and she is afraid you would come to repent having married a dumb girl. I can't give her up, said Eric stubbornly. Something must be done. Perhaps her defect can be remedied. Have you ever thought of that? Have you ever had her examined by a doctor qualified to pronounce on her case? No, master. We never took it to anyone. When we first began to fear she was never going to talk. Thomas wanted to take her somewhere and have her look too. But her mother wouldn't hear of it. She said that it was no use, that it was her sin that was visited on her child, and that it would never be taken away. And did you give in weekly to a morbid whim like that? asked Eric impatiently. Master, you didn't know my sister. We had to give in. Nobody could hold out against her. She was a strange woman and a terrible woman in many ways after her trouble. We feared to cross her lest she might go out of her mind. Besides, we didn't think ourselves it would be much used to try to cure Oona. It was a sin that made her as she is. Nonsense. Where was there any sin? Your sister thought herself a lawful wife. I am not meaning that, master. That wasn't where Margaret did the wrong. You don't know the story. I'm going to tell it to you and you will understand then why Oona is dumb and why it isn't likely that there can be anything done for her. Oona doesn't know the truth and you must never tell her. Margaret was a very proud, high-spirited girl, very stubborn too, master. But I would not have you think she was unlovable. She had her faults. She was bright and merry too and we all loved her. You know the story of her marriage. Our father was a proud man and her misfortune cut him to the heart. He hadn't been very willing for her to marry Roland Fraser and when she came home in disgrace, she hadn't set foot over the threshold before he broke out railing at her. He called her a hard name, master. Oh, it was too hard. Even though he was my father, I must say he was too hard on her, broken hard as she was. And he was so sorry for it. The moment it was out of his mouth, he was sorry for it. But the mischief was done. I'll never forget Margaret's face, master. It was full of anger and rebellion and defiance. She clenched her hands and went up to her room without saying a word, all those mad feelings surging in her soul and being held back from speech by her sheer stubborn will. And master, never a word did Margaret say from that day until Oona was born, not one word, master. Nothing we could do for her softened her. And we were kind to her, master, and never reproached her. But she would not speak to anyone. She just sat in her room, stared at the wall with awful eyes most of the time. Her father implored her to speak and forgive him, but she never gave any sign that she heard him. That's not the worst, master. Father sickened and died. And on his death bid he asked Margaret to forgive him and speak one word to him, master. She wouldn't. And yet she wanted to speak, but she wouldn't. Her stubbornness wouldn't let her. Oh, it was hard. Oh, it was hard and dreadful. She saw her father die, and she never spoke the word he prayed for to him. That was her sin, master. And for that sin the innocent was punished. After Oona was born, Margaret softened and broke through her silence when she felt her baby at her breast. She spoke in wit and was herself again until she found that Oona was never going to speak. We thought then she would go out of her mind. Indeed, master, she was never quite right again. But that is the story. Oona can't speak because her mother wouldn't. Eric had listened moodily, his chin in his hand and his eyes on the floor. Now he got up and paced restlessly to and fro in the dark spruce shadowed old kitchen where they were. It's an extraordinary story, he said. It is hard to believe that such could have been the cause of Oona's dumbness, I mean. But even if it were so, something may be done for her. At all events we must try. I have a friend who is a physician. His name is David Baker, and he is a very skillful specialist in throat diseases. I shall have him come here and see Oona. Well have your way, assented Janet. Plainly she had little faith in the possibility of anything being done for Oona. But a rosy glow of hope flushed over Oona's face when Eric told her what he meant to do. Oh, do you think you can make me speak? she wrote eagerly. I don't know, Oona. I hope that he can, and I know he will do all that mortal skill can do. If he can cure you, will you promise to marry me, dearest? She nodded. The grave little motion had the solemnity of a sacred promise. Yes, she wrote. When I can speak like other women, I will marry you. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 9 The next week David Baker came to Stillwater. He was a few years older than Eric, but the two had always been close friends. Eric would have trusted David with his life. David was an ugly man with a clever, irregular, charming face and a voice that was as soft and musical as a woman's. He looked curiously at Eric when the two young men were alone in the latter's room. Now, Murray, I want to know what this is all about. You wrote me a letter in treating me in the name of friendship to come to you at once. Accordingly, I come post haste, though muchly puzzled about the mysterious, patient, sex unknown, whose throat and vocal organs you want examined. Explain why you have invagled me hither. I want you to do me a service, David, said Eric quietly. I didn't care to go into details by letter. I have met in Stillwater a young girl whom I have learned to love. I have asked her to marry me, but although she cares for me, she refuses to do so because she is dumb. I wish you to examine her and find out the causes of her defect and if it can be cured. She can hear perfectly and all her other faculties are entirely normal. In order that you may better understand the case, I must tell you her history. This Eric proceeded to do. David Baker listened with grave attention. Whatever his opinion of Eric's wisdom in falling in love with the dumb girl of Oona's antecedents, he kept it to himself. Very soon the strange case enlisted his professional interest to the exclusion of all other thoughts. It is very curious, he said, when Eric had finished, and very unusual, but it is not totally unprecedented. There are some similar cases on record, I believe. Well, I will see if anything can be done for this girl. I cannot express any opinion on the matter until I have examined her. The next morning Eric took David up to the Marshall Place. As they neared the old garden, a strain of music came flooding through the resinous morning arcades of the spruce wood. A wild, sorrowful, appealing cry, full of indescribable pathos, yet marvelously sweet. What is that? exclaimed David, starting. That is Oona playing on her violin, answered Eric. She is a positive genius in that respect, and improvises wonderful melodies. When they reached the garden, Oona rose from the stone bench to meet them. Her lovely, luminous eyes distended. Her face flushed with the excitement of mingled hope and fear. Ye gods! muttered David helplessly. He could not hide his amazement, and Eric smiled to see it. The latter had not failed to understand the significance of David's previous silence regarding the affair, and knew that his friend considered him little better than a lunatic. Oona, this is my friend Dr. Baker, he said. Oona held out her hand with a smile. Her beauty, as she stood there in the fresh morning sunshine among her sister Lily's, was something to take away a man's breath. David, who was by no means lacking in confidence, and generally had a ready tongue where women were concerned, found himself as mute and awkward as a schoolboy as he bowed over her hand. But Oona was charmingly at ease. Eric smiled to remember how different this was from his first meeting with her. He realized how far Oona had come since then, and how much she had developed. With a little gesture of invitation, Oona led the way through the garden to the wild plum lane, and the two men followed. Eric, she is divine, said David in an undertone. Last night, well, to tell you the truth, I had a rather poor opinion of your sanity, but now I am consumed with a fierce envy. She is the loveliest creature I have so. Eric introduced David to the marshals, and then hurried away to his school. On the way down the marshall lane, he met Neil, and was half startled by the glare of hatred in the Italian boy's eyes. Pity succeeded the momentary alarm. Neil's face had grown thin and worn. His eyes were sunken and feverishly bright. He looked years older than on the day Eric had first met him. Prompted by a sudden impulse, Eric stopped and held out his hand. Neil, can't we be friends? he said. I am sorry if I have been the cause of inflicting any pain on you. Friends, never, said Neil passionately, you have taken una from me. I shall hate you always. He strode fiercely up the lane, and Eric, with the shrug of his shoulders, went on his way. The day seemed interminably long to him. David had not returned when he went home to dinner, but when he went to his room in the evening he found his friend staring out of the window. Well, he said impatiently, as David wheeled around, but still kept silence. What have you to say to me? Have you discovered what is the matter with Una? There is nothing the matter with her, answered David slowly, flinging himself on a chair by the window. What do you mean? Just what I say. Her vocal organs are all perfect. As far as they are concerned, there is absolutely no reason why she should not speak. After all, I can't express my conclusion in any better words than Janet Marshall used when she said that Una can't speak because her mother wouldn't. That is all there is to it. The trouble is psychological, not physical. Medical skill is helpless before it. Then there is no hope, said Eric in a tone of despair. You can do nothing for her. I can do nothing for her, but I do not exactly say there is no hope. Come, David, I am in no mood for guessing