Rainbow Valley...................................................................................................................................................1

L.M. Montgomery ....................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. HOME AGAIN.................................................................................................................2

CHAPTER II. SHEER GOSSIP..............................................................................................................4

CHAPTER III. THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN.....................................................................................9

CHAPTER IV. THE MANSE CHILDREN..........................................................................................12

CHAPTER V. THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE............................................................................17

CHAPTER VI. MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE..............................................................................25

CHAPTER VII. A FISHY EPISODE ....................................................................................................28

CHAPTER VIII. MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES...........................................................................32

CHAPTER IX. UNA INTERVENES ....................................................................................................36

CHAPTER X. THE MANSE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE.......................................................................42

CHAPTER XI. A DREADFUL DISCOVERY .....................................................................................45

CHAPTER XII. AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE........................................................................48

CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL ....................................................................................52

CHAPTER XIV. MRS. ALEC DAVIS MAKES A CALL ...................................................................56

CHAPTER XV. MORE GOSSIP..........................................................................................................60

CHAPTER XVI. TIT FOR TAT...........................................................................................................64

CHAPTER XVII. A DOUBLE VICTORY ...........................................................................................71

CHAPTER XVIII. MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS ..........................................................................76

CHAPTER XIX. POOR ADAM! ..........................................................................................................79

CHAPTER XX. FAITH MAKES A FRIEND......................................................................................81

CHAPTER XXI. THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD ......................................................................................84

CHAPTER XXII. ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL ABOUT IT ...............................................................88

CHAPTER XXIII. THE GOODCONDUCT CLUB ...........................................................................91

CHAPTER XXIV. A CHARITABLE IMPULSE .................................................................................98

CHAPTER XXV. ANOTHER SCANDAL AND ANOTHER "EXPLANATION"..........................101

CHAPTER XXVI. MISS CORNELIA GETS A NEW POINT OF VIEW........................................105

CHAPTER XXVII. A SACRED CONCERT ......................................................................................108

CHAPTER XXVIII. A FAST DAY....................................................................................................110

CHAPTER XXIX. A WEIRD TALE..................................................................................................112

CHAPTER XXX. THE GHOST ON THE DYKE ..............................................................................114

CHAPTER XXXI. CARL DOES PENANCE .....................................................................................117

CHAPTER XXXII. TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE ..............................................................................119

CHAPTER XXXIII. CARL IS-NOT-WHIPPED ................................................................................123

CHAPTER XXXIV. UNA VISITS THE HILL..................................................................................125

CHAPTER XXXV. "LET THE PIPER COME" .................................................................................129

IT was a clear, applegreen evening in May, and Four Winds Harbour was mirroring back the clouds of the

golden west between its softly dark shores. The sea moaned eerily on the sandbar, sorrowful even in spring,

but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the red harbour road along which Miss Cornelia's comfortable,

matronly figure was making its way towards the village of Glen St. Mary. Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs.

Marshall Elliott, and had been Mrs. Marshall Elliott for thirteen years, but even yet more people referred to

her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs. Elliott. The old name was dear to her old friends, only one of them

contemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithful handmaiden of the Blythe family at

Ingleside, never lost an opportunity of calling her "Mrs. Marshall Elliott," with the most killing and pointed

emphasis, as if to say "You wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs. you shall be with a vengeance as far as I am

Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, who were just home from Europe. They

had been away for three months, having left in February to attend a famous medical congress in London; and

certain things, which Miss Cornelia was anxious to discuss, had taken place in the Glen during their absence.

For one thing, there was a new family in the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook her head over

Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at Ingleside,

enjoying the charm of the cat's light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and

the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn.

Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk, as girlish as a

mother of many has any right to be; and the beautiful graygreen eyes, gazing down the harbour road, were

as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream as ever. Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, a

fat, rolypoly little creature of six years, the youngest of the Ingleside children. She had curly red hair and

hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkled fashion in which Rilla always went to sleep.

Shirley, "the little brown boy," as he was known in the family "Who's Who," was asleep in Susan's arms. He

was brownhaired, browneyed and brownskinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan's especial

love. After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, and Susan "mothered" the baby with a passionate

tenderness which none of the other children, dear as they were to her, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe had said

"I gave him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan was wont to say. "He is just as much my baby

as he is yours." And, indeed, it was always to Susan that Shirley ran, to be kissed for bumps, and rocked to

sleep, and protected from welldeserved spankings. Susan had conscientiously spanked all the other Blythe

children when she thought they needed it for their souls' good, but she would not spank Shirley nor allow his

mother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him and Susan had been stormily indignant.

"That man would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr. dear, that he would," she had declared bitterly; and she would not

She had taken Shirley with her to her brother's home during his parents' absence, while all the other children

had gone to Avonlea, and she had three blessed months of him all to herself. Nevertheless, Susan was very

glad to find herself back at Ingleside, with all her darlings around her again. Ingleside was her world and in it

she reigned supreme. Even Anne seldom questioned her decisions, much to the disgust of Mrs. Rachel Lynde

of Green Gables, who gloomily told Anne, whenever she visited Four Winds, that she was letting Susan get

"Here is Cornelia Bryant coming up the harbour road, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "She will be coming up to

"I hope so," said Anne, hugging her knees. "I'm starving for Glen St. Mary gossip, Susan. I hope Miss

Cornelia can tell me everything that has happened while we've been away-everything-who has got born, or

married, or drunk; who has died, or gone away, or come, or fought, or lost a cow, or found a beau. It's so

delightful to be home again with all the dear Glen folks, and I want to know all about them. Why, I remember

wondering, as I walked through Westminster Abbey which of her two especial beaux Millicent Drew would

finally marry. Do you know, Susan, I have a dreadful suspicion that I love gossip."

"Well, of course, Mrs. Dr. dear," admitted Susan, "every proper woman likes to hear the news. I am rather

interested in Millicent Drew's case myself. I never had a beau, much less two, and I do not mind now, for

being an old maid does not hurt when you get used to it. Millicent's hair always looks to me as if she had

"That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The Good Book says that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, but I

should not have minded finding that out for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we will all be

beautiful when we are angels, but what good will it do us then? Speaking of gossip, however, they do say that

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. She did not succeed. But I really do not blame her for trying, for her husband

is a terrible man. But she was very foolish to think of hanging herself and leaving the way clear for him to

marry some other woman. If I had been in her shoes, Mrs. Dr. dear, I would have gone to work to worry him

so that he would try to hang himself instead of me. Not that I hold with people hanging themselves under any

"What is the matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?" said Anne impatiently. "He is always driving some one

"Well, some people call it religion and some call it cussedness, begging your pardon, Mrs. Dr. dear, for using

such a word. It seems they cannot make out which it is in Harrison's case. There are days when he growls at

everybody because he thinks he is foreordained to eternal punishment. And then there are days when he

says he does not care and goes and gets drunk. My own opinion is that he is not sound in his intellect, for

none of that branch of the Millers were. His grandfather went out of his mind. He thought he was surrounded

by big black spiders. They crawled over him and floated in the air about him. I hope I shall never go insane,

Mrs. Dr. dear, and I do not think I will, because it is not a habit of the Bakers. But, if an allwise Providence

should decree it, I hope it will not take the form of big black spiders, for I loathe the animals. As for Mrs.

Miller, I do not know whether she really deserves pity or not. There are some who say she just married

Harrison to spite Richard Taylor, which seems to me a very peculiar reason for getting married. But then, of

course, I am no judge of things matriomonial, Mrs. Dr. dear. And there is Cornelia Bryant at the gate, so I

"WHERE are the other children?" asked Miss Cornelia, when the first greetings-cordial on her side, rapturous

"Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down in their beloved Rainbow Valley," said Anne.

"They just came home this afternoon, you know, and they could hardly wait until supper was over before

rushing down to the valley. They love it above every spot on earth. Even the maple grove doesn't rival it in

"I am afraid they love it too well," said Susan gloomily. "Little Jem said once he would rather go to Rainbow

"Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, in particular, can do no wrong in her eyes."

"Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now," said Miss Cornelia, getting out her knitting, so that she could hold

her own with Susan. Miss Cornelia held that the woman whose hands were employed always had the

"Marilla is eightyfive," said Anne with a sigh. "Her hair is snowwhite. But, strange to say, her eyesight is

"Well, dearie, I'm real glad you're all back. I've been dreadful lonesome. But we haven't been dull in the Glen,

believe me. There hasn't been such an exciting spring in my time, as far as church matters go. We've got

"The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, resolved not to let Miss Cornelia tell all the

"Yes, he's nice enough if that were all," said the former. "He is very nice-and very learned-and very spiritual.

"Well, there's no doubt he is by far the best preacher we ever had in Glen St. Mary church," said Miss

Cornelia, veering a tack or two. "I suppose it is because he is so moony and absentminded that he never got

a town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful, believe me. Every one went mad about it-and his looks."

"He is very comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when all is said and done, I do like to see a welllooking man in the

"Besides," said Miss Cornelia, "we were anxious to get settled. And Mr. Meredith was the first candidate we

were all agreed on. Somebody had some objection to all the others. There was some talk of calling Mr.

Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, but somehow people didn't care for his appearance. He was too dark

"He looked exactly like a great black tomcat, that he did, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "I never could abide

"Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge-neither harm nor good," resumed Miss Cornelia.

"But if he had preached like Peter and Paul it would have profited him nothing, for that was the day old Caleb

Ramsay's sheep strayed into church and gave a loud 'baaa' just as he announced his text. Everybody

laughed, and poor Rogers had no chance after that. Some thought we ought to call Mr. Stewart, because he

"But I do not think he was any surer than other men of getting to heaven because of that," interjected Susan.

"Most of us didn't like his delivery," said Miss Cornelia, ignoring Susan. "He talked in grunts, so to speak.

And Mr. Arnett couldn't preach at all. And he picked about the worst candidating text there is in the

"Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible and shout very bitterly, 'Curse ye Meroz.' Poor

Meroz got thoroughly cursed that day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan.

"The minister who is candidating can't be too careful what text he chooses," said Miss Cornelia solemnly. "I

believe Mr. Pierson would have got the call if he had picked a different text. But when he announced 'I will

lift my eyes to the hills' he was done for. Every one grinned, for every one knew that those two Hill girls from

the Harbour Head have been setting their caps for every single minister who came to the Glen for the last

"He stayed with my brotherinlaw, James Clow," said Susan. " 'How many children have you got?' I asked

him. 'Nine boys and a sister for each of them,' he said. 'Eighteen!' said I. 'Dear me, what a family!' And then

he laughed and laughed. But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am certain that eighteen children would

"He had only ten children, Susan," explained Miss Cornelia, with contemptuous patience. "And ten good

children would not be much worse for the manse and congregation than the four who are there now. Though I

wouldn't say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I like them-everybody likes them. It's impossible to

help liking them. They would be real nice little souls if there was anyone to look after their manners and

teach them what is right and proper. For instance, at school the teacher says they are model children. But at

"There's no Mrs. Meredith. That is just the trouble. Mr. Meredith is a widower. His wife died four years ago.

If we had known that I don't suppose we would have called him, for a widower is even worse in a

congregation than a single man. But he was heard to speak of his children and we all supposed there was a

mother, too. And when they came there was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She's a cousin of

Mr. Meredith's mother, I believe, and he took her in to save her from the poorhouse. She is seventyfive

"The worst possible manager for a manse," said Miss Cornelia bitterly. "Mr. Meredith won't get any other

housekeeper because he says it would hurt Aunt Martha's feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state of that

manse is something terrible. Everything is thick with dust and nothing is ever in its place. And we had

"There are four children, you say?" asked Anne, beginning to mother them already in her heart.

"Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald's the oldest. He's twelve and they call him Jerry. He's a

clever boy. Faith is eleven. She is a regular tomboy but pretty as a picture, I must say."

"She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for mischief, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan solemnly. "I was at

the manse one night last week and Mrs. James Millison was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen eggs

and a little pail of milk-a very little pail, Mrs. Dr. dear. Faith took them and whisked down the cellar with

them. Near the bottom of the stairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggs and all. You

can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But that child came up laughing. 'I don't know whether I'm myself or a

custard pie,' she said. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said she would never take another thing

"Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse," sniffed Miss Cornelia. "She just took them

that night as an excuse for curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes. She is so heedless and

"There's something taking about her," conceded Miss Cornelia. "You never see her but she's laughing, and

somehow it always makes you want to laugh too. She can't even keep a straight face in church. Una is

ten-she's a sweet little thing-not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he

has a regular mania for collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house."

"I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs.

Grant called. It gave her a turn," said Susan, "and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no places for dead

rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who left it, there. He is as full of the old Nick as he can be stuffed,

Mrs. Dr. dear. A manse cat should at least look respectable, in my opinion, whatever he really is. But I never

saw such a rakishlooking beast. And he walks along the ridgepole of the manse almost every evening at

"The worst of it is, they are never decently dressed," sighed Miss Cornelia. "And since the snow went they go

to school barefooted. Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn't the right thing for manse children-especially

when the Methodist minister's little girl always wears such nice buttoned boots. And I do wish they wouldn't

"It's very tempting, when it's right beside the manse," said Anne. "I've always thought graveyards must be

"Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear," said loyal Susan, determined to protect Anne from herself. "You have

"Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the first place?" asked Anne. "Their lawn is so

"It was a mistake," admitted Miss Cornelia. "But they got the lot cheap. And no other manse children ever

thought of playing there. Mr. Meredith shouldn't allow it. But he has always got his nose buried in a book,

when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks about in his study in a daydream. So far he hasn't forgotten

to be in church on Sundays, but twice he has forgotten about the prayermeeting and one of the elders had to

go over to the manse and remind him. And he forgot about Fanny Cooper's wedding. They rang him up on

the 'phone and then he rushed right over, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One wouldn't mind if the

Methodists didn't laugh so about it. But there's one comfort-they can't criticize his sermons. He wakes up

when he's in the pulpit, believe me. And the Methodist minister can't preach at all-so they tell me. I have

Miss Cornelia's scorn of men had abated somewhat since her marriage, but her scorn of Methodists remained

"They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists and Presbyterians are talking of uniting," she said.

"Well, all I hope is that I'll be under the sod if that ever comes to pass," retorted Miss Cornelia. "I shall never

have truck or trade with Methodists, and Mr. Meredith will find that he'd better steer clear of them, too. He is

entirely too sociable with them, believe me. Why, he went to the Jacob Drews' silverwedding supper and got

"Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast goose-for Jacob Drew never did or could carve. Well, Mr. Meredith

tackled it, and in the process he knocked it clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese's lap, who was sitting next

him. And he just said dreamily. 'Mrs. Reese, will you kindly return me that goose?' Mrs. Reese 'returned' it, as

meek as Moses, but she must have been furious, for she had on her new silk dress. The worst of it is, she was

"But I think that is better than if she was a Presbyterian," interjected Susan. "If she had been a Presbyterian

she would mostly likely have left the church and we cannot afford to lose our members. And Mrs. Reese is

not liked in her own church, because she gives herself such great airs, so that the Methodists would be rather

"The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and I, for one, do not like to see my minister made ridiculous in the

eyes of the Methodists," said Miss Cornelia stiffly. "If he had had a wife it would not have happened."