riddles. Speak plainly, man, David frowned reflectively. I don't think I can make it plain to you. It is not very plain to myself and it is only a vague theory of mine, of course. I can't substantiate it by any facts. In short, Eric, I think that it is possible that Una may speak sometime if she ever wants to, badly enough. Wants to? Why, man, she wants to as badly as it is possible for anyone to want anything. She loves me and she won't marry me because she can't speak. Don't you suppose a girl under such circumstances would want to speak as much as anyone could? I don't mean that sort of wanting, no matter how strong the wish may be. I mean a sudden, vehement, passionate, inrush of desire, physical, psychical, mental, all in one. Might he enough to rend the invisible fat-o's that hold to speech and bondage? If any occasion should arise to evoke such a desire, I believe that Una would speak, and having once spoken would thenceforth be normal in that respect. All this sounds like great nonsense to me, said Eric restlessly. I suppose you have an idea what you're talking about, but I haven't, and it practically means that there is no hope for her or me. Even if your theory be correct, it is not likely that such an occasion as you speak of will ever arise, and Una will never marry me. Don't give up so easily, old fellow. Women have been known to change their minds. Not Una, said Eric miserably. I tell you she has all her mother's unfaltering will and tenacity of purpose, although Una is free from any taint of pride or selfishness. I thank you for your sympathy and interest, David. You've done all you could, but Heavens would have meant to me if you could have helped her. With a groan, Eric flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. It was a bitter moment for him, but a thwart his own despair came the thought of Una. Did you tell her what you've told me? He asked. I told her that I could not help her. I said nothing to her of my theory. It would have been of no use. How did you take it? Very bravely and quietly. But they look on her face. Eric, I felt as if I had murdered something. She bade me a mute goodbye with a pitiful smile and went upstairs. I did not see her again, although I stayed to dinner at her uncle's insistence. Those old marshals are a queer pair. I like them, though. They are strong and staunch. Good friends, bitter enemies. They were sorry I could not help Una. But I saw plainly that old Thomas Marshall thought I had been meddling with predestination and attempting it. Eric smiled mechanically. I must go up and see Una. You'll excuse me, won't you, David? My books are there. Help yourself. But when Eric reached the Marshall House, he only saw old Janet who told him that Una was in her room and refused to see him. She thought you would come, and she left this with me to give to you, Master, she said, handing him a little note. It was very brief and blotted with tears. Do not come any more, Eric, it ran. I must not see you, because it would only make it harder for us both. You must go away and forget me. You will be thankful for this someday. I shall always love and pray for you. I must see her, said Eric, and Janet be my friend. Tell her she must see me for a little while, at least. Janet shook her head, but went upstairs. She soon returned. She says she cannot come down. You know she means it, Master, and it is of no use to coax. And I must say I think she's right. Since she won't marry you, it is better for you not to see her. Eric was compelled to go home with no better comfort than this. In the morning, after a restless night, he drove David Baker to the station. It was Saturday, so that he did not have to teach. In the afternoon, he again went to the martial place determined to make another effort to see Una and overcome her resolution. But the result was the same, and Thomas Marshall said gravely, Master, you know I like you, and I am sorry Una thinks that she does, though maybe she is right. I'd be glad to see you often for your own sake, but as things are, I must tell you plainly, you better not come here anymore. It will do no good, and the sooner you and she get over thinking about each other, the better for you both. Go now, lad, and God bless you. Do you know what you're asking me to do, asked Eric Horsley? I know I'm asking a hard thing for your own good, Master. It is not as if Una would ever change her mind. Touch, Janet Woman, don't be weeping. You women are foolish creatures. Do you think tears can wash such things away? Master, if you take my advice, you'll give up the school and go back to your own world as soon as it may be. Eric went home with a white, set face. He had never thought it possible for a man to suffer so. What was he to do? It seemed impossible to go on with life. There was no life apart from Una. Anguish rung his soul until his strength went from him, and youth and hope turned to gall in his heart. He never afterwards could tell how he lived through the following Sunday, nor how he taught school as usual on Monday. His body seemed to him an automaton that moved and worked and spoke mechanically, while his tortured spirit pent up within endured pain that left its impress on him forever. Out of that fiery furnace of suffering, Eric Murray was to go forth a man who had put boyhood behind him and looked out on life with eyes that saw into it and beyond. On Monday evening he went again to the old garden. He had no expectation of finding Una there for he thought she would avoid the spot, but he could not keep away from it, although the thought of it was added torture, and he vibrated between a wild wish that he might never see it again, and a sick wonder how he could go away and leave it, putting it out of his life as if it had never been. That strange old garden where he had met and wooed his love, watching her develop and blossom under his eyes like some rare flower, until in the space of three short months she had passed from exquisite childhood into still more exquisite womanhood. As he crossed the pasture field before he entered the spruce wood, he came upon Neil Marshall fence building. Neil did not look up as Eric passed, and Eric hardly was aware of his presence. The garden was very silent and dreamy in the thick yellow sunshine of the September evening. There were a few flowers now, most of the lilies, that had queened it so bravely along the walks a few days before, were withered. The grass had grown long and sear and unkempt, but in the corners the torches of the golden rod were kindling, and a few pale blue asters knotted here and there. The garden kept its own strange attractiveness, as a woman with youth-long past still preserves an atmosphere of remembered beauty and innate, indestructible charm. Eric walked drearily and carelessly about it, and finally sat down on the old dike in the shadows of the overhanging spruce boughs. There he gave himself up to a reverie, poignant and bittersweet, in which he lived over again everything that had passed in the garden since his first meeting with Una. So deep was his abstraction that he was conscious of nothing around him. He did not hear stealthy footsteps behind him in the dim spruce wood. He did not even see Una as she came slowly around a curve in the plum lane. Una had sought the old garden for the healing of her heartbreak, if healing were possible for her. Years seemed to have passed over her in those few days. Her face was pale and strained, with bluish transparent shadows under her large eyes. She walked slowly and absently, like a woman in a dream. She had no thought of seeing Eric there, and as soon as she perceived him she stopped short, the blood rushing wildly over her face. The next moment it ebbed, leaving her white as marble. Horror flashed in her eyes, blank, deadly horror. Behind Eric Neil Marshall was standing, tense, crouched, murderous. Even at that distance Una saw the look on his face, saw what he held in his hand, and realized in one dizzying flash of understanding what it meant. All this photographed itself on her brain in a second. She knew that by the time she could reach across the garden to warn Eric it would be too late. Yet she must warn him. She must, she must. Her mighty surge of desire seemed to rise up within her and overwhelm her like a wave of the sea, a surge that swept everything before it in an irresistible flood. As Neil Marshall, slowly and vindictively, with the face of a demon, lifted the axe he held in his hand, Una sprang to the top of the stone dyke. Eric! Eric! Look behind you! Look behind you! Eric stared it up, confused, bewildered as the voice came shrieking across the garden. He did not in the least realize that it was Una who had spoken, but he blindly obeyed the command. He whirled around and saw Neil Marshall, who was looking not at him, but past him at Una. The Italian boy's face was ashen, his eyes filled with terror and incredulity. The axe, lying at his feet where he had dropped it, in his unutterable amazement at hearing Una's cry, told the whole story. But before Eric could utter a word, Neil turned and fled like a hunted creature into the shadows of the spruce wood. The next moment, a girlish form flung itself upon Eric's breast, laughing and crying in the same breath. Oh, Eric, I can speak. I can speak. Oh, it is so wonderful, Eric. Eric, I love you. I love you. Chapter 10 It is a miracle, said Thomas Marshall in an odd tone. It was the first time he had spoken since Eric and Una had rushed in hand in hand, like two children intoxicated with joy and wonder, and gasped out their story together to him and Janet. No miracle, said Eric. David said it might happen. I had no hope that it would. He could explain it to you if he were here. Thomas Marshall shook his head. I doubt if he could, master. Hear anyone. It is near enough to a miracle for me. Let us thank God reverently and humbly that he has seen fit to lift his curse from the innocent. Your doctors may explain it as they like, lad, but they won't get much nearer to it than that. It is awesome. That is what it is. Janet woman, I feel as if I were in a dream. Can Una really speak? Indeed I can, uncle, said Una, with a raptured glance at Eric. Oh, I don't know how it came to me. I felt that I must speak, and I did. And it is so easy now. Seems as if I could always have done it. She spoke naturally and easily. Her voice was very clear and soft and musical, without a trace of the Scotch accent of her uncle and aunt. Oh, I am so glad that the first word I said was your name, dearest, she murmured to Eric. What about Neil? said Thomas Marshall gravely, rousing himself from his abstraction of wonder. What do we do with him when he returns? This is a sad business. Eric had almost forgotten about Neil and his overwhelming amazement and joy. We must forgive him, Mr. Marshall. It was only an evil impulse, and think of the good that has resulted from it. Through master. But that does not alter the terrible fact that the boy had murder in his heart, that he would have killed you. And we have cared for him and instructed him as our own. It is a hard thing and I do not see what we are to do. We can't act as if nothing has happened. We can never trust him again. But Neil Marshall solved the problem himself. When Eric returned home that night, he found old Robert Williamson in the kitchen, regaling himself with a lunch of bread and cheese after a trip to the station. Good night, master. Glad to see you are looking more like yourself. I told the wife he was only a lover's quarrel, most like. She's been worrying about you. But what kind of rumpus was kicked up at the Marshall place tonight? Eric started. What did Robert Williamson mean? How could he have heard? What do you mean? He asked. Why, us folk at the station knew there must have been a to-do of some kind when Neil Marshall went off on the harvest excursion as he did. You know, this was the night the excursion train left. There was a dozen or so fellows from hereabouts when we were all standing around chatting when Lincoln frame drove up full speed and Neil Marshall jumped out of his rig. He just bolted into the office, got his ticket and out again and onto the train without a word to anyone and as black looking as the old scratch. We was all too surprised to speak till he was gone. Lincoln couldn't give us much information. He said Neil had come to their place about dark, looking as if he was being chased and offered to sell that black filly of his to Lincoln for $60 if Lincoln would drive him to the station in time to catch the excursion train. The filly is Neil's own and Lincoln had been wanting to buy her, so he jumped at the chance. Neil had brought the filly with him and Lincoln hitched up and took him to the station. Neil had no luggage of any kind and wouldn't open his lips the whole way up, Lincoln says. We concluded him and old Thomas had had a row. Do you know anything about it or was it so wrapped up sweet and harding that you didn't hear or see nothing else? Eric reflected rapidly. He was greatly relieved to find that Neil had gone. He knew that he would never return and that this was the best for all concerned. Old Robert must be told part of the truth, at least since it would soon be known that Una could speak. There was some trouble at the Marshall Place tonight, Mr. Williamson, he said quietly. Neil behaved himself badly and frightened Una terribly, so terribly that a very surprising thing happened. She has found herself able to speak and can speak perfectly. God bless my soul master, what an extraordinary thing, ejaculated old Bob. Are you an earnest or are you trying to see how much of a fool you can make of the old man? No, Mr. Williamson, I assure you that it is no more than the simple truth. Dr. Baker had told me that a shock might cure her. As for Neil, he has gone and I think it well that he has. Not caring to discuss the matter further, Eric left the kitchen. But as he mounted the stairs to his room, he heard old Robert muttering like a man in hopeless bewilderment. Well, I never heard of anything like this. Them marshals are an unaccountable lot and no mistake. I must wake up mother and tell her about it or I won't be able to sleep. Now that everything was settled, Eric was anxious to give up teaching and go back to his own work. True, he had signed a contract to keep the school for a year, but he knew that the trustees would let him off if he procured a suitable substitute. He resolved to teach until the fall vacation, which came in October, and then go. This would involve a full explanation with his father and Eric was pondering how he might best make it. I'll write him a letter tomorrow and tell him about Una, he decided. Mr. Murray, Sr., answered this letter in person. A week later, Eric, coming home from school, found his father sitting in Mrs. Williamson's prim parlor. Nothing was said about Eric's letter, however, until after tea. When they found themselves alone, Mr. Murray spoke abruptly. Eric, what about this girl? I hope you haven't gone and made a fool of yourself. It sounds remarkably like it. A girl that has been dumb all her life, a girl with no right to her father's name, a country girl, brought up in a place like Stillwater. Your wife will have to fill your mother's place and your mother was a pearl among women. Do you think this girl is worthy of it? It isn't possible. Don't pronounce judgment until you've seen her father, said Eric smiling. Well, I shall look at her with the eyes of sixty, mind you, not the eyes of twenty-five. If she isn't what your wife ought to be, sir, you'll either give her up or paddle your own canoe. I shan't aid or abet you in making a fool of yourself, mind that. Eric bit his lip but only said quietly, come with me to see her father. They went around by way of the main road and the marshal lane. Una was not in when they reached the house. She was up in the old garden, Janet said. They sat and talked a while with Janet and Thomas. When they left, the old man said, I like those people. They are rugged and grim, but there is good stuck in them, native refinement and strong character. But I hope your young lady hasn't got her aunt's mouth. Una's mouth is like a love song made in carnate and sweet flesh, said Eric enthusiastically. Said Mr. Murray. Well, he added tolerantly a moment later. I was a poet, too, for six months in my life when I was courting your mother. Una was standing in the middle of the garden as they entered it. Out she came shyly forward to meet them, guessing who the tall white-haired old gentleman with Eric was. As she approached, Eric saw with a thrill of exaltation that she had never looked lovelier. She wore a dress of her favorite blue, simply and quaintly made as all her gowns were, revealing the perfect lines of her slender supple figure. Her glossy black hair was wound about her head in a simple coronet, and her face was flushed daintily with excitement. She looked like a young queen crowned with a ruddy splash of sunlight that fell through the old trees. Father, this is Una, said Eric proudly. Una held out her beautiful hand with a shyly murmured greeting. Mr. Murray took it and held it in his, looking so steadily and piercingly into her face that even her frank gaze wavered before the intensity of his keen old eyes. Then he drew her to him and kissed her on the forehead. Eric, he said huskily, I'd never have forgiven you if you hadn't fallen in love with her. The end. Section 61 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 Raymond Cockle Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Four Leaved Clover First published Young Days, Volume 36, 1909. You don't mean to tell me, said Uncle Jacob, looking horrified. That not one of you has ever found a four-leaved clover? Well, well, well. Bernice and Rachel, the twins, and Chrissy, the nine-year-old, looked as ashamed as they felt. Plainly, Uncle Jacob considered it as a serious thing, never to have found a four-leaved clover. I didn't know there was such a thing as a four-leaved clover, said Chrissy, determined to make a clean breast of it. Uncle Jacob shook his head. I've always had my suspicions about those city schools. What do they teach if they leave out such important things? Of course, if you've never even heard of four-leaved clovers, you don't know how there came to be four-leaved clovers at all. No, they didn't, but they wanted to learn. Well, at least you know that the queen of the fairies made all the clovers, said Uncle Jacob. The twins and Chrissy didn't really know that either, but they kept silence. They were not going to display any more ignorance. One day she was making clovers at a great rate, being an industrious fairy. But somehow or other, she made a mistake in counting. For, when she finished, she had a whole clover leaf left over. She thought it would be a terrible thing to waste it, being an economical fairy. In the midst of her perplexity, she had a brilliant idea, being a clever fairy. She added the extra leaf to a clover and gave it the fairy blessing, being a kindly disposed fairy. And so, from that time out, whoever finds a four-leaved clover is a very lucky person. Now, concluded Uncle Jacob, I have a plan. Out there beyond the orchard is a whole big meadow of clover. You three may look for four-leaved clovers tomorrow, and the one who finds the first four-leaved clover shall go with me to town day after tomorrow, and will have a jamboree. The twins and Chrissy were immensely excited. They had only been a fortnight at Mount Hope Farm, but in that time they had learned what a jamboree with Uncle Jacob meant. All that night they dreamed of finding four-leaved clovers, and after breakfast the next morning they were ready for the clover meadow. Dear me, said Aunt Mary, with a sigh, as she went through the hall. There is that bottle of medicine Doctor Fair left here last night for Teddy Andrews. It ought to go down this morning, but I don't see however I'm going to get time to take it. Chrissy heard her, just as she was going out of the door. Chrissy stopped short. The twins were already scrambling over the fence. Chrissy