"I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they could have prevented Mrs. Drew from using up her tough old

"They say that was her husband's doing," said Miss Cornelia. "Jacob Drew is a conceited, stingy,

"And they do say he and his wife detest each other-which does not seem to me the proper way for married

folks to get along. But then, of course, I have had no experience along that line," said Susan, tossing her head.

"And I am not one to blame everything on the men. Mrs. Drew is mean enough herself. They say that the

only thing she was ever known to give away was a crock of butter made out of cream a rat had fell into. She

contributed it to a church social. Nobody found out about the rat until afterwards."

"Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have offended so far are Methodists," said Miss Cornelia. "That

Jerry went to the Methodist prayermeeting one night about a fortnight ago and sat beside old William Marsh

who got up as usual and testified with fearful groans. 'Do you feel any better now?" whispered Jerry when

William sat down. Poor Jerry meant to be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he was impertinent and is

furious at him. Of course, Jerry had no business to be in a Methodist prayermeeting at all. But they go

"I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the Harbour Head," said Susan. "She is a very touchy

woman, I understand, but she is very well off and pays the most of any one to the salary. I have heard that she

"Every word you say convinces me more and more that the Merediths belong to the race that knows Joseph,"

"When all is said and done, they do," admitted Miss Cornelia. "And that balances everything. Anyway, we've

got them now and we must just do the best we can by them and stick up for them to the Methodists. Well, I

suppose I must be getting down harbour. Marshall will soon be home-he went overharbour today-and

wanting his super, manlike. I'm sorry I haven't seen the other children. And where's the doctor?"

"Up at the Harbour Head. We've only been home three days and in that time he has spent three hours in his

"Well, everybody who has been sick for the last six weeks has been waiting for him to come home-and I don't

blame them. When that overharbour doctor married the undertaker's daughter at Lowbridge people felt

suspicious of him. It didn't look well. You and the doctor must come down soon and tell us all about your

"We had," agreed Anne. "It was the fulfilment of years of dreams. The old world is very lovely and very

wonderful. But we have come back very well satisfied with our own land. Canada is the finest country in the

"And old P.E.I. is the loveliest province in it and Four Winds the loveliest spot in P.E.I.," laughed Anne,

looking adoringly out over the sunset splendour of glen and harbour and gulf. She waved her hand at it. "I

saw nothing more beautiful than that in Europe, Miss Cornelia. Must you go? The children will be sorry to

"Oh, at supper they were planning a descent on you. They'll go soon; but they must settle down to school

"No-from Rosemary West. I was up last evening to arrange it with her. What a pretty girl she is!"

"I thought her very charming. I've never had any real acquaintance with her, you know. Their house is so out

"People always have liked Rosemary West, though they don't understand her," said Miss Cornelia, quite

unconscious of the high tribute she was paying to Rosemary's charm. "Ellen has always kept her down, so to

speak. She has tyrannized over her, and yet she has always indulged her in a good many ways. Rosemary was

engaged once, you know-to young Martin Crawford. His ship was wrecked on the Magdalens and all the

crew were drowned. Rosemary was just a child-only seventeen. But she was never the same afterwards. She

and Ellen have stayed very close at home since their mother's death. They don't often get to their own church

at Lowbridge and I understand Ellen doesn't approve of going too often to a Presbyterian church. To the

Methodist she never goes, I'll say that much for her. That family of Wests have always been strong

Episcopalians. Rosemary and Ellen are pretty well off. Rosemary doesn't really need to give music lessons.

She does it because she likes to. They are distantly related to Leslie, you know. Are the Fords coming to the

"No. They are going on a trip to Japan and will probably be away for a year. Owen's new novel is to have a

Japanese setting. This will be the first summer that the dear old House of Dreams will be empty since we left

"I should think Owen Ford might find enough to write about in Canada without dragging his wife and his

innocent children off to a heathen country like Japan," grumbled Miss Cornelia. "The Life Book was the best

book he's ever written and he got the material for that right here in Four Winds."

"Captain Jim gave him the most of that, you know. And he collected it all over the world. But Owen's books

"Oh, they're well enough as far as they go. I make it a point to read every one he writes, though I've always

held, Anne dearie, that reading novels is a sinful waste of time. I shall write and tell him my opinion of this

Japanese business, believe me. Does he want Kenneth and Persis to be converted into pagans?"

With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cornelia took her departure. Susan proceeded to put Rilla in bed

and Anne sat on the veranda steps under the early stars and dreamed her incorrigible dreams and learned all

over again for the hundredth happy time what a moonrise spendour and sheen could be on Four Winds

IN daytime the Blythe children liked very well to play in the rich, soft greens and glooms of the big maple

grove between Ingleside and the Glen St. Mary pond; but for evening revels there was no place like the little

valley behind the maple grove. It was a fairy realm of romance to them. Once, looking from the attic

windows of Ingleside, through the mist and aftermath of a summer thunderstorm, they had seen the beloved

spot arched by a glorious rainbow, one end of which seemed to dip straight down to where a corner of the

"Let us call it Rainbow Valley," said Walter delightedly, and Rainbow Valley thenceforth it was.

Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be rollicking and boisterous. Here it always went gently. Little,

winding, fairy paths ran here and there over spruce roots cushioned with moss. Wild cherry trees, that in

blossom time would be misty white, were scattered all over the valley, mingling with the dark spruces. A

little brook with amber waters ran through it from the Glen village. The houses of the village were

comfortably far away; only at the upper end of the valley was a little tumbledown, deserted cottage, referred

to as "the old Bailey house." It had not been occupied for many years, but a grassgrown dyke surrounded it

and inside was an ancient garden where the Ingleside children could find violets and daisies and June lilies

still blooming in season. For the rest, the garden was overgrown with caraway that swayed and foamed in the

To the sought lay the pond and beyond it the ripened distance lost itself in purple woods, save where, on a

high hill, a solitary old gray homestead looked down on glen and harbour. There was a certain wild

woodsiness and solitude about Rainbow Valley, in spite of its nearness to the village, which endeared it to the

The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows and the largest of these was their favourite stamping ground.

Here they were assembled on this particular evening. There was a grove of young spruces in this hollow, with

a tiny, grassy glade in its heart, opening on the bank of the brook. By the brook grew a silver birchtree, a

young, incredibly straight thing which Walter had named the "White Lady." In this glade, too, were the "Tree

Lovers," as Walter called a spruce and maple which grew so closely together that their boughs were

inextricably intertwined. Jem had hung an old string of sleighbells, given him by the Glen blacksmith, on

the Tree Lovers, and every visitant breeze called out sudden fairy tinkles from it.

"How nice it is to be back!" said Nan. "After all, none of the Avonlea places are quite as nice as Rainbow

But they were very fond of the Avonlea places for all that. A visit to Green Gables was always considered a

great treat. Aunt Marilla was very good to them, and so was Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who was spending the

leisure of her old age in knitting cottonwarp quilts against the day when Anne's daughters should need a

"settingout." There were jolly playmates there, too-"Uncle" Davy's children and "Aunt" Diana's children.

They knew all the spots their mother had loved so well in her girlhood at old Green Gables-the long Lover's

Lane, that was pinkhedged in wildrose time, the always neat yard, with its willows and poplars, the

Dryad's Bubble, lucent and lovely as of yore, the Lake of Shining Waters, and Willowmere. The twins had

their mother's old porchgable room, and Aunt Marilla used to come in at night, when she thought they were

Jem was at present busily occupied in frying a mess of small trout which he had just caught in the pond. His

stove consisted of a circle of red stones, with a fire kindled in it, and his culinary utensils were an old tin can,

hammered out flat, and a fork with only one tine left. Nevertheless, ripping good meals had before now been

Jem was the child of the House of Dreams. All the others had been born at Ingleside. He had curly red hair,

like his mother's, and frank hazel eyes, like his father's; he had his mother's fine nose and his father's steady,

humorous mouth. And he was the only one of the family who had ears nice enough to please Susan. But he

had a standing feud with Susan because she would not give up calling him Little Jem. It was outrageous,

"I'm not little any more, Mother," he had cried indignantly, on his eighth birthday. "I'm awful big."

Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again; and she never called him Little Jem again-in his hearing at

He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable little chap. He never broke a promise. He was not a great

talker. His teachers did not think him brilliant, but he was a good, allround student. He never took things on

faith; he always liked to investigate the truth of a statement for himself. Once Susan had told him that if he

touched his tongue to a frosty latch all the skin would tear off it. Jem had promptly done it, "just to see if it

was so." He found it was "so," at the cost of a very sore tongue for several days. But Jem did not grudge

suffering in the interests of science. By constant experiment and observation he learned a great deal and his

brothers and sisters thought his extensive knowledge of their little world quite wonderful. Jem always knew

where the first and ripest berries grew, where the first pale violets shyly wakened from their winter's sleep,

and how many blue eggs were in a given robin's nest in the maple grove. He could tell fortunes from daisy

petals and suck honey from red clovers, and grub up all sorts of edible roots on the banks of the pond, while

Susan went in daily fear that they would all be poisoned. He knew where the finest sprucegum was to be

found, in pale amber knots on the lichened bark, he knew where the nuts grew thickest in the beechwoods

around the Harbour Head, and where the best trouting places up the brooks were. He could mimic the call of

any wild bird or beast in Four Winds and he knew the haunt of every wild flower from spring to autumn.

Walter Blythe was sitting under the White Lady, with a volume of poems lying beside him, but he was not

reading. He was gazing now at the emeraldmisted willows by the pond, and now at a flock of clouds, like

little silver sheep, herded by the wind, that were drifting over Rainbow Valley, with rapture in his wide

splendid eyes. Walter's eyes were very wonderful. All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and

aspiration of many generations lying under the sod looked out of their dark gray depths.

Walter was a "hop out of kin," as far as looks went. He did not resemble any known relative. He was quite the

handsomest of the Ingleside children, with straight black hair and finely modelled features. But he had all his

mother's vivid imagination and passionate love of beauty. Frost of winter, invitation of spring, dream of

In school, where Jem was a chieftain, Walter was not thought highly of. He was supposed to be "girly" and

milksoppish, because he never fought and seldom joined in the school sports, preferring to herd by himself

in out of the way corners and read books-especially "po'try books." Walter loved the poets and pored over

their pages from the time he could first read. Their music was woven into his growing soul-the music of the

immortals. Walter cherished the ambition to be a poet himself some day. The thing could be done. A certain

Uncle Paul-so called out of courtesy-who lived now in that mysterious realm called "the States," was Walter's

model. Uncle Paul had once been a little school boy in Avonlea and now his poetry was read everywhere. But

the Glen schoolboys did not know of Walter's dreams and would not have been greatly impressed if they had.

In spite of his lack of physical prowess, however, he commanded a certain unwilling respect because of his

power of "talking book talk." Nobody in Glen St. Mary school could talk like him. He "sounded like a

preacher," one boy said; and for this reason he was generally left alone and not persecuted, as most boys were

The ten year old Ingleside twins violated twin tradition by not looking in the least alike. Anne, who was

always called Nan, was very pretty, with velvety nutbrown eyes and silky nutbrown hair. She was a very

blithe and dainty little maiden-Blythe by name and blithe by nature, one of her teachers had said. Her

"I'm so glad I have one daughter who can wear pink," Mrs. Blythe was wont to say jubilantly.

Diana Blythe, known as Di, was very like her mother, with graygreen eyes that always shone with a peculiar

lustre and brilliancy in the dusk, and red hair. Perhaps this was why she was her father's favourite. She and

Walter were especial chums; Di was the only one to whom he would ever read the verses he wrote

himself-the only one who knew that he was secretly hard at work on an epic, strikingly resembling

"Marmion" in some things, if not in others. She kept all his secrets, even from Nan, and told him all hers.

"Won't you soon have those fish ready, Jem?" said Nan, sniffing with her dainty nose. "The smell makes me

"They're nearly ready," said Jem, giving one a dexterous turn. "Get out the bread and the plates, girls. Walter,

"How the air shines tonight," said Walter dreamily. Not that he despised fried trout either, by any means;

but with Walter food for the soul always took first place. "The flower angel has been walking over the world

today, calling to the flowers. I can see his blue wings on that hill by the woods."

"The flower angel's aren't. They are a pale misty blue, just like the haze in the valley. Oh, how I wish I could

"I never dream that I'm flying exactly," said Walter. "But I often dream that I just rise up from the ground and

float over the fences and the trees. It's delightful-and I always think, 'This isn't a dream like it's always been

Nan had produced the banquetboard-a board literally as well as figuratively-from which many a feast,

seasoned as no viands were elsewhere, had been eaten in Rainbow Valley. It was converted into a table by

propping it on two large, mossy stones. Newspapers served as tablecloth, and broken plates and handleless

cups from Susan's discard furnished the dishes. From a tin box secreted at the root of a spruce tree Nan

brought forth bread and salt. The brook gave Adam's ale of unsurpassed crystal. For the rest, there was a

certain sauce, compounded of fresh air and appetite of youth, which gave to everything a divine flavour. To

sit in Rainbow Valley, steeped in a twilight half gold, half amethyst, rife with the odours of balsamfir and

woodsy growing things in their springtime prime, with the pale stars of wild strawberry blossoms all around

you, and with the sough of the wind and tinkle of bells in the shaking tree tops, and eat fried trout and dry

"Sit in," invited Nan, as Jem placed his sizzling tin platter of trout on the table. "It's your turn to say grace,

"I've done my part frying the trout," protested Jem, who hated saying grace. "Let Walter say it. He likes

AUNT MARTHA might be, and was, a very poor housekeeper; the Rev. John Knox Meredith might be, and

was, a very absentminded, indulgent man. But it could not be denied that there was something very

homelike and lovable about the Glen St. Mary manse in spite of its untidiness. Even the critical housewives

of the Glen felt it, and were unconsciously mellowed in judgement because of it. Perhaps its charm was in

part due to accidental circumstances-the luxuriant vines clustering over its gray, clapboarded walls, the

friendly acacias and balmofgileads that crowded about it with the freedom of old acquaintance, and the

beautiful views of harbour and sanddunes from its front windows. But these things had been there in the

reign of Mr. Meredith's predecessor, when the manse had been the primmest, neatest, and dreariest house in

the Glen. So much of the credit must be given to the personality of its new inmates. There was an atmosphere

of laughter and comradeship about it; the doors were always open; and inner and outer worlds joined hands.

The people of his congregation said that Mr. Meredith spoiled his children. Very likely he did. It is certain

that he could not bear to scold them. "They have no mother," he used to say to himself, with a sigh, when

some unusually glaring peccadillo forced itself upon his notice. But he did not know the half of their

goingson. He belonged to the sect of dreamers. The windows of his study looked out on the graveyard but,

as he paced up and down the room, reflecting deeply on the immortality of the soul, he was quite unaware

that Jerry and Carl were playing leapfrog hilariously over the flat stones in that abode of dead Methodists.

Mr. Meredith had occasional acute realizations that his children were not so well looked after, physically or

morally, as they had been before his wife died, and he had always a dim subconsciousness that house and

meals were very different under Aunt Martha's management from what they had been under Cecilia's. For the

rest, he lived in a world of books and abstractions; and, therefore, although his clothes were seldom brushed,

and although the Glen housewives concluded, from the ivorylike pallor of his clearcut features and slender

If ever a graveyard could be called a cheerful place, the old Methodist graveyard at Glen St. Mary might be

so called. The new graveyard, at the other side of the Methodist church, was a neat and proper and doleful

spot; but the old one had been left so long to Nature's kindly and gracious ministries that it had become very

It was surrounded on three sides by a dyke of stones and sod, topped by a gray and uncertain paling. Outside

the dyke grew a row of tall fir trees with thick, balsamic boughs. The dyke, which had been built by the first

settlers of the Glen, was old enough to be beautiful, with mosses and green things growing out of its crevices,

violets purpling at its base in the early spring days, and asters and goldenrod making an autumnal glory in

its corners. Little ferns clustered companionably between its stones, and here and there a big bracken grew.

On the eastern side there was neither fence nor dyke. The graveyard there straggled off into a young fir

plantation, ever pushing nearer to the graves and deepening eastward into a thick wood. The air was always

full of the harplike voices of the sea, and the music of gray old trees, and in the spring mornings the

choruses of birds in the elms around the two churches sang of life and not of death. The Meredith children

Blueeyed ivy, "gardenspruce," and mint ran riot over the sunken graves. Blueberry bushes grew lavishly in

the sandy corner next to the fir wood. The varying fashions of tombstones for three generations were to be

found there, from the flat, oblong, red sandstone slabs of old settlers, down through the days of weeping

willows and clasped hands, to the latest monstrosities of tall "monuments" and draped urns. One of the latter,

the biggest and ugliest in the graveyard, was sacred to the memory of a certain Alec Davis who had been born

a Methodist but had taken to himself a Presbyterian bride of the Douglas clan. She had made him turn

Presbyterian and kept him toeing the Presbyterian mark all his life. But when he died she did not dare to

doom him to a lonely grave in the Presbyterian graveyard overharbour. His people were all buried in the

Methodist cemetery; so Alec Davis went back to his own in death and his widow consoled herself by erecting

a monument which cost more than any of the Methodists could afford. The Meredith children hated it,

without just knowing why, but they loved the old, flat, benchlike stones with the tall grasses growing rankly

about them. They made jolly seats for one thing. They were all sitting on one now. Jerry, tired of leap frog,

was playing on a jew'sharp. Carl was lovingly poring over a strange beetle he had found; Una was trying to

make a doll's dress, and Faith, leaning back on her slender brown wrists, was swinging her bare feet in lively

Jerry had his father's black hair and large black eyes, but in him the latter were flashing instead of dreamy.

Faith, who came next to him, wore her beauty like a rose, careless and glowing. She had goldenbrown eyes,

goldenbrown curls and crimson cheeks. She laughed too much to please her father's congregation and had

shocked old Mrs. Taylor, the disconsolate spouse of several departed husbands, by saucily declaring-in the

churchporch at that-"The world isn't a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor. It's a world of laughter."

Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her braids of straight, deadblack hair betrayed no lawless

kinks, and her almondshaped, darkblue eyes had something wistful and sorrowful in them. Her mouth had

a trick of falling open over her tiny white teeth, and a shy, meditative smile occasionally crept over her small

face. She was much more sensitive to public opinion than Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness that there

was something askew in their way of living. She longed to put it right, but did not know how. Now and then

she dusted the furniture-but it was so seldom she could find the duster because it was never in the same place

twice. And when the clothesbrush was to be found she tried to brush her father's best suit on Saturdays, and

once sewed on a missing button with coarse white thread. When Mr. Meredith went to church next day every

female eye saw that button and the peace of the Ladies' Aid was upset for weeks.

Carl had the clear, bright, darkblue eyes, fearless and direct, of his dead mother, and her brown hair with its

glints of gold. He knew the secrets of bugs and had a sort of freemasonry with bees and beetles. Una never

liked to sit near him because she never knew what uncanny creature might be secreted about him. Jerry

refused to sleep with him because Carl had once taken a young garter snake to bed with him; so Carl slept in

his old cot, which was so short that he could never stretch out, and had strange bedfellows. Perhaps it was

just as well that Aunt Martha was half blind when she made that bed. Altogether they were a jolly, lovable

little crew, and Cecilia Meredith's heart must have ached bitterly when she faced the knowledge that she must

"Where would you like to be buried if you were a Methodist?" asked Faith cheerfully.

"There isn't much choice. The place is full," said Jerry. "I'd like that corner near the road, I guess. I could hear

"I'd like that little hollow under the weeping birch," said Una. "That birch is such a place for birds and they

"I'd take the Porter lot where there's so many children buried. I like lots of company," said Faith. "Carl,

"I'd rather not be buried at all," said Carl, "but if I had to be I'd like the antbed. Ants are awf'ly int'resting."

"How very good all the people who are buried here must have been," said Una, who had been reading the

laudatory old epitaphs. "There doesn't seem to be a single bad person in the whole graveyard. Methodists

"Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just like they do cats," suggested Carl. "Maybe they don't

"Nonsense," said Faith. "The people that are buried here weren't any better than other folks, Una. But when

anyone is dead you mustn't say anything of him but good or he'll come back and ha'nt you. Aunt Martha told

me that. I asked father if it was true and he just looked through me and muttered, 'True? True? What is truth?

"I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his

"Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I

made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed

his ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have

"They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when

her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like."

"I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe

"Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie

Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought he should have got the prize because of his name, but

"I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the

girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look

jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the redhaired one is the nicest."

"I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been

only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of

twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh.

"Yes, yes, but it is inside-Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe just stayed a little girl inside."

They all smelled it now. A most delectable odour came floating up on the still evening air from the direction

"We had only bread and molasses for supper and cold ditto for dinner," said Una plaintively.

Aunt Martha's habit was to boil a large slab of mutton early in the week and serve it up every day, cold and

greasy, as long as it lasted. To this Faith, in a moment of inspiration, had give the name of "ditto", and by this

They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn with the abandon of young puppies, climbed a fence, and tore

down the mossy slope, guided by the savory lure that ever grew stronger. A few minutes later they arrived

breathlessly in the sanctum sanctorum of Rainbow Valley where the Blythe children were just about to give

They halted shyly. Una wished they had not been so precipitate: but Di Blythe was equal to that and any

"Maybe you haven't more than you want yourselves," said Jerry, looking hungrily at the tin platter.

No more ceremony was necessary. Down they all sat on mossy stones. Merry was that feast and long. Nan

and Di would probably have died of horror had they known what Faith and Una knew perfectly well-that Carl

had two young mice in his jacket pocket. But they never knew it, so it never hurt them. Where can folks get

better acquainted than over a meal table? When the last trout had vanished, the manse children and the

Ingleside children were sworn friends and allies. They had always known each other and always would. The

They poured out the history of their little pasts. The manse children heard of Avonlea and Green Gables, of

Rainbow Valley traditions, and of the little house by the harbour shore where Jem had been born. The

Ingleside children heard of Maywater, where the Merediths had lived before coming to the Glen, of Una's

Faith was inclined to resent the fact that people laughed at her for petting a rooster. She liked the Blythes

"A handsome rooster like Adam is just as nice a pet as a dog or cat, I think," she said. "If he was a canary

nobody would wonder. And I brought him up from a little, wee, yellow chicken. Mrs. Johnson at Maywater

gave him to me. A weasel had killed all his brothers and sisters. I called him after her husband. I never liked

"The Miss Wests-Rosemary and Ellen," answered Nan. "Di and I are going to take music lessons from Miss

Una gazed at the lucky twins with eyes whose longing was too gentle for envy. Oh, if she could only have

music lessons! It was one of the dreams of her little hidden life. But nobody ever thought of such a thing.

"Miss Rosemary is so sweet and she always dresses so pretty," said Di. "Her hair is just the colour of new

molasses taffy," she added wistfully-for Di, like her mother before her, was not resigned to her own ruddy

"I like Miss Ellen, too," said Nan. "She always used to give me candies when she came to church. But Di is

"Her brows are so black and she has such a great deep voice," said Di. "Oh, how scared of her Kenneth Ford

used to be when he was little! Mother says the first Sunday Mrs. Ford brought him to church Miss Ellen

happened to be there, sitting right behind them. And the minute Kenneth saw her he just screamed and

"Oh, the Fords don't live here. They only come here in the summer. And they're not coming this summer.

They live in that little house 'way, 'way down on the harbour shore where father and mother used to lie. I

"I've heard of Mrs. Ford," broke in Faith. "Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me about her. She was married

"Nonsense," said Nan. "That isn't the way it goes at all. Bertie Shakespeare can never get anything straight. I

know the whole story and I'll tell it to you some time, but not now, for it's too long and it's time for us to go

Nobody cared whether the manse children were out in the damp or not. Aunt Martha was already in bed and

the minister was still too deeply lost in speculations concerning the immortality of the soul to remember the

mortality of the body. But they went home, too, with visions of good times coming in their heads.

"I think Rainbow Valley is even nicer than the graveyard," said Una. "And I just love those dear Blythes. It's

so nice when you can love people because so often you can't. Father said in his sermon last Sunday that we

"Oh, father only said that in the pulpit," said Faith airily. "He has more sense than to really think it outside."

The Blythe children went up to Ingleside, except Jem, who slipped away for a few moments on a solitary

expedition to a remote corner of Rainbow Valley. Mayflowers grew there and Jem never forgot to take his

"THIS is just the sort of day you feel as if things might happen," said Faith, responsive to the lure of crystal

air and blue hills. She hugged herself with delight and danced a hornpipe on old Hezekiah Pollock's bench

tombstone, much to the horror of two ancient maidens who happened to be driving past just as Faith hopped

"What else could you expect of a widower's family?" groaned the other ancient maiden. And then they both

It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths were out in the dewdrenched world with a delightful

consciousness of the holiday. They had never had anything to do on a holiday. Even Nan and Di Blythe had

certain household tasks for Saturday mornings, but the daughters of the manse were free to roam from

blushing morn to dewy eve if so it pleased them. It did please Faith, but Una felt a secret, bitter humiliation

because they never learned to do anything. The other girls in her class at school could cook and sew and knit;

Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so they went lingeringly through the fir grove, picking up Carl on the

way, who was on his knees in the dripping grass studying his darling ants. Beyond the grove they came out in

Mr. Taylor's pasture field, sprinkled over with the white ghosts of dandelions; in a remote corner was an old

tumbledown barn, where Mr. Taylor sometimes stored his surplus hay crop but which was never used for any

other purpose. Thither the Meredith children trooped, and prowled about the ground floor for several minutes.

They all listened. There was a faint but distinct rustle in the hayloft above. The Merediths looked at each

The whole four climbed the shaky ladder, Jerry and Faith quite dauntless, Una pale from fright, and Carl

rather absentmindedly speculating on the possibility of finding a bat up in the loft. He longed to see a bat in

When they stepped off the ladder they saw what had made the rustle and the sight struck them dumb for a few

In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled up, looking as if she had just wakened from sleep. When she saw

them she stood up, rather shakily, as it seemed, and in the bright sunlight that streamed through the

cobwebbed window behind her, they saw that her thin, sunburned face was very pale under its tan. She had

two braids of lank, thick, towcoloured hair and very odd eyes-"white eyes," the manse children thought, as

she stared at them half defiantly, half piteously. They were really of so pale a blue that they did seem almost

white, especially when contrasted with the narrow black ring that circled the iris. She was barefooted and

bareheaded, and was clad in a faded, ragged, old plaid dress, much too short and tight for her. As for years,

she might have been almost any age, judging from her wizened little face, but her height seemed to be

The girl looked about her as if seeking a way of escape. Then she seemed to give in with a little shiver of

Mary, instead of replying, suddenly sat, or fell, down on the hay and began to cry. Instantly Faith had flung

"You stop bothering her," she commanded Jerry. Then she hugged the waif. "Don't cry, dear. Just tell us

"I'm so-so-hungry," wailed Mary. "I-I hain't had a thing to eat since Thursday morning, 'cept a little water

"You come right up to the manse and get something to eat before you say another word."

"We've no mother, and father won't bother about you. Neither will Aunt Martha. Come, I say." Faith stamped

her foot impatiently. Was this queer girl going to insist on starving to death almost at their very door?

Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could hardly climb down the ladder, but somehow they got her down

and over the field and into the manse kitchen. Aunt Martha, muddling through her Saturday cooking, took no

notice of her. Faith and Una flew to the pantry and ransacked it for such eatables as it contained-some "ditto,"

bread, butter, milk and a doubtful pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously and uncritically, while the

manse children stood around and watched her. Jerry noticed that she had a pretty mouth and very nice, even,

white teeth. Faith decided, with secret horror, that Mary had not one stitch on her except that ragged, faded

dress. Una was full of pure pity, Carl of amused wonder, and all of them of curiosity.

"Now come out to the graveyard and tell us about yourself," ordered Faith, when Mary's appetite showed

signs of failing her. Mary was now nothing loath. Food had restored her natural vivacity and unloosed her by

"You won't tell your pa or anybody if I tell you?" she stipulated, when she was enthroned on Mr. Pollock's

tombstone. Opposite her the manse children lined up on another. Here was spice and mystery and adventure.

"Well, I've run away. I was living with Mrs. Wiley overharbour. Do you know Mrs. Wiley?"

"Well, you don't want to know her. She's an awful woman. My, how I hate her! She worked me to death and

wouldn't give me half enough to eat, and she used to larrup me 'most every day. Look ahere."

Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves, and held up her scrawny arms and thin hands, chapped almost to rawness.