thought of the jamboree just once. Then she said, I'll run down to the Andrews with Teddy's medicine, Auntie. Thank you, Chrissy. That will be a real help to me, said Aunt Mary, who didn't know anything about the four-leaved clover compact. Uncle Jacob saw Chrissy starting off with the bottle. Well, well, well, he said. Chrissy had seen Teddy Andrews before and felt very sorry for him. He was just seven and was ill with spinal trouble. He had to lie on the sofa all the time. This morning she found him crying. Oh, Teddy, what's the matter? She said. Johnny said he would read to me the new fairy story. Aunt May sent me this morning, sobbed Teddy. And now he's gone off fishing and there's nobody to read. And I'm so tired of being sick and lonesome. Chrissy and her mind's eye saw the twins in clover. But she said briskly, I'll read it to you, Teddy boy. Here, give me the book. Chrissy read all the morning. The story was a long one. And Teddy was a while to know the end. He listened with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. And when Chrissy finished, he said, Oh, thank you ever so much. It was just splendid. I'll think about it all the afternoon and not be a bit lonesome. Chrissy promised to come again soon and read to him. Then she walked soberly home to dinner. She thought she had lost all chance of the jamboree. But when the twins came into dinner, neither of them had yet found a four-leafed clover. I'm afraid the fairy queen forgot to make any this year, said Rachel sorrowfully. After dinner, back horried the determined twins. Chrissy stayed to help Aunt Mary with the dinner dishes, and then she too started for the field. In the yard, she met Nora Lee. Please, I've come to learn the song, said Nora shyly. Chrissy had met Nora in Sunday school, the preceding Sunday, and struck up a vast friendship with her. She had promised that if Nora came up to Mount Hope someday, she would teach her the loveliest new song she had learned in Sunday school at home. But she had not known Nora would come just when it was so necessary, she should be looking for four-leafed clovers. Come in, she said heartily. We'll go right at it. It was three o'clock before Nora had learned the song and gone home. Chrissy was tired and warm, but no twin had yet turned up with a four-leafed clover, and the jamboree was still to be won. As Chrissy went through the kitchen, Aunt Mary got up off the sofa with a sigh. Dear me, I must make a cake for the men's tea, and how my head does ache. For a moment Chrissy thought she couldn't. No, she couldn't. Then she did. Auntie, I'll make the cake, and you go and lie down. Oh yes, indeed you must. I can make plain cake splendidly, and I like doing it. You are the greatest little help that ever was, Chrissy, said Aunt Mary gratefully. I believe I'll have to let you. I can hardly hold my head up. I'll go and lie down upstairs. Chrissy lighted a fire, put on an apron, mixed the cake, and baked it. Uncle Jacob looked in at the window once, and saw her. Well, well, well, he said to himself. Then tea time came, and when the twins came into tea, low and behold, neither of them had yet found a four-leafed clover, but they were determined that they would. Chrissy made her third start for the clover meadow, but she saw Aunt Mary, who hadn't eaten anything at tea, and who had a little wrinkle of pain between her eyebrows, packing a basket in the pantry. Where are you going with that basket, Auntie? said Chrissy. I don't think you ought to be up at all. Please go and lie down. I must take this basket of eatables down to old Aunt Sally, said Aunt Mary. She's very poor, and I fear she's out of provisions. I forgot about it before, so I mustn't put it off any longer. I'll take it down to Aunt Sally, said Chrissy. Child, I'm afraid you are too tired. You've been running my errands all day, Chrissy. That is what nine-year-old Lecture 4, said Chrissy, laughing. I'm not a bit tired, and I haven't a headache. Uncle Jacob saw Chrissy starting off with her basket, and he said, well, well, well. It was nearly dark when Chrissy got back. She was tired, and her face was a wee bit sober, for she knew it was too late now to look for lucky clovers. The dew was falling, and Aunt Mary never let them stay out after dewfall. Then Chrissy just happened to look down, and there at her feet was a big clump of clover. She bent over it and gave a joyful little cry. Right under her hand were three four-leaved clovers, such big, luxuriant clovers, that they must have cost the fairy queen some economical twingers. Chrissy picked the clovers, and her feet went twinkling up the lane, forgetting all about being tired. Uncle Jacob was sitting on the veranda, and the twins were there too, rather tired and cross. Oh, girls, gasped Chrissy, did you find any four-leaved clovers? I found three. See there now, said Uncle Jacob. I expected you would. It's an odd thing. I forgot to comment on this before, that the folks who go looking for four-leaved clovers hardly ever seem to find them. It's the folks who go about doing little duties and kindnesses and thinking about other people that find the luck. Well, Chrissy, we'll have the jamboreen, sure enough. Chrissy looked at the twins' disappointed faces. Please, Uncle Jacob, she said timidly, can Rachel and Bernice go too? You see, I found three clovers. So you did, so you did. That's always the way. People like you find so much luck that it spills over into other people's laps, even when they don't deserve it. Yes, we'll take the twins too. Now run up to bed and get your beauty sleep for tomorrow. And that night, they all dreamed again of finding four-leaved clovers. But Chrissy slept with hers under her pillow. End of Section 61. The mellow sunshine was sifting in through the vines, about the little kitchen window, and making a mosaic of dusty gold on the spotless floor and white-washed walls. A white monthly rose was a bloom on the sill, and an old-fashioned blue bowl on the dresser was filled with yellow hollyhocks. William Massie was sitting on the sofa, talking to his mother and brother. He was a handsome, prosperous-looking man of about 45. There was a marked contrast between him and Benjamin Massie. The latter, though in reality five years younger, looked as much older. He was a tall, stooped man, with kindly brown eyes and a care-worn expression. Grandma Massie was sitting by the window. She was a tiny scrap of a woman, with a thin sweet face and snow-white hair. Her brown eyes went from one son to the other, with wistful, wordless questioning. Her thin, knotted hands, folded on the table beside her, trembled fitfully. William had been speaking, kindly and affectionately, but with the quiet decision of the experienced man of business. You can't stay here by yourself alone any longer, mother. That is impossible. Benjamin has a large family, and his house is small. I don't think you would be contented there after being used to a quiet life so long. So we have decided that you will make your home with me after this. Benjamin and I have talked it over, and he agrees with me that it will be the best thing to do. You've worked hard all your life, and it is time you had a rest now. You can always come home every summer for a long visit. Edith and the girls will be delighted to have you, and we will do everything in our power to make you happy and comfortable. He paused, as if expecting an answer, but no one spoke. Benjamin looked steadily at the floor. Grandma Massey put a trembling hand under the rose, and drew the blossom up to her face caressingly. All her life she had given in unresistingly to the will of her husband and her sons. It never occurred to her to dispute their decisions. Since Benjamin and William had arranged it all, it must be so. But after they had gone out together, she laid her head in her hands and wept bitterly. The cat gravely walked over to her and jumped into her lap. Rubbing its head against her arm, she stroked it with her trembling fingers. Oh kitten, I've got to go away and leave you and everything. My hands and flowers and all, and it breaks my old heart to think of it. I've been so happy here all my life. I doesn't say anything, because William is so good to me. I must do as he wishes. And Benjamin has hard enough to get along with the family he has now. But I wouldn't cost him much. I don't eat much, nowhere out many clothes. But he thinks it is better for me to go. I suppose it is. The boys know best. They're both good sons to me, and William's wife is a nice woman. I must try to be grateful to them all, but I can't help feeling dreadful bad, kitten. William Massey was not in the habit of wasting time when he had once decided on a course of action. He was a wealthy merchant in a neighboring city, and his business rendered a speedy return imperative. The slower country folk were almost bewildered by his swiftness. In a few days all was ready. The little old farmhouse stripped and nailed up. The old fashioned household goods sold or scattered. The old mother's little trunk packed with her few worldly possessions. When the day came on, which they were to go, she rose early and slipped away from Benjamin's house, across the field to her own garden. Benjamin found her there half an hour later, wandering wistfully around among its unwordly sweetnesses. I wanted to take a posy away with me, Benjamin, just to remember my garden by. Everything's so sweet here, ain't it? They don't have old fashioned flowers like this in town. There's a southern wood your father planted right by the steps when we were married. And then white rose bushes is the ones your little sister set out the very spring she died, Benjamin. I always thought of her when they bloomed. And here's a daily lease you and William planted the last summer you were both home together. Do you mind? You were just little boys. Her voice died away in a furtive sob. She hastily turned her face. She must not let Benjamin see her cry. It might worry him if he knew she felt so bad about going away. Benjamin looked embarrassed. He was a