They were black with bruises. The manse children shivered. Faith flushed crimson with indignation. Una's

"She licked me Wednesday night with a stick," said Mary, indifferently. "It was 'cause I let the cow kick over

A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners. They would never dream of using such dubious words, but it

was rather titivating to hear someone else use them-and a girl, at that. Certainly this Mary Vance was an

"Oh, I didn't run away 'cause she licked me. A licking was all in the day's work with me. I was darn well used

to it. Nope, I'd meant to run away for a week 'cause I'd found out that Mrs. Wiley was going to rent her farm

and go to Lowbridge to live and give me to a cousin of hers up Charlottetown way. I wasn't going to stand for

that. She was a worse sort than Mrs. Wiley even. Mrs. Wiley lent me to her for a month last summer and I'd

"So I made up my mind I'd beat it. I had seventy cents saved up that Mrs. John Crawford give me in the

spring for planting potatoes for her. Mrs. Wiley didn't know about it. She was away visiting her cousin when

I planted them. I thought I'd sneak up here to the Glen and buy a ticket to Charlottetown and try to get work

there. I'm a hustler, let me tell you. There ain't a lazy bone in my body. So I lit out Thursday morning 'fore

Mrs. Wiley was up and walked to the Glen-six miles. And when I got to the station I found I'd lost my

money. Dunno how-dunno where. Anyhow, it was gone. I didn't know what to do. If I went back to old Lady

"Dunno. I s'pose I'll have to go back and take my medicine. Now that I've got some grub in my stomach I

But there was fear behind the bravado in Mary's eyes. Una suddenly slipped from the one tombstone to the

"Oh, Mrs. Wiley'll hunt me up," said Mary. "It's likely she's on my trail before this. I might stay here till she

finds me, I s'pose, if your folks don't mind. I was a darn fool ever to think of skipping out. She'd run a weasel

"I was two years in the asylum. I was put there when I was six. My ma had hung herself and my pa had cut

"Not a darn one that I know of. Must have had some once, though. I was called after half a dozen of them.

My full name is Mary Martha Lucilla Moore Ball Vance. Can you beat that? My grandfather was a rich man.

I'll bet he was richer than your grandfather. But pa drunk it all up and ma, she did her part. They used to beat

Mary tossed her head. She divined that the manse children were pitying her for her many stripes and she did

not want pity. She wanted to be envied. She looked gaily about her. Her strange eyes, now that the dullness of

famine was removed from them, were brilliant. She would show these youngsters what a personage she was.

"I've been sick an awful lot," she said proudly. "There's not many kids could have come through what I have.

I've had scarlet fever and measles and ersipelas and mumps and whooping cough and pewmonia."

"Oh, well, I never died exactly," said Mary, "but I come blamed near it once. They thought I was dead and

"Like nothing. I didn't know it for days afterwards. It was when I had the pewmonia. Mrs. Wiley wouldn't

have the doctor-said she wasn't going to no such expense for a home girl. Old Aunt Christina MacAllister

nursed me with poultices. She brung me round. But sometimes I wish I'd just died the other half and done

"There's hell, you know," said Una, dropping her voice and hugging Mary to lessen the awfulness of the

"Why, it's where the devil lives," said Jerry. "You've heard of him-you spoke about him."

"Oh, yes, but I didn't know he lived anywhere. I thought he just roamed round. Mr. Wiley used to mention

hell when he was alive. He was always telling folks to go there. I thought it was some place over in New

"Hell is an awful place," said Faith, with the dramatic enjoyment that is born of telling dreadful things. "Bad

"It's in the Bible. And Mr. Isaac Crothers at Maywater told us, too, in Sunday School. He was an elder and a

pillar in the church and knew all about it. But you needn't worry. If you're good you'll go to heaven and if

"I wouldn't," said Mary positively. "No matter how bad I was I wouldn't want to be burned and burned. I

know what it's like. I picked up a red hot poker once by accident. What must you do to be good?"

"You must go to church and Sunday School and read your Bible and pray every night and give to missions,"

"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Mary, "that I'd be sent to hell for telling a lie now and then? Why, I had

to. Mr. Wiley would have broken every bone in my body one time if I hadn't told him a lie. Lies have saved

Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties for her to solve. She shuddered as she thought of being cruelly

whipped. Very likely she would have lied too. She squeezed Mary's little calloused hand.

"Is that the only dress you've got?" asked Faith, whose joyous nature refused to dwell on disagreeable

"I just put on this dress because it was no good," cried Mary flushing. "Mrs. Wiley'd bought my clothes and I

wasn't going to be beholden to her for anything. And I'm honest. If I was going to run away I wasn't going to

take what belong to her that was worth anything. When I grow up I'm going to have a blue sating dress. Your

own clothes don't look so stylish. I thought ministers' children were always dressed up."

It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on some points. But there was a queer, wild charm

about her which captivated them all. She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to the

Blythes as "a friend of ours from overharbour who is visiting us." The Blythes accepted her

unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly respectable now. After dinner-through which Aunt Martha

had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had been in a state of semiunconsciousness while brooding his Sunday

sermon-Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of her dresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing.

With her hair neatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an acceptable playmate, for she

knew several new and exciting games, and her conversation lacked not spice. In fact, some of her expressions

made Nan and Di look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure what their mother would have thought

of her, but they knew quite well what Susan would. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be

"Oh, I didn't mean that," protested Faith. "The spare room is all torn up. The mice have gnawed a big hole in

the feather tick and made a nest in it. We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisher from

Charlottetown there to sleep last week. He soon found it out. Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on

the study lounge. Aunt Martha hasn't had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she says; so nobody can

sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are. And our room is so small, and the bed so small you can't

"I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you'll lend me a quilt," said Mary philosophically. "It

"Oh, no, no, you mustn't do that," said Una. "I've thought of a plan, Faith. You know that little trestle bed in

the garret room, with the old mattress on it, that the last minister left there? Let's take up the spare room

bedclothes and make Mary a bed there. You won't mind sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? It's just above

"Any place'll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleep in my life. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at

Mrs. Wiley's. The roof leaked rain in the summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was a straw tick on

The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gable end partitioned off. Here a bed was made

up for Mary of the dainty hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had once so

proudly made for her spareroom, and which still survived Aunt Martha's uncertain washings. The good

nights were said and silence fell over the manse. Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound in the

"Listen, Faith-Mary's crying," she whispered. Faith replied not, being already asleep. Una slipped out of bed,

and made her way in her little white gown down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking floor gave

ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner room all was moonlit silence and the trestle bed

Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. "Mary, I know you are crying. I heard you. Are you

"Let me in beside you. I'm cold," said Una shivering in the chilly air, for the little garret window was open

"Now you won't be lonesome. We shouldn't have left you here alone the first night."

"Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone. I thought of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley-and

of being licked for running away-and-and-and of going to hell for telling lies. It all worried me something

"Oh, Mary," said poor Una in distress. "I don't believe God will send you to hell for telling lies when you

didn't know it was wrong. He couldn't. Why, He's kind and good. Of course, you mustn't tell any more now

"If I can't tell lies what's to become of me?" said Mary with a sob. "You don't understand. You don't know

anything about it. You've got a home and a kind father-though it does seem to me that he isn't more'n about

half there. But anyway he doesn't lick you, and you get enough to eat such as it is-though that old aunt of

yours doesn't know anything about cooking. Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling 'sif I'd

enough to eat. I've been knocked about all of my life, 'cept for the two years I was at the asylum. They didn't

lick me there and it wasn't too bad, though the matron was cross. She always looked ready to bite my head off

a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that's what she is, and I'm just scared stiff when I think of going back

"Perhaps you won't have to. Perhaps we'll be able to think of a way out. Let's both ask God to keep you from

"Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme 'fore I get into bed," said Mary indifferently. "I never thought of

asking for anything in particular though. Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about me so I didn't

s'pose God would. He might take more trouble for you, seeing you're a minister's daughter."

"He'd take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I'm sure," said Una. "It doesn't matter whose child you

"All right," agreed Mary. "It won't do any harm if it doesn't do much good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as

I do you wouldn't think God would want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won't cry any more about it. This is a

big sight better'n last night down in that old barn, with the mice running about. Look at the Four Winds light.

"Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley loft and it was the only comfort I had. When I was all sore

from being licked I'd watch it and forget about the places that hurt. I'd think of the ships sailing away and

away from it and wish I was on one of them sailing far away too-away from everything. On winter nights

when it didn't shine, I just felt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to me when I'm just

"Does it? Well, I guess most folks don't mind it much then. I never remember of any one being kind to me

before-true's you live I don't. Say, Una, ain't them shadows on the walls pretty? They look just like a flock of

little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like all you folks and them Blythe boys and Di, but I don't like that Nan.

"Don't tell me. Any one that holds her head like that is proud. I don't like her."

"Why, Mary-we've known her for weeks and we've only known you a few hours," stammered Una.

"So you do like her better then?" said Mary in a rage. "All right! Like her all you want to. I don't care. I can

"Oh, Mary," said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary's uncompromising back, "don't talk like that. I do like

No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmed around again and engulfed Una in a bear's

"Hush up," she ordered. "Don't go crying over what I said. I was as mean as the devil to talk that way. I orter

to be skinned alive-and you all so good to me. I should think you would like any one better'n me. I deserve

every licking I ever got. Hush, now. If you cry any more I'll go and walk right down to the harbour in this

This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tears were wiped away by Mary with the lace frill of

the spareroom pillow and forgiver and forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch

And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor with rapt face and shining eyes, thinking out his

message of the morrow, and knew not that under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, stumbling in

darkness and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed about with difficulties too great for it to grapple in its

THE manse children took Mary Vance to church with them the next day. At first Mary objected to the idea.

"You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church much, but I went every Sunday I could get off. I was mighty

thankful to go to some place where I could sit down for a spell. But I can't go to church in this old ragged

This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the loan of her second best dress.

"Sure. The better the day the better the deed. You just gimme a needle and thread and look the other way if

Faith's school boots, and an old black velvet cap that had once been Cecilia Meredith's, completed Mary's

costume, and to church she went. Her behaviour was quite conventional, and though some wondered who the

shabby little girl with the manse children was she did not attract much attention. She listened to the sermon

with outward decorum and joined lustily in the singing. She had, it appeared, a clear, strong voice and a good

"His blood can make the violets clean," carolled Mary blithely. Mrs. Jimmy Milgrave, whose pew was just in

front of the manse pew, turned suddenly and looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere

superfluity of naughtiness, stuck out her tongue at Mrs. Milgrave, much to Una's horror.

"I couldn't help it," she declared after church. "What'd she want to stare at me like that for? Such manners!

I'm glad stuck my tongue out at her. I wish I'd stuck it farther out. Say, I saw Rob MacAllister from

No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few day the children forgot to look for her. Mary was apparently

"Nope. I've finished my education," she said, when Faith urged her to go. "I went to school four winters since

I come to Mrs. Wiley's and I've had all I want of that. I'm sick and tired of being everlastingly jawed at 'cause

"Well, I ain't going. I can read and write and cipher up to fractions. That's all I want. You fellows go and I'll

Mary employed herself while the others were at school in cleaning up the manse. In a few days it was a

different place. Floors were swept, furniture dusted, everything straightened out. She mended the spareroom

bedtick, she sewed on missing buttons, she patched clothes neatly, she even invaded the study with broom

and dustpan and ordered Mr. Meredth out while she put it to rights. But there was one department with which

Aunt Martha refused to let her interfere. Aunt Martha might be deaf and half blind and very childish, but she

was resolved to keep the commissariat in her own hands, in spite of all Mary's wiles and stratagems.

"I can tell you if old Martha'd let me cook you'd have some decent meals," she told the manse children

indignantly. "There'd be no more 'ditto'-and no more lumpy porridge and blue milk either. What does she do

"I'd like to cat her, "exclaimed Mary bitterly. "I've no use for cats anyhow. They belong to the old Nick. You

can tell that by their eyes. Well, if old Martha won't, she won't, I s'pose. But it gits on my nerves to see good

When school came out they always went to Rainbow Valley. Mary refused to play in the graveyard. She

"Awfullooking. Dressed all in white with skellington hands and heads," said Mary.

"Run like the devil," said Mary. Then she caught Walter's eyes and blushed. Mary was a good deal in awe of

"I think of all the lies I've ever told when I look into them," she said, "and I wish I hadn't."

Jem was Mary's favourite. When he took her to the attic at Ingleside and showed her the museum of curios

that Captain Jim Boyd had bequeathed to him she was immensely pleased and flattered. She also won Carl's

heart entirely by her interest in his beetles and ants. It could not be denied that Mary got on rather better with

the boys than with the girls. She quarrelled bitterly with Nan Blythe the second day.

"Your mother is a witch," she told Nan scornfully. "Redhaired women are always witches." Then she and

Faith fell out about the rooster. Mary said its tail was too short. Faith angrily retorted that she guessed God

know what length to make a rooster's tail. They did not "speak" for a day over this. Mary treated Una's

hairless, oneeyed doll with consideration; but when Una showed her other prized treasure-a picture of an

angel carrying a baby, presumably to heaven, Mary declared that it looked too much like a ghost for her. Una

crept away to her room and cried over this, but Mary hunted her out, hugged her repentantly and implored

forgiveness. No one could keep up a quarrel long with Mary-not even Nan, who was rather prone to hold

grudges and never quite forgave the insult to her mother. Mary was jolly. She could and did tell the most

thrilling ghost stories. Rainbow Valley seances were undeniably more exciting after Mary came. She learned

"Never struck anything yet I couldn't do if I put my mind to it," she declared. Mary seldom lost a chance of

tooting her own horn. She taught them how to make "blowbags" out of the thick leaves of the "liveforever"

that flourished in the old Bailey garden, she initiated them into the toothsome qualities of the "sours" that

grew in the niches of the graveyard dyke, and she could make the most wonderful shadow pictures on the

walls with her long, flexible fingers. And when they all went picking gum in Rainbow Valley Mary always

got "the biggest chew" and bragged about it. There were times when they hated her and times when they

loved her. But at all times they found her interesting. So they submitted quite meekly to her bossing, and by

the end of a fortnight had come to feel that she must always have been with them.

"It's the queerest thing that Mrs. Wiley hain't been after me," said Mary. "I can't understand it."

"Maybe she isn't going to bother about you at all," said Una. "Then you can just go on staying here."

"This house ain't hardly big enough for me and old Martha," said Mary darkly. "It's a very fine thing to have

enough to eat-I've often wondered what it would be like-but I'm p'ticler about my cooking. And Mrs. Wiley'll

be here yet. She's got a rod in pickle for me all right. I don't think about it so much in daytime but say, girls,

up there in that garret at night I git to thinking and thinking of it, till I just almost wish she'd come and have it

over with. I dunno's one real good whipping would be much worse'n all the dozen I've lived through in my

"No, of course not," said Faith indignantly. "Father would never do such a thing."

"You don't know you're alive," said Mary with a sigh half of envy, half of superiority. "You don't know what

"Nooo, I guess not. But I think they were sometimes spanked when they were small."

"A spanking doesn't amount to anything," said Mary contemptuously. "If my folks had just spanked me I'd

have thought they were petting me. Well, it ain't a fair world. I wouldn't mind taking my share of wallopings

"It isn't right to say that word, Mary," said Una reproachfully. "You promised me you wouldn't say it."

"G'way," responded Mary. "If you knew some of the words I could say if I liked you wouldn't make such a

fuss over darn. And you know very well I hain't ever told any lies since I come here."