silent reserved man, and speech came hard to him. Mother? He said awkwardly. If you shouldn't like living in the city, you know you can always come back to us. We'd always be glad to have you. She looked up with a sudden timid resolution in her face. But before she could speak, William joined them and her opportunity was gone. An hour later, they were on the train. William Massey's house was a handsome one on a fashionable street, and his wife and his two daughters welcomed grandma with unaffected kindness and cordiality. But the simple country soul, unaccustomed to the splendor that surrounded her, felt pitifully insignificant and out of place. It was impossible to adapt herself to her new environment, although she struggled to do so and to prevent her small individuality from being entirely sapped out of her amid the bewildering sensations of her new life. William's wife, a brilliant society leader, was a thoroughly kind-hearted woman. She welcomed her husband's mother sincerely and spared no pains to make her happy and contented. The most beautiful and luxurious room in the house was given her. The most delicate courtesy and attentions accorded her. All her little wishes and preferences consulted in every particular. Nevertheless, Mrs. William, naturally enough, could find and give little real companionship in her intercourse with her mother-in-law. There was absolutely nothing in common between them, and the older woman longed for her other daughter-in-law, Benjamin's wife, who could talk to her of the things in which they both had an interest, and whom she could have assisted in a hundred little ways, consoling to her innocent vanity. She could not help feeling in awe of William's stylish wife, even while she approached herself for it. William's daughters, two pretty, precocious misses of 14 and 16, respectively, seemed like strangers to her. She felt in a way afraid of them. Helen and Christine were merry, good-hearted schoolgirls, ever ready to wait on grandmama and contribute to her pleasure. Nevertheless, Grandma Massey pined for her other grandchildren, Benjamin's son-burned, barefooted boys and girls, who had been wont to swarm at Will through the old farmhouse, preferring it to their own home, and play hide and seek in the orchard, and be fed at all hours with plum buns and cookies and all sorts of grandmotherly goodies. They had filled her heart with their own warm young life, and it grew cold for the want of them. She missed her garden and her flowers. William, remembering her old love for them, had a florist send her fresh ones every day, gorgeous hot house exotics that were revelations of beauty and fragrance. They pleased her in a way. But, although she never said so, nothing could replace the homely blossoms she had known and loved all her life, the crimson hollyhocks and poppies, the cabbage roses and daisies, and ribbon grass that she had planted and tended with her own hands. She missed her old occupations and duties. There was nothing for her to do in this big house with its numerous servants. She was not even allowed in mistaken kindness to wait on herself. Mades were at her back and call. Helen and Christine anticipated every want. William and Edith insisted that she must take things easy now, forgetting that when a woman has been accustomed to constant occupation for seventy years, the lesson of taking it easy is a hard one to learn, sometimes an impossible one. She had nothing to do. Books did not interest her. She wanted to be mending and patching, knitting children's mittens and stockings, things that were never heard of there. She wanted her cows and hens and cats, all the living creatures of the farm that had been part of her life so long. She wanted her own old room, with its bare floor and stained walls, and the low, uncurtained window, where the splendor of the sunrise came in. William Massie, to do him justice, never for a moment suspected that his mother was not happy. He was a very busy man, and having done, as he thought, all in his power to make life pleasant for her, he was satisfied. Now and then he noticed that she looked thinner and more worn than of yore. But that was only to be expected. Mother was getting old. In the nature of things, they could not expect to have her with them very much longer. He guessed nothing of her homesickness and loneliness. It was another of her trials that she had no one to talk to. William seemed wrapped away from her in the multiplicity of his business affairs. He was not half so near to her as when there had been a hundred miles between them. Mrs. William and her daughters and her numerous fashion plate callers could talk of new books and music and pictures and plays and fads and functions and a hundred other things that were Greek to Grandma Massie, but they could not talk to her of what she understood. I couldn't have been lonesomer if I was stranded on a desert island, she said pathetically to herself. Her only comforts were her home letters. Benjamin's eldest daughter, Tessie, a girl of fifteen, wrote every week, and the letters were full of home news and bits of gossip and messages from old friends, sometimes clippings from the village paper or pressed flowers from her old garden or a blotted and ill-spelled note from one of the younger children were enclosed. How Grandma Massie treasured those letters and read and reread them until they fairly dropped to pieces in the folds. The long winter went slowly by. When spring came and the grass in the city squares grew green and the buds burst on the chestnuts, her homesick longing grew so overpowering that she ventured to ask William tremulously if he wouldn't take her home for a visit. William, still unobservant, did not consider it wise. Why, Mother, it wouldn't do for you to go down to the country as early as this. You wouldn't enjoy it yet. It's all wet and muddy out there now. And Benjamin and Mary will be busy planting and house cleaning. Besides, I'm rather too busy to take you down just now, and you couldn't go alone. Wait until July or August. Grandma Massie said no more. Her life seemed to be drying up within her. Her heart was starred for a glimpse of the places she had known and loved all her life. At the close of May came a tear-spotted letter from Tessie. Her mother was ill. There was a new baby at the farmhouse, and Bobby and Nelly were laid up with a chickenpox. I do wish you were here, Grandma. Not to work, of course, but just to tell me what to do. I feel kind of lost and helpless, and Mother mustn't be worried about things, and we can't get any help. Can't she get Uncle William to bring you down? Mother is kind of pining to see you, and maybe she'd get better faster if you were here. Grandma Massie was alone in the big uptown house when Tessie's letter came. The girls were out, and Mrs. William was visiting friends in another city. William was away and would not be back till late. Grandma laid down Tessie's hurried note and meditated. Her heart thrilled at the thought of being of some use yet. There were people in the world who needed her, after all. If she were home, she could do so much, nurse Mary and the children, and cheer up Benjamin and help poor bewildered Tessie. She must go. It would be of no use to appeal to William. He would only be indignant at the idea of her going to wait on sick folks. A cunning light came into the gentle faded eyes. With an almost stealthy step, she went to her own room. From the closet she took her old carpet bag and swiftly packed it with a few necessities. She had a little money in her purse, enough to take her home. Grandma Massie meant to run away. It would not do to go without leaving some word. They would be alarmed at her disappearance. She got a bit of paper and wrote chakily, My dearest son, I have had a letter from Tessie, and the children and Mary is sick and they want me, so I'm going. Please don't be cross at me. You and Edith have been so good to me, and I'm grateful to you. You have been a good son, William, but I'm awful home sick. I guess when I get home, it won't be worth my while to come back. I'm getting old to be moving round much. Ben will look after me. Mother. This she put on the pin cushion on her table. Then she crept noiselessly downstairs and out of doors. She might have ordered the carriage, but she was terribly in awe of the dashing coachman. Besides, she was afraid that she might be prevented. The dusk was falling outside, but her desperate courage did not fail her. She asked the policeman at the corner to call a cab for her, but when she got out in the quivering blue electric glare of the station, amid hurrying swarms of comers and goers, she felt bewildered and caught blindly at the cabman's arm. Oh, she gasped tremulously. I'm so scared. Where shall I get my ticket, and which is my train? Fortunately for Grandma Massey, this particular cabbie had a tender heart, and he also had an old mother away, back among the country hills, who looked a little like his passenger. So although it was not in his line of business at all, he got Grandma Massey her ticket and put her on the right train. Thank you, she said joyfully. I'd never have managed it alone. You're a really kind young man. When the train started, she began to realize that she was really homeward bound. Her spirits rose. She felt a secret exaltation of her own boldness in starting off so. She was not so old and helpless after all. Then her thoughts went out ahead of her and pictured getting home. It was a long, worrisome night, but when morning came, Grandma Massey, with her eager face pressed close to the car window, recognized a place she knew. There is Henry Newbold's place I do declare, she exclaimed aloud, much to the amusement of the other passengers. And if he hasn't been and built a new end on to the house, I'm just sure and certain he didn't need it. It's a second wife's doings, I suppose. She was always a high-stepping creature. She'll make Henry's money fly. And there's a corner source away down in the hollow and all the trees out in bloom. Look at them cherry