"That was diff'runt," she said defiantly. "I knew you wouldn't believe them yarns and I didn't intend you to.

And I really did see something queer one night when I was passing the overharbour graveyard, true's you

live . I dunno whether 'twas a ghost or Sandy Crawford's old white nag, but it looked blamed queer and I tell

RILLA BLYTHE walked proudly, and perhaps a little primly, through the main "street" of the Glen and up

the manse hill, carefully carrying a small basketful of early strawberries, which Susan had coaxed into

lusciousness in one of the sunny nooks of Ingleside. Susan had charged Rilla to give the basket to nobody

except Aunt Martha or Mr. Meredith, and Rilla, very proud of being entrusted with such an errand, was

Susan had dressed her daintily in a white, starched, and embroidered dress, with sash of blue and beaded

slippers. Her long ruddy curls were sleek and round, and Susan had let her put on her best hat, out of

compliment to the manse. It was a somewhat elaborate affair, wherein Susan's taste had had more to say than

Anne's, and Rilla's small soul gloried in its splendours of silk and lace and flowers. She was very conscious

of her hat, and I am afraid she strutted up the manse hill. The strut, or the hat, or both, got on the nerves of

Mary Vance, who was swinging on the lawn gate. Mary's temper was somewhat ruffled just then, into the

bargain. Aunt Martha had refused to let her peel the potatoes and had ordered her out of the kitchen.

"Yah! You'll bring the potatoes to the table with strips of skin hanging to them and half boiled as usual! My,

but it'll be nice to go to your funeral," shrieked Mary. She went out of the kitchen, giving the door such a

bang that even Aunt Martha heard it, and Mr. Meredith in his study felt the vibration and thought absently

that there must have been a slight earthquake shock. Then he went on with his sermon.

"No. Thuthan thaid that I wathn't to give it to anybody but Mithter Mer'dith or Aunt Martha," insisted Rilla.

"You think you're something, don't you, all dressed up like a doll! Look at me. My dress is all rags and I don't

care! I'd rather be ragged than a doll baby. Go home and tell them to put you in a glass case. Look at me-look

Mary executed a wild dance around the dismayed and bewildered Rilla, flirting her ragged skirt and

vociferating "Look at me-look at me" until poor Rilla was dizzy. But as the latter tried to edge away towards

"You give me that basket," she ordered with a grimace. Mary was past mistress in the art of "making faces."

She could give her countenance a most grotesque and unearthly appearance out of which her strange,

Mary let go for a minute and looked around here. Just inside the gate was a small "flake," on which a half a

dozen large codfish were drying. One of Mr. Meredith's parishioners had presented him with them one day,

perhaps in lieu of the subscription he was supposed to pay to the stipend and never did. Mr. Meredith had

thanked him and then forgotten all about the fish, which would have promptly spoiled had not the

indefatigable Mary prepared them for drying and rigged up the "flake" herself on which to dry them.

Mary had a diabolical inspiration. She flew to the "flake" and seized the largest fish there-a huge, flat thing,

nearly as big as herself. With a whoop she swooped down on the terrified Rilla, brandishing her weird

missile. Rilla's courage gave way. To be lambasted with a dried codfish was such an unheardof thing that

Rilla could not face it. With a shriek she dropped her basket and fled. The beautiful berries, which Susan had

so tenderly selected for the minister, rolled in a rosy torrent over the dusty road and were trodden on by the

flying feet of pursuer and pursued. The basket and contents were no longer in Mary's mind. She thought only

of the delight of giving Rilla Blythe the scare of her life. She would teach her to come giving herself airs

Rilla flew down the hill and along the street. Terror lent wings to her feet, and she just managed to keep

ahead of Mary, who was somewhat hampered by her own laughter, but who had breath enough to give

occasional bloodcurdling whoops as she ran, flourishing her codfish in the air. Through the Glen street they

swept, while everybody ran to the windows and gates to see them. Mary felt she was making a tremendous

sensation and enjoyed it. Rilla, blind with terror and spent of breath, felt that she could run no longer. In

another instant that terrible girl would be on her with the codfish. At this point the poor mite stumbled and

fell into the mudpuddle at the end of the street just as Miss Cornelia came out of Carter Flagg's store.

Miss Cornelia took the whole situation in at a glance. So did Mary. The latter stopped short in her mad career

and before Miss Cornelia could speak she had whirled around and was running up as fast as she had run

down. Miss Cornelia's lips tightened ominously, but she knew it was no use to think of chasing her. So she

picked up poor, sobbing, dishevelled Rilla instead and took her home. Rilla was heartbroken. Her dress and

slippers and hat were ruined and her six year old pride had received terrible bruises.

Susan, white with indignation, heard Miss Cornelia's story of Mary Vance's exploit.

"Oh, the hussy-oh, the littly hussy!" she said, as she carried Rilla away for purification and comfort.

"This thing has gone far enough, Anne dearie," said Miss Cornelia resolutely. "Something must be done.

"I understood she was a little girl from overharbour who was visiting at the manse," answered Anne, who

saw the comical side of the codfish chase and secretly thought Rilla was rather vain and needed a lesson or

"I know all the overharbour families who come to our church and that imp doesn't belong to any of them,"

retorted Miss Cornelia. "She is almost in rags and when she goes to church she wears Faith Meredith's old

clothes. There's some mystery here, and I'm going to investigate it, since it seems nobody else will. I believe

she was at the bottom of their goingson in Warren Mead's spruce bush the other day. Did you hear of their

"No. I knew Gilbert had been called to see her, but I did not hear what the trouble was."

"Well, you know she has a weak heart. And one day last week, when she was all alone on the veranda, she

heard the most awful shrieks of 'murder' and 'help' coming from the bush-positively frightful sounds, Anne

dearie. Her heart gave out at once. Warren heard them himself at the barn, and went straight to the bush to

investigate, and there he found all the manse children sitting on a fallen tree and screaming 'murder' at the top

of their lungs. They told him they were only in fun and didn't think anyone would hear them. They were just

playing Indian ambush. Warren went back to the house and found his poor mother unconscious on the

"I think she was very far from being unconscious, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and that you may tie to. I have been

hearing of Amelia Warren's weak heart for forty years. She had it when she was twenty. She enjoys making a

"Oh, that may very well be," said Miss Cornelia. "But the matter has made an awful lot of talk and the Meads

being Methodists makes it that much worse. What is going to become of those children? Sometimes I can't

sleep at nights for thinking about them, Anne dearie. I really do question if they get enough to eat, even, for

their father is so lost in dreams that he doesn't often remember he has a stomach, and that lazy old woman

doesn't bother cooking what she ought. They are just running wild and now that school is closing they'll be

"They do have jolly times," said Anne, laughing over the recollections of some Rainbow Valley happenings

that had come to her ears. "And they are all brave and frank and loyal and truthful."

"That's a true word, Anne dearie, and when you come to think of all the trouble in the church those two

tattling, deceitful youngsters of the last minister's made, I'm inclined to overlook a good deal in the

"When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. dear, they are very nice children," said Susan. "They have got plenty of

original sin in them and that I will admit, but maybe it is just as well, for if they had not they might spoil from

oversweetness. Only I do think it is not proper for them to play in a graveyard and that I will maintain."

"But they really play quite quietly there," excused Anne. "They don't run and yell as they do elsewhere. Such

howls as drift up here from Rainbow Valley sometimes! Though I fancy my own small fry bear a valiant part

in them. They had a sham battle there last night and had to 'roar' themselves, because they had no artillery to

do it, so Jem says. Jem is passing through the stage where all boys hanker to be soldiers."

"Well, thank goodness, he'll never be a soldier," said Miss Cornelia. "I never approved of our boys going to

that South African fracas. But it's over, and not likely anything of the kind will ever happen again. I think the

world is getting more sensible. As for the Merediths, I've said many a time and I say it again, if Mr. Meredith

"Well," said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully, "as a rule, I don't approve of a minister marrying in his

congregation. It generally spoils him. But in this case it would do no harm, for every one likes Elizabeth Kirk

and nobody else is hankering for the job of stepmothering those youngsters. Even the Hill girls balk at that.

They haven't been found laying traps for Mr. Meredith. Elizabeth would make him a good wife if he only

thought so. But the trouble is, she really is homely and, Anne dearie, Mr. Meredith, abstracted as he is, has an

eye for a goodlooking woman, manlike. He isn't so otherworldly when it comes to that, believe me."

"Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but they do say that people have nearly frozen to death in her mother's

spareroom bed before now, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan darkly. "If I felt I had any right to express an opinion

concerning such a solemn matter as a minister's marriage I would say that I think Elizabeth's cousin Sarah,

"Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist," said Miss Cornelia, much as if Susan had suggested a Hottentot as a

"She would likely turn Presbyterian if she married Mr. Meredith," retorted Susan.

Miss Cornelia shook her head. Evidently with her it was, once a Methodist, always a Methodist.

"Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question," she said positively. "And so is Emmeline Drew-though the Drews

are all trying to make the match. They are literally throwing poor Emmeline at his head, and he hasn't the

"Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow," said Susan. "She is the kind of woman, Mrs. Dr. dear, who

would put a hotwater bottle in your bed on a dognight and then have her feelings hurt because you were

not grateful. And her mother was a very poor housekeeper. Did you ever hear the story of her dishcloth? She

lost her dishcloth one day. But the next day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, she found it, in the goose at

the dinnertable, mixed up with the stuffing. Do you think a woman like that would do for a minister's

motherinlaw? I do not. But no doubt I would be better employed in mending little Jem's trousers than in

talking gossip about my neighbours. He tore them something scandalous last night in Rainbow Valley."

"He is up to no good, I fear, Mrs. Dr. dear. He is in the attic writing something in an exercise book. And he

has not done as well in arithmetic this term as he should, so the teacher tells me. Too well I know the reason

why. He has been writing silly rhymes when he should have been doing his sums. I am afraid that boy is

"Well, you take it real calm, Mrs. Dr. dear. I suppose it is the best way, when a person has the strength. I had

an uncle who began by being a poet and ended up by being a tramp. Our family were dreadfully ashamed of

"They tell me Milton could not get along with his wife, and Shakespeare was no more than respectable by

times. As for the Bible, of course things were different in those sacred days although I never had a high

opinion of King David, say what you will. I never knew any good to come of writing poetry, and I hope and

pray that blessed boy will outgrow the tendency. If he does not-we must see what emulsion of codliver oil

MISS CORNELIA descended upon the manse the next day and crossquestioned Mary, who, being a young

person of considerable discernment and astuteness, told her story simple and truthfully, with an entire

absence of complaint or bravado. Miss Cornelia was more favourably impressed than she had expected to be,

"Do you think," she said sternly, "that you showed your gratitude to this family, who have been far too kind

to you, by insulting and chasing one of their little friends as you did yesterday?"

"Say, it was rotten mean of me," admitted Mary easily. "I dunno what possessed me. That old codfish seemed

to come in so blamed handy. But I was awful sorry-I cried last night after I went to bed about it, honest I did.

You ask Una if I didn't. I wouldn't tell her what for 'cause I was ashamed of it, and then she cried, too,

because she was afraid someone had hurt my feelings. Laws, I ain't got any feelings to hurt worth speaking

of. What worries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain't been hunting for me. It ain't like her."

Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but she merely admonished Mary sharply not to take any

further liberties with the minister's codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside.

"If the child's story is true the matter ought to be looked into," she said. "I know something about that Wiley

woman, believe me. Marshall used to be well acquainted with her when he lived overharbour. I heard him

say something last summer about her and a home child she had-likely this very Marycreature. He said some

one told him she was working the child to death and not half feeding and clothing it. You know, Anne dearie,

it has always been my habit neither to make nor meddle with those overharbour folks. But I shall send

Marshall over tomorrow to find out the rights of this if he can. And then I'll speak to the minister. Mind you,

Anne dearie, the Merediths found this girl literally starving in James Taylor's old hay barn. She had been

there all night, cold and hungry and alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after good suppers."

"The poor little thing," said Anne, picturing one of her own dear babies, cold and hungry and alone in such

circumstances. "If she has been illused, Miss Cornelia, she mustn't be taken back to such a place. I was an

"We'll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks," said Miss Cornelia. "Anyway, she can't be left at the

manse. Dear knows what those poor children might learn from her. I understand that she has been known to

swear. But just think of her being there two whole weeks and Mr Meredith never waking up to it! What

business has a man like that to have a family? Why, Anne dearie, he ought to be a monk."

"It's the most amazing thing!" she said. "Mrs. Wiley was found dead in her bed the very morning after this

Marycreature ran away. She has had a bad heart for years and the doctor had warned her it might happen at

any time. She had sent away her hired man and there was nobody in the house. Some neighbours found her

the next day. They missed the child, it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her to her cousin near

Charlottetown as she had said she was going to do. The cousin didn't come to the funeral and so nobody ever

knew that Mary wasn't with her. The people Marshall talked to told him some things about the way Mrs.

Wiley used this Mary that made his blood boil, so he declares. You know, it puts Marshall in a regular fury to

hear of a child being illused. They said she whipped her mercilessly for every little fault or mistake. Some

folks talked of writing to the asylum authorities but everybody's business is nobody's business and it was

"I am sorry that Wiley person is dead," said Susan fiercely. "I should like to go overharbour and give her a

piece of my mind. Starving and beating a child, Mrs. Dr. dear! As you know, I hold with lawful spanking, but

I go no further. And what is to become of this poor child now, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?"

"I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown," said Miss Cornelia. "I think every one hereabouts who wants

a home child has one. I'll see Mr. Meredith tomorrow and tell him my opinion of the whole affair."

"And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, after Miss Cornelia had gone. "She would stick at

nothing, not even at shingling the church spire if she took it into her head. But I cannot understand how even

Cornelia Bryant can talk to a minister as she does. You would think he was just any common person."

When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled herself from the hammock where she had been studying

her lessons and slipped away to Rainbow Valley. The others were already there. Jem and Jerry were playing

quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the Glen blacksmith. Carl was stalking ants on a sunny hillock.

Walter, lying on his stomach among the fern, was reading aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una from a

wonderful book of myths wherein were fascinating accounts of Prester John and the Wandering Jew, divining

rods and tailed men, of Schamir, the worm that split rocks and opened the way to golden treasure, of

Fortunate Isles and swanmaidens. It was a great shock to Walter to learn that William Tell and Gelert were

myths also; and the story of Bishop Hatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best of all he loved the

stories of the Pied Piper and the San Greal. He read them thrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers

tinkled in the summer wind and the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the valley.

"Say, ain't them in'resting lies?" said Mary admiringly when Walter had closed the book.

"No-not exactly. They're like those ghoststories of yours. They weren't true-but you didn't expect us to

"That yarn about the divining rod is no lie, anyhow," said Mary. "Old Jake Crawford overharbour can work

it. They send for him from everywhere when they want to dig a well. And I believe I know the Wandering

"I do-true's you're alive. There was an old man at Mrs. Wiley's one day last fall. He looked old enough to be

anything. She was asking him about cedar posts, if he thought they'd last well. And he said, 'Last well?