trees in Jesse Wright's garden. My, how green the fields are. I just feel as if I'd never get my feel of looking at them. When the train stopped at the little well-known station, there were plenty to help her off. The station master shook her hand heartily. Bless if it ain't Grandma Massey. How do you do? How do you do? Come down to visit your folks, I suppose. You never come all alone. Well, well, I was said you were the smartest woman in the state, age or no age. I guess Ben's folks will be powerful glad to see you. They've been having a tough time of it lately. There is Will Finley with his express. He'll take you right to the door. Oh no, I want to walk. Said Grandma eagerly. It ain't far across the fields, you know. He can take my satchel long, but I'll walk. I haven't had a walk since I left here. Nothing but driving. I'm tired of it. Her heart was almost bursting with joy as she struck across the green fields. The sun was rising and all the basins among the hills were brimming with golden and emerald light. The pond in old Abe Henberry's field was a glow with a shimmer of fairy tints. The skies over her were blue. The birds were singing. She could not see Benjamin's place or her old home, but she knew that when she came to the brow of the hill, they would flash out below. She could have knelt and rapture as she climbed the fence into the old brook meadow with a spring bubbled up under its sentinel pines. Two calves came frisking across the ferny slope with liquid mischief in their soft eyes. The wild cherry trees in the corners were creamy with feathery bloom. At her feet she saw some delicate blue violets hiding in the lush grasses. Everything seemed to be welcoming her back. Yes, she belonged here. Slowly and with frequent pauses for rest, the little bent figure toiled up the slope. At its top she paused the gaze eagerly down. Below she saw her old home and Benjamin's newer house nestled in the green hollow, half hidden behind bloom white apple trees. A fragrant wind stirred in the valley and drifted up to her. A divine light came into the tire and old face. Benjamin Massey, going out to milk the cows with a wearier look than usual on his face, met his mother coming in through the little sagging gait under the sibilant poplars. Why mother? Mother! He said it twice, the first time in a tone of startled amaze, the second with heartfelt joy. Oh, Benjamin, she said, catching at his arm with tears of delight in her eyes. Oh, Benjamin, I've come home. End of Section 62 Section 63 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 Lauren Peterson, Apothecary Audio. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. The Punishment of the Twins 1 Billy Carr, nobody but gradient Jane ever called him William, was waiting in the hall for Priscilla. He was ready for Sunday School. He had a scent in one pocket for the Sunday School collection. He carried his Bible in one hand and his Sunday School quarterly in the other. He knew his lesson and his golden text and the catechism question. Had he not studied them perfect the whole proceeding Sunday afternoon? Billy, therefore, should have been in a placid frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism, he was inwardly as a ravening wolf. A defiant scowl darkened his brow as he muttered, I hate Sunday here. Billy glanced around in terror after his outburst. Suppose the floor opened and swallowed him up for his wickedness. Or worse still, suppose Aunt Jane heard him. But nothing happened. And after a moment Billy went on, finding a certain relief in uttering his stormy thoughts. I hate going to Sunday School in Meadowby Worson Castor Oil, and I hate going to church in Meadowby Worson Poison, and I hate right now to synopsis Worson them both. The stairs creaked and Billy's heart quaked within him. Nobody appeared, but Billy thought he had had a narrow escape, and he buttoned the rest of his rebellious feelings tightly up in his soul. Certain things might be disagreeable, and a fellow might have his own private opinions concerning them. But a two-month sojourn in Aunt Jane's household had convinced Billy that it was safer to keep said private opinions to himself. Aunt Jane did not believe in liberty of thought, and you did not get any pudding for dinner, or anything but plain bread and milk for your tea if you persisted in claiming it. As for liberty of action, the very cat in the kitchen would have grinned at you and scorn if you mentioned it. Presently Aunt Jane did come down the stairs, leading Priscilla by the hand. Billy glared up at both as they came. He thought he had never seen Aunt Jane grimmer, or Priscilla more like the picture of the angel in the chromo over the parlor mantelpiece. Priscilla was garbed in spotless white, crisp and fluted and ruffled. She had on white silk gloves and a lingerie hat. Her golden hair hung in a deep long fleece to her waist, and her eyes were blue and limpid and innocent. A cherubic expression wreathed her delicate spiritual face. Priscilla's appearance always confused Billy's theology terribly. He could not understand how anybody could look so like an angel on the outside and be the very well the very opposite inside. Billy knew that the more saintly Priscilla looked, the worse as a rule she was feeling. She must be mad clear through just now, he reflected. Aunt Jane surveyed the twins over her spectacles with her usual frown. Now be sure you are good children, she warned them. I can't go to church this morning because my rheumatism is troubling me. But I expect you to behave yourselves properly in every respect. Don't walk in the dust. Don't stop in the porch to talk to the other children. Don't squirm or wriggle in your places. Don't whisper. Don't forget your golden texts. Don't forget to put in your collection. And don't forget to pay a special attention to the sermon. I shall expect you both to write out a synopsis of it as usual this afternoon. And I want to see a better result than I had last Sunday. Billy watched Priscilla's face with a fascinated gaze as they went down the garden path. At the gate Priscilla put her quarterly up before her and twisted her countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Billy, although he knew her gifts in this respect, was honestly alarmed that she would never in the world be able to get it straightened out again. When the quarterly went down, however, there was Priscilla looking as meek and saintly as before, and she comported herself with dignity as far along the road as was within view of Aunt Jane. Billy said nothing but held his breath in a not unpleasant suspense. He knew something was coming, and as soon as they had turned the corner of the Spruce Grove it came. Not in words at first, however. Words were too weak a vehicle of expression just then for Priscilla's stormy soul. In grim, deliberate silence, she stepped off the green grass of the roadside, ankle deep into the fine dust that four weeks of rainless weather had made on the road, and marched along in it, shuffling her feet viciously until she was enveloped in a hazy cloud. Billy watched her delightedly. He would never have dared to do it himself, but it was splendid to see Priscilla doing it. Finally, when she was dust from head to foot, Priscilla came back to the grass. That's the beginning, she exploded triumphantly, and I'm going to stop in the porch and talk as long as there is anybody to talk to. I'm going to squirm and wriggle and whisper. I'm going to say I don't know the golden text, and I'm going to throw away both of my collections right now. And Priscilla hurled scent and dime over Jacob Miller's fence with a fierce gesture. Oh, breathed Billy, partly in horror, partly in admiration. And are you going to write the synopsis? I suppose I'll have to, conceded Priscilla gloomily, because if I don't, I daresay Aunt Jane would keep me shut up until I did. I used to love going to church at home, but how can anybody like it here when you have to write a synopsis? Isn't it bad enough to be shut up all the week and kept at lessons just as if it wasn't vacation and never allowed to play with a single soul without having to spend all Sunday afternoon writing a synopsis? It's a darn shame. Oh, Priscilla, don't swear, said Billy, rather shocked but still admiring. Darned isn't swearing, and I don't care much if it should be, said Priscilla recklessly. Aunt Jane will drive me to swearing and write good earnest yet, Billy Carr. I can't imagine why Father didn't send us to Aunt Nora's when she wanted us to go. And Aunt Nora is our own aunt, while Aunt Jane is only Father's aunt. Just think how splendid it would have been there. We wouldn't have to be respectable one minute, only on Sundays, and then it would have been really nice for a change. We could wear comfortable clothes and go barefoot, and fish, and slide down the sheephouse roof and eat anything that came handy. Think of Aunt Nora's little plum pies. Billy groaned. It was agonizing to hear Priscilla thus recounting the delights they might have enjoyed at Aunt Nora's and contrast them with the bitter realities at Aunt Jane's. Instead of which, Priscilla went on witheringly, we've got to wash our faces and brush our teeth four times a day and keep our toes in position and live on health foods. If I thought it would be a bit of use, I'd write to Father and ask him to let us go to Aunt Nora's yet. But I know he wouldn't. He'd be afraid of hurting Aunt Jane's feelings. Her feelings! She hasn't got any. 2. A piercing whoop broke in on Priscilla's wrathful speech. Looking up, Priscilla and Billy saw a row of Dixon's sitting on the board fence behind the Dixon house. Dave Dixon was there, and Pete Dixon, likewise Tommy and Adolphus Dixon. They were all freckle and snub-nosed, bare-headed and bare-footed. As for clothes, they had on no more than strict decency required. But they did look so jolly and carefree. The cockles of Priscilla's heart warmed to them, as she smiled radiantly at Dave, doubly incited there too by the fact that Aunt Jane would have been horrified if she had known it. Aunt Jane would not let Billy and Priscilla play with any of the Meadowby children, but she had sternly forbidden them even to speak to the Dixon's. Therefore, Billy and Priscilla had long hankered to do it. Dave lost his head under the dazzling influence of Priscilla's smile and could only grin sheepishly back. But Pete cheerfully demanded, Where are you going? Sunday school, said Billy briefly. We mostly goes to Sunday school too, said Pete, but Paul and Ma's away today, and Dave and me has to look after the baby and Tom and Adolphus can't go because there's nobody to dress him. So we're just going to stay home and have the rip-roaring time. We're going fishing. You'd better come too, said Dave, suddenly recovering his powers of speech. Billy sighed. Alluring as the prospect was, it was scarcely a temptation. So utterly out of the question was it. Fishing and such dear joys were for happy, irresponsible creatures like the Dixon's. As for him, he must tread the thorny path of respectability and synopsis. Thank you, we will, said Priscilla calmly. Billy's mouth fell open and stayed open, but no words came forth from it. He could not have heard right. The Dixon's thought so too, and stared like four graven images of amazement. We can't climb over that fence, so we'll have to go up the lane and in at the gate, Priscilla went on. You'd better beat us there because I'm afraid of your dog. The Dixon's, convinced, tumbled off the fence with a simultaneous shriek of exaltation, and could be heard scampering through the yard. Priscilla walked onward, head erect. Priscilla, you don't mean it, gasped Billy swayed betwixt hope and fear. I do mean it. I'm going to have a good time for once in Metabee. But won't Aunt Jane be furious? Of course she will. But what can she do? She doesn't believe in whipping children, and I'm very sure, with Superlative Scorn, we haven't any pleasures she can take from us. She'll likely give us no dinner and send us to bed, but that won't be any worse than writing a synopsis. I'm going anyhow. I haven't had a spark of fun all summer. But there's a chance for it now. We couldn't get home from church until half past one, so we have four hours to celebrate. Yes, I'm going. You can come or not, just as you please. Oh, I'll come, of course," said Billy, resignedly. Secretly he felt a fearful joy. Priscilla's courage infected him, and he cast dread and conscience to the wind. I suppose it is wrong, said Priscilla. But I'm tired of being good. I've had to be good so long that there's an awful lot of wickedness bottled up in me. At home it's used to dribble away a little every day, so it wasn't very noticeable. But now it's got to come all at once, or I shall burst. Now, Billy, you take my advice and go into this thing with all your heart if you go at all. There's no use being bad if you spoil your fun by wishing you were good all the time. We'll have to repent afterwards, I suppose, but there's no use in mixing the two things together. Dave had the gate wide open when they reached it, and the four Dixon's stood behind it in an admiring line as Priscilla and Billy marched through. The Dixon dog was sitting peaceably on one side, and the Dixon baby was wallowing delightedly in a dust pie on the other. The yard was full of splendid possibilities, as Priscilla saw at a glance. Where are you going fishing? she demanded. Down at the brook. It's just below that bush, responded Dave. But it's awful muddy down there. You'll spoil your clothes. You don't suppose we're going fishing in these clothes, do you? said Priscilla scornfully. You must lend us some of yours. The four Dixon's gasped. Tommy and Adolphus giggled, but Dave scowled at them so furiously that they stopped at once and looked preternaturally solemn instead. We—we can lend Billy some, of course, said Dave doubtfully, but there ain't any girls in our family, and Ma's dresses would be too big for you. What's the matter with some of yours? said Priscilla calmly. You've got some besides what you have on, haven't you? Dave whistled. Then he rose to the situation. Oh, of course. You can have a suit of peats. I guess mine would be too big. Billy can have mine. Come into the house. Dave led the way into the Dixon kitchen and dived into the small bedroom off of it. Reappearing presently he gave Priscilla to understand that a suit of peats was laid out on the bed and she might go in and don it. Billy and us will go up to the loft and change there, he said. Three. When the boys came down from the loft, Priscilla was waiting for them. She wore peat's trousers and she had discarded boots and stockings and lingerie hat. Peat's jacket was buttoned up to her neck and her golden hair fell over it. Dave surveyed her admiringly. You look just as pretty in those things as in dresses, he said. Priscilla put her hands in peat's pockets and tossed her head. I'm very comfortable in them and that's the main thing, she said. You boys don't know how well off you are, never having to fuss with skirt and frills. Billy, don't you just wish Aunt Jane could see me now? Well, we mustn't waste any time. We've only got four hours and I'm bound to make the most of them. If we're going fishing, what's the first thing to be done? Go out behind the hen house and dig wombs, said Peat blithely. Oh! it was a little shriek that came from Priscilla. Sex has its limitations after all. Priscilla could wear masculine garments undauntedly, but her feminine soul recoiled from worms. I can't dig them. Billy, you'll have to dig mine. I'll dig them for you, said Dave gallantly, and I'll put them on the hook for you, too. Oh! thank you, said Priscilla gratefully. I'll look after the baby while you're digging them. When enough worms had been dug, Dave announced that they would have to draw lots to see who would take charge of the baby. Why can't you leave him here, said Priscilla? Would he cry? No, he never cries, said Peat, but he's a terrible crawler and he'd be sure to get into mischief if we left him. He crawled into the pig-pin the other day, and next day he nearly fell down the well. If he won't cry, why don't you put him in the hen-coop? said Priscilla. Dave and Peat looked at each other in speechless admiration of this clever girl. Often they had tried to devise some safe disposal of the baby, but no such brilliant idea as this had ever dawned upon them. With a shout, Peat pounced on the hen-coop and turned out the brooding hen Mrs. Dixon had incarcerated therein. The next minute the Dixon baby was shut in it, laughing and gurgling with delight. That's a bully place, said Dave rapturously. He'll get lots of fresh air, and he can see plenty to amuse him and nothing can get at him. If he does yell a bit, it won't hurt him. Come on, now. A glorious two hours of sport followed, fishing, wading, paddling, jumping. Priscilla might not be able to put worms on her hook, but she could catch fish after they were put on. She was high-lined when they stopped, and as for jumping the brook, none of them could compare with her. Billy himself was surprised at her prowess. When the possibilities of the brook were exhausted, they trooped back to the yard where the baby was fast asleep in the hen-coop. They had a hilarious game of tag, and then they all climbed to the top of the barn roof and cut their names on the ridge pole. A flat roof stable and a huge straw pen beneath it gave Priscilla another exhilarating idea, and they spent a splendid hour climbing to the stable roof and diving off it into the straw below. Up to this point all had been peace and goodwill. Now trouble brood. Dave had taken Billy around to the barn to show him a pet calf when their conference was unpleasantly interrupted by the breathless arrival of Adolphus, who burst into the barn gasping. Oh, Pete and Priscilla's fighting, and she's killing Pete, and come quick and stop her! Dave and Billy set off at full speed for the straw pen. In the center were the combatants writhing to and fro in anything but loving embrace. If the battle had, according to Adolphus, been going in Priscilla's favor, the tide turned with the arrival of Billy and Dave. For just as they burst into the pen, Pete got his hands on Priscilla's curls and yanked them mercilessly. Priscilla's shriek wakened the echoes. Dave and Billy hurled themselves into the melee. Billy flung his arms around his sister and dragged her back. But Dave, with one vindictive blow, sent the unhappy Pete sprawling, and then stood over him threateningly. You're a beauty, oh, ain't you? said Dave fiercely. To be fighting with a lady and her visiting you? Oh, ain't you a nice one? She hit me first, bociferated Pete. He dropped a caterpillar down my neck, shrieked Priscilla. Oh, I'll settle you by and by, Pete Dixon, promised Dave. I only did it for fun, whimpered Pete. She was such a sport and everything else, I didn't suppose she'd mind that. You's poison, said Dave with withering scorn. Anyhow, I gave him a black eye, said Priscilla triumphantly. Oh, do remember what day it is? implored Billy in agony. That's so, agreed Priscilla. I dare say it isn't just the thing to be fighting on Sunday. You can let Pete up, Dave, and I'll forgive him. Harmony being thus restored, and Dave having somewhat reluctantly promised to forego vengeance on Pete, the next proposition was dinner. They all adjourned to the pantry. The Dixons might be very low down in the Meadowby social scale, but Mr. Dixon was a good provider, and his wife an excellent cook. The pantry was well stored with pies, cakes, and preserves. To the car twins, who had been nourished for two months on a strictly hygienic diet, it was as a feast of fat things, and they did it full justice. Priscilla pounced on a jar of pickles with a shriek of delight. I haven't had a pickle since I left home. Can I eat all these, Dave? Sure, said hospitable Dave, confident that those such a dose of pickles would probably kill an ordinary girl. Priscilla was perfectly safe since she was no ordinary girl. Priscilla ate those pickles straight, scorning all other