They'll last a thousand years. I know, for I've tried them twice.' Now, if he was two thousand years old who

"I don't believe the Wandering Jew would associate with a person like Mrs. Wiley," said Faith decidedly.

"I love the Pied Piper story," said Di, "and so does mother. I always feel so sorry for the poor little lame boy

who couldn't keep up with the others and got shut out of the mountain. He must have been so disappointed. I

think all the rest of his life he'd be wondering what wonderful thing he had missed and wishing he could have

"But how glad his mother must have been," said Una softly. "I think she had been sorry all her life that he

was lame. Perhaps she even used to cry about it. But she would never be sorry again-never. She would be

"Some day," said Walter dreamily, looking afar into the sky, "the Pied Piper will come over the hill up there

and down Rainbow Valley, piping merrily and sweetly. And I will follow him-follow him down to the

shore-down to the sea-away from you all. I don't think I'll want to go-Jem will want to go-it will be such an

adventure-but I won't. Only I'll have to-the music will call and call and call me until I must follow."

"We'll all go," cried Di, catching fire at the flame of Walter's fancy, and halfbelieving she could see the

mocking, retreating figure of the mystic piper in the far, dim end of the valley.

"No. You'll sit here and wait," said Walter, his great, splendid eyes full of strange glamour. "You'll wait for

us to come back. And we may not come-for we cannot come as long as the Piper plays. He may pipe us round

"Oh, dry up," said Mary, shivering. "Don't look like that, Walter Blythe. You give me the creeps. Do you

want to set me bawling? I could just see that horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys following him,

and us girls sitting here waiting all alone. I dunno why it is-I never was one of the blubbering kind-but as

Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this power of his over his companions-to play on their

feelings, waken their fears, thrill their souls. It satisfied some dramatic instinct in him. But under his triumph

was a queer little chill of some mysterious dread. The Pied Piper had seemed very real to him-as if the

fluttering veil that hid the future had for a moment been blown aside in the starlit dusk of Rainbow Valley

Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the doings in antland, brought them all back to the realm of

"Ants are darned in'resting," exclaimed Mary, glad to escape the shadowy Piper's thrall. "Carl and me

watched that bed in the graveyard all Saturday afternoon. I never thought there was so much in bugs. Say, but

they're quarrelsome little cusses-some of 'em like to start a fight 'thout any reason, far's we could see. And

some of 'em are cowards. They got so scared they just doubled theirselves up into a ball and let the other

fellows bang 'em. They wouldn't put up a fight at all. Some of 'em are lazy and won't work. We watched 'em

shirking. And there was one ant died of grief 'cause another ant got killed-wouldn't work-wouldn't eat-just

A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew that Mary had not started out to say "goodness." Faith and Di

exchanged glances that would have done credit to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter and Carl looked

"That slipped out 'fore I thought-it did, honest to-I mean, true's you live, and I swallowed half of it. You folks

over here are mighty squeamish seems to me. Wish you could have heard the Wileys when they had a fight."

"I ain't a lady," said Mary. "What chance've I ever had of being a lady? But I won't say that again if I can help

"Besides," said Una, "you can't expect God to answer your prayers if you take His name in vain, Mary."

"I don't expect Him to answer 'em anyhow," said Mary of little faith. "I've been asking Him for a week to

"Oh, Mary, I've news for you. Mrs. Elliott has been overharbour and what do you think she found out? Mrs.

Wiley is dead-she was found dead in bed the morning after you ran away. So you'll never have to go back to

"Do you s'pose my praying had anything to do with that?" she cried imploringly to Una. "If it had I'll never

"No, no, Mary," said Una comfortingly, "it hadn't. Why, Mrs. Wiley died long before you ever began to pray

"That's so," said Mary recovering from her panic "But I tell you it gave me a start. I wouldn't like to think I'd

prayed anybody to death. I never thought of such a thing as her dying when I was praying. She didn't seem

"I thought as much," said Mary drearily. "And then they'll give me out again-likely to some one just like Mrs.

"I'm going to pray that you won't have to go back," whispered Una, as she and Mary walked home to the

"You can do as you like," said Mary decidedly, "but I vow I won't. I'm good and scared of this praying

business. See what's come of it. If Mrs. Wiley had died after I started praying it would have been my doings."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't," said Una. "I wish I could explain things better-father could, I know, if you'd talk to him,

"Catch me! I don't know what to make of your father, that's the long and short of it. He goes by me and never

"Oh, Mary, it's just father's way. Most of the time he never sees us, either. He is thinking deeply, that is all.

And I am going to pray that God will keep you in Four Winds-because I like you, Mary."

"All right. Only don't let me hear of any more people dying on account of it," said Mary. "I'd like to stay in

Four Winds fine. I like it and I like the harbour and the lighthouse-and you and the Blythes. You're the only

MISS CORNELIA had an interview with Mr. Meredith which proved something of a shock to that abstracted

gentleman. She pointed out to him, none too respectfully, his dereliction of duty in allowing a waif like Mary

Vance to come into his family and associate with his children without knowing or learning anything about

"I don't say there is much harm done, of course," she concluded. "This Marycreature isn't what you might

call bad, when all is said and done. I've been questioning your children and the Blythes, and from what I can

make out there's nothing much to be said against the child except that she's slangy and doesn't use very

refined language. But think what might have happened if she'd been like some of those home children we

know of. You know yourself what that poor little creature the Jim Flaggs' had, taught and told the Flagg

Mr. Meredith did know and was honestly shocked over his own carelessness in the matter.

"But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?" he asked helplessly. "We can't turn the poor child out. She must be

"Of course. We'd better write to the Hopetown authorities at once. Meanwhile, I suppose she might as well

stay here for a few more days till we hear from them. But keep your eyes and ears open, Mr. Meredith."

Susan would have died of horror on the spot if she had heard Miss Cornelia so admonishing a minister. But

Miss Cornelia departed in a warm glow of satisfaction over duty done, and that night Mr. Meredith asked

Mary to come into his study with him. Mary obeyed, looking literally ghastly with fright. But she got the

surprise of her poor, battered little life. This man, of whom she had stood so terribly in awe, was the kindest,

gentlest soul she had ever met. Before she knew what happened Mary found herself pouring all her troubles

into his ear and receiving in return such sympathy and tender understanding as it had never occurred to her to

imagine. Mary left the study with her face and eyes so softened that Una hardly knew her.

"Your father's all right, when he does wake up," she said with a sniff that just escaped being a sob. "It's a pity

he doesn't wake up oftener. He said I wasn't to blame for Mrs. Wiley dying, but that I must try to think of her

good points and not of her bad ones. I dunno what good points she had, unless it was keeping her house clean

and making firstclass butter. I know I 'most wore my arms out scrubbing her old kitchen floor with the knots

Mary proved a rather dull companion in the following days, however. She confided to Una that the more she

thought of going back to the asylum the more she hated it. Una racked her small brains for some way of

averting it, but it was Nan Blythe who came to the rescue with a somewhat startling suggestion.

"Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She has a great big house and Mr. Elliott is always wanting her to have

help. It would be just a splendid place for Mary. Only she'd have to behave herself."

"It wouldn't do any harm if you asked her," said Nan. At first Una did not think she could. She was so shy

that to ask a favour of anybody was agony to her. And she was very much in awe of the bustling, energetic

Mrs. Elliott. She liked her very much and always enjoyed a visit to her house; but to go and ask her to adopt

When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr. Meredith to send Mary to them without delay Mary cried

herself to sleep in the manse attic that night and Una found a desperate courage. The next evening she slipped

away from the manse to the harbour road. Far down in Rainbow Valley she heard joyous laughter but her

way lay not there. She was terribly pale and terribly in earnest-so much so that she took no notice of the

people she met-and old Mrs. Stanley Flagg was quite huffed and said Una Meredith would be as

Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen and Four Winds Point, in a house whose original glaring

green hue had mellowed down to an agreeable greenish gray. Marshall Elliott had planted trees about it and

set out a rose garden and a spruce hedge. It was quite a different place from what it had been in years agone.

The manse children and the Ingleside children liked to go there. It was a beautiful walk down the old harbour

The misty sea was lapping softly far down on the sands. Three big boats were skimming down the harbour

like great white seabirds. A schooner was coming up the channel. The world of Four Winds was steeped in

glowing colour, and subtle music, and strange glamour, and everybody should have been happy in it. But

when Una turned in at Miss Cornelia's gate her very legs had almost refused to carry her.

Miss Cornelia was alone on the veranda. Una had hoped Mr. Elliott would be there. He was so big and hearty

and twinkly that there would be encouragement in his presence. She sat on the little stool Miss Cornelia

brought out and tried to eat the doughnut Miss Cornelia gave her. It stuck in her throat, but she swallowed

desperately lest Miss Cornelia be offended. She could not talk; she was still pale; and her big, darkblue eyes

"What's on your mind, dearie?" she asked. "There's something, that's plain to be seen."

"Yes-keep her-adopt her," said Una eagerly, gaining courage now that the ice was broken. "Oh, Mrs. Elliott,

please do. She doesn't want to go back to the asylum-she cries every night about it. She's so afraid of being

sent to another hard place. And she's so smart-there isn't anything she can't do. I know you wouldn't be sorry

"But, dearie, I don't want help. I'm quite able to do all the work here. And I never thought I'd like to have a

The light went out of Una's eyes. Her lips trembled. She sat down on her stool again, a pathetic little figure of

"Don't-dearie-don't," exclaimed Miss Cornelia in distress. She could never bear to hurt a child. "I don't say I

won't take her-but the idea is so new it has just kerflummuxed me. I must think it over."

"I've never heard her swear exactly," faltered Una uncomfortably. "But I'm afraid she could."

"Some one has to take her," sobbed Una. "Some one has to look after her, Mrs. Elliott."

"That's true. Perhaps it is my duty to do it," said Miss Cornelia with a sigh. "Well, I'll have to talk it over with

Mr. Elliott. So don't say anything about it just yet. Take another doughnut, dearie."

"I'm very fond of doughnuts," she confessed "Aunt Martha never makes any. But Miss Susan at Ingleside

does, and sometimes she lets us have a plateful in Rainbow Valley. Do you know what I do when I'm hungry

"I get out mother's old cook book and read the doughnut recipe-and the other recipes. They sound so nice. I

always do that when I'm hungry-especially after we've had ditto for dinner. Then I read the fried chicken and

"Those manse children will starve to death yet if Mr. Meredith doesn't get married," Miss Cornelia told her

husband indignantly after Una had gone. "And he won't-and what's to be done? And shall we take this

"Just like a man," said his wife, despairingly." 'Take her'-as if that was all. There are a hundred things to be

In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and went up to announce her decision to the Ingleside people first.

"Splendid!" said Anne delightedly. "I've been hoping you would do that very thing, Miss Cornelia. I want that

poor child to get a good home. I was a homeless little orphan just like her once."

"I don't think this Marycreature is or ever will be much like you," retorted Miss Cornelia gloomily. "She's a

cat of another colour. But she's also a human being with an immortal soul to save. I've got a shorter catechism

and a small tooth comb and I'm going to do my duty by her, now that I've set my hand to the plough, believe

"Well, I can do that," flashed Mary. "I know how to behave when I want to just as well as you, Nan Blythe."

"I s'pose she'd die of horror if I did," grinned Mary, her white eyes shining with unholy glee over the idea.

"But you needn't worry, Una. Butter won't melt in my mouth after this. I'll be all prunes and prisms."

"Won't she?" said Mary skeptically. "If I ever find myself in a place where I ain't licked I'll think it's heaven

all right. No fear of me telling lies then. I ain't fond of telling 'em-I'd ruther not, if it comes to that."

The day before Mary's departure from the manse they had a picnic in her honour in Rainbow Valley, and that

evening all the manse children gave her something from their scanty store of treasured things for a keepsake.

Carl gave her his Noah's ark and Jerry his second best jew'sharp. Faith gave her a little hairbrush with a

mirror in the back of it, which Mary had always considered very wonderful. Una hesitated between an old

beaded purse and a gay picture of Daniel in the lion's den, and finally offered Mary her choice. Mary really

"Give me Daniel. I'd rusher have it 'cause I'm partial to lions. Only I wish they'd et Daniel up. It would have

"It's for the last time," she said, "and it's raining tonight, and I hate sleeping up there alone when it's raining

on account of that graveyard. I don't mind it on fine nights, but a night like this I can't see anything but the

rain pouring down on them old white stones, and the wind round the window sounds as if them dead people

"I like rainy nights," said Una, when they were cuddled down together in the little attic room, "and so do the

"I don't mind 'em when I'm not handy to graveyards," said Mary. "If I was alone here I'd cry my eyes out I'd

"Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rainbow Valley quite often I'm sure," said Una. "And you will

"Oh, I'll try," sighed Mary. "But it won't be as easy for me to be good-inside, I mean, as well as outside-as it

"But your people must have had some good qualities as well as bad ones," argued Una. "You must live up to

"I don't believe they had any good qualities," said Mary gloomily. "I never heard of any. My grandfather had

money, but they say he was a rascal. No, I'll just have to start out on my own hook and do the best I can."

"I don't see what He had to do with it," retorted Mary. "It was you put it into Mrs. Elliott's head."

"But God put it into her heart to take you. All my putting it into her head wouldn't have done any good if He

"Well, there may be something in that," admitted Mary. "Mind you, I haven't got anything against God, Una.

I'm willing to give Him a chance. But, honest, I think He's an awful lot like your father-just absentminded

and never taking any notice of a body most of the time, but sometimes waking up all of a suddent and being

"Oh, Mary, no!" exclaimed horrified Una. "God isn't a bit like father-I mean He's a thousand times better and

"If He's as good as your father He'll do for me," said Mary. "When your father was talking to me I felt as if I

"I wish you'd talk to father about Him," sighed Una. "He can explain it all so much better than I can."

"Why, so I will, next time he wakes up," promised Mary. "That night he talked to me in the study he showed

me real clear that my praying didn't kill Mrs. Wiley. My mind's been easy since, but I'm real cautious about

praying. I guess the old rhyme is the safest. Say, Una, it seems to me if one has to pray to anybody it'd be

better to pray to the devil than to God. God's good, anyhow so you say, so He won't do you any harm, but

from all I can make out the devil needs to be pacified. I think the sensible way would be to say to him, 'Good

"Oh, no, no, Mary. I'm sure it couldn't be right to pray to the devil. And it wouldn't do any good because he's

"Well, as to this Godmatter," said Mary stubbornly, "since you and I can't settle it, there ain't no use in

talking more about it until we've a chanct to find out the rights of it. I'll do the best I can alone till then."

"I wisht she was alive," said Mary. "I don't know what's going to become of you youngsters when I'm gone.