vions. Ain't this bully, side Billy, ecstatically tucking away doughnuts. Aunt Jane says fried things ain't healthy. Priscilla, why are the nicest things never healthy? Hush, don't bother me, said Priscilla absently. With the last pickle poised forgotten on her fork, she was bending over a big book she had just discovered on a shelf. Billy craned his neck to see what it was, and was as much amazed as disgusted to find that it was a volume of sermons. Presently Priscilla looked up with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Dave, whose book is this? What? That? The Flying Roll? Oh, I guess it's Ma's. She bought it from a book agent two years ago, and Pa's been laughing at her ever since. He said there was two things sold in that affair, the book and Ma. Can I have the loan of it for a while? I'll be just as careful of it. Course, said Dave. Billy gasped. It was now time to go. Priscilla sorrowfully retreated into the bedroom, and came out white and frilled and angelic again. We've had a splendid day of it, and we'll come another time if ever Aunt Jane has Sunday rheumatism again. She promised, recklessly Billy thought, for it was unlikely Aunt Jane would trust them out of her sight the rest of the summer. Goodbye, boys. A bit of raw meat would be just the thing for your eye, Pete. You'd better wake the baby up and take him out of the coop, or he'll be sunburned in stripes. Come, Billy. On the road home, Priscilla drew a long regretful breath. Wasn't it jolly, Billy? I've always wanted to know if I was really able to fight with a boy, and now I know I can for sure. Of course, I've often licked you, but I was always scared you were just giving in to me because you thought it polite. Just think, if Father had let us go to Aunt Nora's, we could have fun like that all the week without having to break any of the commandments for it. And without having to settle up with Aunt Jane afterwards, said Billy mournfully. Aunt Jane isn't going to know a thing about it, said Priscilla triumphantly. I've got a plan, Billy. This flying rollbook is full of sermons. I struck a dandy one. I'm going to smuggle it into the house and we'll write a synopsis from it, and Aunt Jane will never know the difference. I don't think it's fair that you should have got all the brains in our family, Priscilla, said Billy, more admiringly than enviously when he had digested the idea. Well, you see, I had to have some advantages to make up for being a girl, said Priscilla. The way of those two transgressors seemed unscripturally easy. 3. Aunt Jane suspected nothing, and after dinner, if you think that they ate nothing, you are vastly mistaken. They were sent to the library to write the usual report of the sermon. Billy's opinion was that writing a synopsis with the printed sermon before you was a snap. When Aunt Jane came in, they were ready for her, and she took the unusually copious sheets with a grim smile. Alas, very speedily that smile was changed to a frown. Surely, surely Mr. Thorne never preached such stuff as this! What's the matter with it? Priscilla gasped. Matter? It's heresy! Rank heresy! Why, the man must be a second Adventist. I never read such doctrines! Aunt Jane rushed out of the room in burning indignation. What he is supposed was wrong, whispered Billy miserably. I'm sure I can't imagine, said Priscilla dejectedly. The text was out of the Bible all right enough, and goodness knows the sermon seemed awfully religious. It said all the wicked were to be burned up in a thousand years, too. What would you call Orthodox doctrine if that isn't? But never mind. Brightening up, it's Mr. Thorne she's angry with, not us. Maybe she'll forget all about it before she sees him. Alas for delusive hopes! Mr. Thorne, hearing of Miss Carr's rheumatic indisposition, called the very next afternoon, and was shown into the library where that excellent lady was drilling her charges in diction and spelling. Billy's cold hand reached over and clutched Priscilla's under the table. She'll be sure to pitch into him, and he'll say he didn't preach it, and it'll all come out. She'll be madder than if we had owned right up that we hadn't been to church. What'll we do? he whispered agitatedly. Hush! Sit still and say nothing, was Priscilla's advice. Miss Carr cut Mr. Thorne's suave inquiries after her health severely short. Yes, I was prevented from going to church, Mr. Thorne, and I very much regret it, for I should certainly not have allowed such doctrines as you preached yesterday to pass without a protest. I cannot express how amazed I am to discover that you hold such, and would dare to proclaim them in a Presbyterian pulpit. I—I don't understand you, Miss Carr, exclaimed the unfortunate young man. Will you deny that you made the statements contained in my grand niece's report of your sermon? Demanded Miss Carr. She produced the incriminating manuscript from the table drawer. Is the whole substance of your sermon expressed in the simple, if somewhat disconnected words of an innocent child? Mr. Thorne took the paper and glanced over it. His lips twitched a little. Then he raised his hand and looked across the room at the two scared, appealing faces, with guilt written on their every lineaments. Mr. Thorne had called at the Dixons before coming to Miss Carr's, and the putting of two and two together is by no means a hard arithmetical problem. He coolly folded up the synopsis and put it in his pocket. I—I am sorry I have incurred your displeasure, Miss Carr, he said solemnly. I—ahem—promise you that I shall never preach such a sermon again. That will not alter the fact that you hold such doctrine, said Miss Carr inexorably. I must tell you plainly that I can no longer countenance you as my minister, Mr. Thorne. In future you may spare yourself the trouble of calling here. Mr. Thorne rose. He was quite pale, and he did not glance at the children, but his voice was quiet and steady. I am sorry, Miss Carr, good afternoon, and bowed himself out. Aunt Jane watched him down the path grimly. That settles it, not another penny, do I pay to the salary fund as long as that man contaminates the Meadowby pulpit? She said decisively, as she went out. Ain't he a brick? He never told, whispered Billy exultantly, but Priscilla's face was white and tragic. A brick? He's a Christian, Billy Carr, and to think we've got him in such a scrape. Well, we can get him out again. What scrape? What difference does it make if Aunt Jane is mad at him? Billy Carr didn't you hear her say she wouldn't pay another cent to his salary? Don't you understand what that means? I know all about it. The church here is dreadfully weak. Aunt Jane pays as much as all the rest put together. If she stops, Mr. Thorne can't stay here. And he's going to marry that sweet Miss Sinclair. Dovey Nicholson told me so. If he has to leave here, goodness knows when he can be married. Billy Carr, we've just got to go and own up the whole thing to Aunt Jane. Oh, I'd never dare, protested Billy. If she'd ever have forgiven us for running away to play with the Dixons, she'll never forgive us for fooling her with a fake sermon and getting her into a fuss with the minister. Let things alone. Maybe she'll find out from someone else that he didn't preach it. She never will. You know she never associates with anybody in Meadowby. She'll just tell the collector that Mr. Thorne doesn't preach sound doctrine, and she won't condescend to explain anything about it. It's got to be done, Billy. I can't have the minister suffering for my faults. I'm going straight to her now. But you needn't come if you are scared. I'm scared. But I'm coming. You don't suppose I'm going to leave you to do it alone, do you? Said Billy, chivalrously. Four. Half an hour later the twins were sitting on the floor of an unfurnished upstairs room. The fatal interview was over, and it had not been a pleasant one to state it mildly. Aunt Jane had ordered them to the North Room, there to stay, until she had decided on their punishment. She also added that they had disgraced their father's name, and that it was a judgment on him for marrying beneath him. What do you suppose she'll do to us? said Billy. The subject had a gruesome fascination. I don't know, snapped Priscilla wrathfully, but I do know one thing she'd dearly love to whip us, if it wasn't against her principles. She'll likely keep us shut up here and feed us on bread and milk for a week. She hasn't enough imagination to invent anything else. Did you hear what she said about father? I guess our mother was ten times better than she is, and anyway she's dead, and I'm not going to stand having things said about her. I just gave Aunt Jane a look when she said that. It was nearly dark when Aunt Jane came to pass sentence on the culprits of the North Room. Billy tried to look as defiant as Priscilla did. Standing before them, a rigid figure of outraged majesty Aunt Jane pronounced the doom of fate. When your father was summoned abroad he talked of sending you to your Aunt Nora's. I did not feel like assuming the responsibility of your guidance and training but I considered it my duty to do so. I did it for your sakes. I knew you would be unhappy at your Aunt Nora's. She is a poor woman with a small house and a family of romping, inconsiderate children. Her scanty table and lack of conveniences would have seemed unbearable to you after the luxuries and dainty appointments to which you have been accustomed. I wished to save you from such discomforts. I was mistaken in this. You needed just such discipline to teach you to appreciate your blessings. I have reflected much concerning the punishment best suited to your scandalous conduct. It seemed to me that no ordinary measures would be severe enough. I have finally decided. Aunt Jane paused to give due weight to her decree. Billy and Priscilla held tight to each other. Billy was quaking. What fiendish punishment had Aunt Jane devised? Even Priscilla lost a little of her dauntless bearing. I have decided, concluded Aunt Jane, to send you both straight way to your Aunt Nora's.