Anyhow, do try and keep the house a little tidy. The way people talks about it is scandalous. And the first

thing you know your father will be getting married again and then your noses will be out of joint."

Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying again had never presented itself to her before. She did not

"Stepmothers are awful creatures," Mary went on. "I could make your blood run cold if I was to tell you all I

know about 'em. The Wilson kids across the road from Wiley's had a stepmother. She was just as bad to 'em

"He'll be hounded into it, I expect," said Mary darkly. "All the old maids in the settlement are after him.

There's no being up to them. And the worst of stepmothers is, they always set your father against you. He'd

never care anything about you again. He'd always take her part and her children's part. You see, she'd make

"I wish you hadn't told me this, Mary," cried Una. "It makes me feel so unhappy."

"I only wanted to warn you," said Mary, rather repentantly. "Of course, your father's so absentminded he

mightn't happen to think of getting married again. But it's better to be prepared."

Long after Mary slept serenely little Una lay awake, her eyes smarting with tears. On, how dreadful it would

be if her father should marry somebody who would make him hate her and Jerry and Faith and Carl! She

Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind Miss Cornelia had feared into the manse children's minds. Yet

she had certainly contrived to do a little mischief with the best of intentions. But she slept dreamlessly, while

Una lay awake and the rain fell and the wind wailed around the old gray manse. And the Rev. John Meredith

forgot to go to bed at all because he was absorbed in reading a life of St. Augustine. It was gray dawn when

he finished it and went upstairs, wrestling with the problems of two thousand years ago. The door of the girls'

room was open and he saw Faith lying asleep, rosy and beautiful. He wondered where Una was. Perhaps she

had gone over to "stay all night" with the Blythe girls. She did this occasionally, deeming it a great treat. John

Meredith sighed. He felt that Una's whereabouts ought not to be a mystery to him. Cecelia would have looked

If only Cecelia were still with him! How pretty and gay she had been! How the old manse up at Maywater

had echoed to her songs! And she had gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter and music and leaving

silence-so suddenly that he had never quite got over his feeling of amazement. How could she, the beautiful

The idea of a second marriage had never presented itself seriously to John Meredith. He had loved his wife so

deeply that he believed he could never care for any woman again. He had a vague idea that before very long

Faith would be old enough to take her mother's place. Until then, he must do the best he could alone. He

sighed and went to his room, where the bed was still unmade. Aunt Martha had forgotten it, and Mary had not

dared to make it because Aunt Martha had forbidden her to meddle with anything in the minister's room. But

Mr. Meredith did not notice that it was unmade. His last thoughts were of St. Augustine.

"UGH," said Faith, sitting up in bed with a shiver. "It's raining. I do hate a rainy Sunday. Sunday is dull

"We oughtn't to find Sunday dull," said Una sleepily, trying to pull her drowsy wits together with an uneasy

"But we do, you know," said Faith candidly. "Mary Vance says most Sundays are so dull she could hang

"We ought to like Sunday better than Mary Vance," said Una remorsefully. "We're the minister's children."

"I wish we were a blacksmith's children," protested Faith angrily, hunting for her stockings. "Then people

wouldn't expect us to be better than other children. Just look at the holes in my heels. Mary darned them all

up before she went away, but they're as bad as ever now. Una, get up. I can't get the breakfast alone. Oh, dear.

I wish father and Jerry were home. You wouldn't think we'd miss father much-we don't see much of him

when he is home. And yet everything seems gone. I must run in and see how Aunt Martha is."

"No, she isn't. She's groaning with the misery still. Maybe we ought to tell Dr. Blythe. But she says not-she

never had a doctor in her life and she isn't going to begin now. She says doctors just live by poisoning people.

"No, of course not," said Una indignantly. "I'm sure Dr. Blythe wouldn't poison anybody."

"Well, we'll have to rub Aunt Martha's back again after breakfast. We'd better not make the flannels as hot as

Faith giggled over the remembrance. They had nearly scalded the skin off poor Aunt Martha's back. Una

sighed. Mary Vance would have known just what the precise temperature of flannels for a misery back

should be. Mary knew everything. They knew nothing. And how could they learn, save by bitter experience

The preceding Monday Mr. Meredith had left for Nova Scotia to spend his short vacation, taking Jerry with

him. On Wednesday Aunt Martha was suddenly seized with a recurring and mysterious ailment which she

always called "the misery," and which was tolerably certain to attack her at the most inconvenient times. She

could not rise from her bed, any movement causing agony. A doctor she flatly refused to have. Faith and Una

cooked the meals and waited on her. The less said about the meals the better-yet they were not much worse

than Aunt Martha's had been. There were many women in the village who would have been glad to come and

"You must worry on till I kin git around," she groaned. "Thank goodness, John isn't here. There's a plenty o'

The girls had tried their hand, but so far without much success. The first day it had been too thin. The next

"I hate porridge," said Faith viciously. "When I have a house of my own I'm never going to have a single bit

"What'll your children do then?" asked Una. "Children have to have porridge or they won't grow. Everybody

"They'll have to get along without it or stay runts," retorted Faith stubbornly. "Here, Una, you stir it while I

set the table. If I leave it for a minute the horrid stuff will burn. It's half past nine. We'll be late for Sunday

"I haven't seen anyone going past yet," said Una. "There won't likely be many out. Just see how it's pouring.

And when there's no preaching the folks won't come from a distance to bring the children."

Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced by getting wet in the Rainbow Valley marsh the previous evening

while pursuing dragonflies. He had come home with dripping stockings and boots and had sat out the

evening in them. He could not eat any breakfast and Faith made him go back to bed again. She and Una left

the table as it was and went to Sunday School. There was no one in the school room when they got there and

"There doesn't seem to be anybody at the Methodist Sunday School either," said Una.

"I'm glad," said Faith. "I'd hate to think the Methodists were better at going to Sunday School on rainy

Sundays than the Presbyterians. But there's no preaching in their Church today, either, so likely their

Una washed the dishes, doing them quite nicely, for so much had she learned from Mary Vance. Faith swept

the floor after a fashion and peeled the potatoes for dinner, cutting her finger in the process.

"I wish we had something for dinner besides ditto," sighed Una. "I'm so tired of it. The Blythe children don't

know what ditto is. And we never have any pudding. Nan says Susan would faint if they had no pudding on

"I don't want to be like other people," laughed Faith, tying up her bleeding finger. "I like being myself. It's

more interesting. Jessie Drew is as good a housekeeper as her mother, but would you want to be as stupid as

"But our house isn't right. Mary Vance says so. She says people talk about it being so untidy."

"We'll clean it all up," she cried. "We'll go right to work tomorrow. It's a real good chance when Aunt

Martha is laid up and can't interfere with us. We'll have it all lovely and clean when father comes home, just

like it was when Mary went away. Any one can sweep and dust and wash windows. People won't be able to

talk about us any more. Jem Blythe says it's only old cats that talk, but their talk hurts just as much as

"I hope it will be fine tomorrow," said Una, fired with enthusiasm. "Oh, Faith, it will be splendid to be all

"I hope Aunt Martha's misery will last over tomorrow," said Faith. "If it doesn't we won't get a single thing

Faith's amiable wish was fulfilled. The next day found Aunt Martha still unable to rise. Carl, too, was still

sick and easily prevailed on to stay in bed. Neither Faith nor Una had any idea how sick the boy really was; a

watchful mother would have had a doctor without delay; but there was no mother, and poor little Carl, with

his sore throat and aching head and crimson cheeks, rolled himself up in his twisted bedclothes and suffered

alone, somewhat comforted by the companionship of a small green lizard in the pocket of his ragged nighty.

The world was full of summer sunshine after the rain. It was a peerless day for housecleaning and Faith and

"We'll clean the diningroom and the parlour," said Faith. "It wouldn't do to meddle with the study, and it

doesn't matter much about the upstairs. The first thing is to take everything out."

Accordingly, everything was taken out. The furniture was piled on the veranda and lawn and the Methodist

graveyard fence was gaily draped with rugs. An orgy of sweeping followed, with an attempt at dusting on

Una's part, while Faith washed the windows of the diningroom, breaking one pane and cracking two in the

"They don't look right, somehow," she said. "Mrs. Elliott's and Susan's windows just shine and sparkle."

"Never mind. They let the sunshine through just as well," said Faith cheerfully. "They must be clean after all

the soap and water I've used, and that's the main thing. Now, it's past eleven, so I'll wipe up this mess on the

floor and we'll go outside. You dust the furniture and I'll shake the rugs. I'm going to do it in the graveyard. I

Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, flapping and shaking rugs, was

real fun. To be sure, Elder Abraham Clow and his wife, driving past in their capacious doubleseated buggy,

"I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," said Mrs. Elder Abraham, more

Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow party. It did not worry her that the elder and his wife did not

return her greeting. Everybody knew that Elder Abraham had never been known to smile since he had been

appointed Superintendent of the Sunday School fourteen years previously. But it hurt her that Minnie and

Adella Clow did not wave back. Faith liked Minnie and Adella. Next to the Blythes, they were her best

friends in school and she always helped Adella with her sums. This was gratitude for you. Her friends cut her

because she was shaking rugs in an old graveyard where, as Mary Vance said, not a living soul had been

buried for years. Faith flounced around to the veranda, where she found Una grieved in spirit because the

"I suppose they're mad over something," said Faith. "Perhaps they're jealous because we play so much in

Rainbow Valley with the Blythes. Well, just wait till school opens and Adella wants me to show her how to

do her sums! We'll get square then. Come on, let's put the things back in. I'm tired to death and I don't believe

the rooms will look much better than before we started-though I shook out pecks of dust in the graveyard. I

It was two o'clock before the tired girls finished the two rooms. They got a dreary bite in the kitchen and

intended to wash the dishes at once. But Faith happened to pick up a new storybook Di Blythe had lent her

and was lost to the world until sunset. Una took a cup of rank tea up to Carl but found him asleep; so she

curled herself up on Jerry's bed and went to sleep too. Meanwhile, a weird story flew through Glen St. Mary

and folks asked each other seriously what was to be done with those manse youngsters.

"That is past laughing at, believe me," said Miss Cornelia to her husband, with a heavy sigh. "I couldn't

believe it at first. Miranda Drew brought the story home from the Methodist Sunday School this afternoon

and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. Elder Abraham says she and the Elder saw it with their own eyes."

"Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from Sunday School this morning and cleaned house," said Miss

Cornelia, in accents of despair. "When Elder Abraham went home from the church-he had stayed behind to

straighten out the library books-he saw them shaking rugs in the Methodist graveyard. I can never look a

A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more scandalous as it spread, until the overharbour people heard

that the manse children had not only cleaned house and put out a washing on Sunday, but had wound up with

an afternoon picnic in the graveyard while the Methodist Sunday School was going on. The only household

which remained in blissful ignorance of the terrible thing was the manse itself; on what Faith and Una fondly

believed to be Tuesday it rained again; for the next three days it rained; nobody came near the manse; the

manse folk went nowhere; they might have waded through the misty Rainbow Valley up to Ingleside, but all

"This is the last of our bread," said Faith, "and the ditto is done. If Aunt Martha doesn't get better soon what

"We can buy some bread in the village and there's the codfish Mary dried," said Una. "But we don't know

Boil it they did; but as it did not occur to them to soak it beforehand it was too salty to eat. That night they

were very hungry; but by the following day their troubles were over. Sunshine returned to the world; Carl

was well and Aunt Martha's misery left her as suddenly as it had come; the butcher called at the manse and

chased famine away. To crown all, the Blythes returned home, and that evening they and the manse children

and Mary Vance kept sunset tryst once more in Rainbow Valley, where the daisies were floating upon the

grass like spirits of the dew and the bells on the Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in the scented twilight.

"WELL, you kids have gone and done it now," was Mary's greeting, as she joined them in the Valley. Miss

Cornelia was up at Ingleside, holding agonized conclave with Anne and Susan, and Mary hoped that the

session might be a long one, for it was all of two weeks since she had been allowed to revel with her chums

"It's you manse young ones, I mean," said Mary. "It was just awful of you. I wouldn't have done such a thing

for the world, and I weren't brought up in a manse-weren't brought up anywhere -just come up."

"Done! You'd better ask! The talk is something terrible. I expect it's ruined your father in this congregation.

He'll never be able to live it down, poor man! Everybody blames him for it, and that isn't fair. But nothing is

"What have we done?" asked Una again, despairingly. Faith said nothing, but her eyes flashed goldenbrown

"Oh, don't pretend innocence," said Mary, witheringly. "Everybody knows what you have done."

"I don't," interjected Jem Blythe indignantly. "Don't let me catch you making Una cry, Mary Vance. What are

"I s'pose you don't know, since you're just back from up west," said Mary, somewhat subdued. Jem could

"That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday School last Sunday and cleaned house."

"I didn't suppose you'd deny it, after the way you've combed me down for lying," she said. "What's the good

of saying you didn't? Everybody knows you did. Elder Clow and his wife saw you. Some people say it will

"They were nice enough to take you in and feed you and clothe you when you were starving in Mr. Taylor's

"I am grateful," retorted Mary. "You'd know it if you'd heard me standing up for Mr. Meredith through thick

and thin. I've blistered my tongue talking for him this week. I've said again and again that he isn't to blame if

"But we didn't," protested Una. "It was Monday we cleaned house. Wasn't it, Faith?"

"Of course it was," said Faith, with flashing eyes. "We went to Sunday School in spite of the rain-and no one

"It was Saturday it rained," said Mary. "Sunday was as fine as silk. I wasn't at Sunday School because I had

toothache, but every one else was and they saw all your stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham and Mrs.

"Look here," said Jem resolutely, "this thing must be cleared up. Somebody has made a mistake. Sunday was

"Prayermeeting was Thursday night," cried Faith, "and Adam flew into the souppot on Friday when Aunt

Martha's cat chased him, and spoiled our dinner; and Saturday there was a snake in the cellar and Carl caught

"Prayermeeting was Wednesday night," said Mary. "Elder Baxter was to lead and he couldn't go Thursday

night and it was changed to Wednesday. You were just a day out, Faith Meredith, and you did work on

"It'll be all right when people find out it was just a mistake," said Faith carelessly. "We'll explain."

"You can explain till you're black in the face," said Mary, "but a lie like that'll travel faster'n further than you

ever will. I 've seen more of the world than you and I know. Besides, there are plenty of folks won't believe it

"You can't tell everybody," said Mary. "No, I tell you you've disgraced your father."

Una's evening was spoiled by this dire reflection, but Faith refused to be made uncomfortable. Besides, she

had a plan that would put everything right. So she put the past with its mistake behind her and gave herself

over to enjoyment of the present. Jem went away to fish and Walter came out of his reverie and proceeded to

describe the woods of heaven. Mary pricked up her ears and listened respectfully. Despite her awe of Walter

she revelled in his "book talk." It always gave her a delightful sensation. Walter had been reading his

"There were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree, And there

were forests ancient as the hills Enfolding sunny spots of greenery." "I didn't know there was any woods in

heaven," said Mary, with a long breath. "I thought it was all streets-and streets-and streets."

"Of course there are woods," said Nan. "Mother can't live without trees and I can't, so what would be the use

"There are cities, too," said the young dreamer, "splendid cities-coloured just like the sunset, with sapphire

towers and rainbow domes. They are built of gold and diamonds-whole streets of diamonds, flashing like the

sun. In the squares there are crystal fountains kissed by the light, and everywhere the asphodel blooms-the

"Fancy!" said Mary. "I saw the main street in Charlottetown once and I thought it was real grand, but I s'pose

it's nothing to heaven. Well, it all sounds gorgeous the way you tell it, but won't it be kind of dull, too?"

"Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the angels' backs are turned," said Faith comfortably.

"The Bible doesn't say so," cried Mary, who had read so much of the Bible on Sunday afternoons under Miss

"No-not exactly-but I think it means that heaven will be just like what you'd like it to be."

"I'd like it to be just like Rainbow Valley," said Mary, "with all you kids to gas and play with. That's good

enough for me. Anyhow, we can't go to heaven till we're dead and maybe not then, so what's the use of

"We ought to know more about heaven than Walter does when we're the minister's family," said Una, as they

"We know just as much, but Walter can imagine," said Faith. "Mrs. Elliott says he gets it from his mother."

"Don't worry over that. I've thought of a great plan to explain so that everybody will know," said Faith. "Just

THE Rev. Dr. Cooper preached in Glen St. Mary the next evening and the Presbyterian Church was crowded

with people from near and far. The Reverend Doctor was reputed to be a very eloquent speaker; and, bearing

in mind the old dictum that a minister should take his best clothes to the city and his best sermons to the

country, he delivered a very scholarly and impressive discourse. But when the folks went home that night it

was not of Dr. Cooper's sermon they talked. They had completely forgotten all about it.

Dr. Cooper had concluded with a fervent appeal, had wiped the perspiration from his massive brow, had said

"Let us pray" as he was famed for saying it, and had duly prayed. There was a slight pause. In Glen St. Mary

church the old fashion of taking the collection after the sermon instead of before still held-mainly because the

Methodists had adopted the new fashion first, and Miss Cornelia and Elder Clow would not hear of following

where Methodists had led. Charles Baxter and Thomas Douglas, whose duty it was to pass the plates, were on

the point of rising to their feet. The organist had got out the music of her anthem and the choir had cleared its

throat. Suddenly Faith Meredith rose in the manse pew, walked up to the pulpit platform, and faced the

Miss Cornelia half rose in her seat and then sat down again. Her pew was far back and it occurred to her that

whatever Faith meant to do or say would be half done or said before she could reach her. There was no use

making the exhibition worse than it had to be. With an anguished glance at Mrs. Dr. Blythe, and another at

Deacon Warren of the Methodist Church, Miss Cornelia resigned herself to another scandal.

Faith, having spilled ink on her good dress, had serenely put on an old one of faded pink print. A caticornered

rent in the skirt had been darned with scarlet tracing cotton and the hem had been let down, showing a bright

strip of unfaded pink around the skirt. But Faith was not thinking of her clothes at all. She was feeling

suddenly nervous. What had seemed easy in imagination was rather hard in reality. Confronted by all those

staring questioning eyes Faith's courage almost failed her. The lights were so bright, the silence so awesome.

She thought she could not speak after all. But she must -her father must be cleared of suspicion. Only-the

Una's little pearlpure face gleamed up at her beseechingly from the manse pew. The Blythe children were

lost in amazement. Back under the gallery Faith saw the sweet graciousness of Miss Rosemary West's smile

and the amusement of Miss Ellen's. But none of these helped her. It was Bertie Shakespeare Drew who saved

the situation. Bertie Shakespeare sat in the front seat of the gallery and he made a derisive face at Faith. Faith

promptly made a dreadful one back at him, and, in her anger over being grimaced at by Bertie Shakespeare,

"I want to explain something," she said, "and I want to do it now because everybody will hear it that heard

the other. People are saying that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of going to

Sunday School. Well, we did-but we didn't mean to. We got mixed up in the days of the week. It was all

Elder Baxter's fault"-sensation in Baxter's pew-"because he went and changed the prayermeeting to

Wednesday night and then we thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday.

Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha, so they couldn't put us right. We went to Sunday School in all

that rain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we thought we'd clean house on Monday and stop old cats

from talking about how dirty the manse was"-general sensation all over the church-"and we did. I shook the

rugs in the Methodist graveyard because it was such a convenient place and not because I meant to be

disrespectful of the dead. It isn't the dead folks who have made the fuss over this-it's the living folks. And it

isn't right for any of you to blame my father for this, because he was away and didn't know, and anyhow we

thought it was Monday. He's just the best father that ever lived in the world and we love him with all our

Faith's bravado ebbed out in a sob. She ran down the steps and flashed out of the side door of the church.

There the friendly starlit, summer night comforted her and the ache went out of her eyes and throat. She felt

very happy. The dreadful explanation was over and everybody knew now that her father wasn't to blame and

that she and Una were not so wicked as to have cleaned house knowingly on Sunday.

Inside the church people gazed blankly at each other, but Thomas Douglas rose and walked up the aisle with

a set face. His duty was clear; the collection must be taken if the skies fell. Taken it was; the choir sang the

anthem, with a dismal conviction that it fell terribly flat, and Dr. Cooper gave out the concluding hymn and

pronounced the benediction with considerably less unction than usual. The Reverend Doctor had a sense of

humour and Faith's performance tickled him. Besides, John Meredith was well known in Presbyterian circles.

Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon, but before his coming Faith contrived to scandalize Glen St.

Mary again. In the reaction from Sunday evening's intensity and strain she was especially full of what Miss

Cornelia would have called "devilment" on Monday. This led her to dare Walter Blythe to ride through Main

The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals, supposed to belong to Bertie Shakespeare Drew's father,

which had been haunting the roadside by the manse for a couple of weeks. Walter did not want to ride a pig

through Glen St. Mary, but whatever Faith Meredith dared him to do must be done. They tore down the hill

and through the village, Faith bent double with laughter over her terrified courser, Walter crimson with

shame. They tore past the minister himself, just coming home from the station; he, being a little less dreamy

and abstracted than usual-owing to having had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia who always wakened

him up temporarily-noticed them, and thought he really must speak to Faith about it and tell her that such

conduct was not seemly. But he had forgotten the trifling incident by the time he reached home. They passed

Mrs. Alec Davis, who shrieked in horror, and they passed Miss Rosemary West who laughed and sighed.

Finally, just before the pigs swooped into Bertie Shakespeare Drew's back yard, never to emerge therefrom

again, so great had been the shock to their nerves-Faith and Walter jumped off, as Dr. and Mrs. Blythe drove

"Perhaps I do spoil them a little," said Anne contritely, "but, oh, Gilbert, when I think of my own childhood

before I came to Green Gables I haven't the heart to be very strict. How hungry for love and fun I was-an

unloved little drudge with never a chance to play! They do have such good times with the manse children."

"Do you really think it hurt them?" she said. "I don't think anything could hurt those animals. They've been

the plague of the neighbourhood this summer and the Drews won't shut them up. But I'll talk to Walter-if I

Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening to relieve her feelings over Sunday night. To her surprise she

found that Anne did not view Faith's performance in quite the same light as she did.

"I thought there was something brave and pathetic in her getting up there before that churchful of people, to

confess," she said. "You could see she was frightened to death-yet she was bound to clear her father. I loved

"Oh, of course, the poor child meant well," sighed Miss Cornelia, "but just the same it was a terrible thing to

do, and is making more talk than the housecleaning on Sunday. That had begun to die away, and this has

started it all up again. Rosemary West is like you-she said last night as she left the church that it was a plucky

thing for Faith to do, but it made her feel sorry for the child, too. Miss Ellen thought it all a good joke, and

said she hadn't had as much fun in church for years. Of course they don't care-they are Episcopalians. But we

Presbyterians feel it. And there were so many hotel people there that night and scores of Methodists. Mrs.

Leander Crawford cried, she felt so bad. And Mrs. Alec Davis said the little hussy ought to be spanked."

"Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in church," said Susan contemptuously. "She cries over every

affecting thing the minister says. But you do not often see her name on a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. dear.

Tears come cheaper. She tried to talk to me one day about Aunt Martha being such a dirty housekeeper; and I

wanted to say, 'Every one knows that you have been seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen washpan, Mrs.

Leander Crawford!' But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because I have too much respect for myself to

condescend to argue with the likes of her. But I could tell worse things than that of Mrs. Leander Crawford, if

I was disposed to gossip. And as for Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said that to me, Mrs. Dr. dear, do you know

what I would have said? I would have said, 'I have no doubt you would like to spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, but

you will never have the chance to spank a minister's daughter either in this world or in that which is to

"If poor Faith had only been decently dressed," lamented Miss Cornelia again, "it wouldn't have been quite

that bad. But that dress looked dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform."

"It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "They are clean children. They may be very heedless and

reckless, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am not saying they are not, but they never forget to wash behind their ears."

"The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sunday," persisted Miss Cornelia. "She will grow up just as

careless and impractical as her father, believe me. I suppose Carl would have known better if he hadn't been

sick. I don't know what was wrong with him, but I think it very likely he had been eating those blueberries

that grew in the graveyard. No wonder they made him sick. If I was a Methodist I'd try to keep my graveyard

"I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours that grow on the dyke," said Susan hopefully. "I do not think

any minister's son would eat blueberries that grew on the graves of dead people. You know it would not be so

"The worst of last night's performance was the face Faith made made at somebody in the congregation before

she started in," said Miss Cornelia. "Elder Clow declares she made it at him. And did you hear that she was

"I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave him a little-a very little-scolding about it. He did not say much, but he

gave me the impression that it had been his idea and that Faith was not to blame."

"I do not not believe that, Mrs. Dr. dear," cried Susan, up in arms. "That is just Walter's way-to take the

blame on himself. But you know as well as I do, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that blessed child would never have

"Oh, there's no doubt the notion was hatched in Faith Meredith's brain," said Miss Cornelia. "And I don't say

that I'm sorry that Amos Drew's old pigs did get their comeuppance for once. But the minister's daughter!"

"And the doctor's son!" said Anne, mimicking Miss Cornelia's tone. Then she laughed. "Dear Miss Cornelia,

they're only little children. And you know they've never yet done anything bad-they're just heedless and

"There are times, Anne dearie, when I know by your eyes that your soberness is put on like a garment and

you're really aching to do something wild and young again. Well, I feel encouraged. Somehow, a talk with

you always does have that effect on me. Now, when I go to see Barbara Samson, it's just the opposite. She

makes me feel that everything's wrong and always will be. But of course living all your life with a man like

"It is a very strange thing to think that she married Joe Samson after all her chances," remarked Susan. "She

was much sought after when she was a girl. She used to boast to me that she had twentyone beaus and Mr.

"Well, he was a sort of hangeron, Mrs. Dr. dear, but you could not exactly call him a beau. He did not really

have any intentions. Twentyone beaus-and me that never had one! But Barbara went through the woods and

picked up the crooked stick after all. And yet they say her husband can make better baking powder biscuits

"Which reminds me that I have company coming to tea tomorrow and I must go home and set my bread,"

said Miss Cornelia. "Mary said she could set it and no doubt she could. But while I live and move and have

"I've no fault to find with Mary," said Miss Cornelia rather gloomily. "She's getting some flesh on her bones

and she's clean and respectful-though there's more in her than I can fathom. She's a sly puss. If you dug for a

thousand years you couldn't get to the bottom of that child's mind, believe me! As for work, I never saw

anything like her. She eats it up. Mrs. Wiley may have been cruel to her, but folks needn't say she made Mary

work. Mary's a born worker. Sometimes I wonder which will wear out first-her legs or her tongue. I don't

have enough to do to keep me out of mischief these days. I'll be real glad when school opens, for then I'll

have something to do again. Mary doesn't want to go to school, but I put my foot down and said that she

must. I shall not have the Methodists saying that I kept her out of school while I lolled in idleness."

THERE was a little unfailing spring, always icy cold and crystal pure, in a certain birchscreened hollow of

Rainbow Valley in the lower corner near the marsh. Not a great many people knew of its existence. The

manse and Ingleside children knew, of course, as they knew everything else about the magic valley.

Occasionally they went there to get a drink, and it figured in many of their plays as a fountain of old romance.

Anne knew of it and loved it because it somehow reminded her of the beloved Dryad's Bubble at Green

Gables. Rosemary West knew of it; it was her fountain of romance, too. Eighteen years ago she had sat

behind it one spring twilight and heard Martin Crawford stammer out a confession of fervent, boyish love.

She had whispered her own secret in return, and they had kissed and promised by the wild wood spring. They

had never stood together by it again-Martin had sailed on his fatal voyage soon after; but to Rosemary West it

was always a sacred spot, hallowed by that immortal hour of youth and love. Whenever she passed near it she

turned aside to hold a secret tryst with an old dream-a dream from which the pain had long gone, leaving only

The spring was a hidden thing. You might have passed within ten feet of it and never have suspected its

existence. Two generations past a huge old pine had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left of the tree but

its crumbling trunk out of which the ferns grew thickly, making a green roof and a lacy screen for the water.

A mapletree grew beside it with a curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping along the ground for a little

way before shooting up into the air, and so forming a quaint seat; and September had flung a scarf of pale

John Meredith, taking the crosslots road through Rainbow Valley on his way home from some pastoral

visitations around the Harbour head one evening, turned aside to drink of the little spring. Walter Blythe had

shown it to him one afternoon only a few days before, and they had had a long talk together on the maple

seat. John Meredith, under all his shyness and aloofness, had the heart of a boy. He had been called Jack in

his youth, though nobody in Glen St. Mary would ever have believed it. Walter and he had taken to each

other and had talked unreservedly. Mr. Meredith found his way into some sealed and sacred chambers of the

lad's soul wherein not even Di had ever looked. They were to be chums from that friendly hour and Walter

"I never believed before that it was possible to get really acquainted with a minister," he told his mother that

John Meredith drank from his slender white hand, whose grip of steel always surprised people who were

unacquainted with it, and then sat down on the maple seat. He was in no hurry to go home; this was a

beautiful spot and he was mentally weary after a round of rather uninspiring conversations with many good

and stupid people. The moon was rising. Rainbow Valley was windhaunted and starsentinelled only where

he was, but afar from the upper end came the gay notes of children's laughter and voices.

The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight, the glimmer of the little spring, the soft croon of the brook,

the wavering grace of the brackens all wove a white magic round John Meredith. He forgot congregational

worries and spiritual problems; the years slipped away from him; he was a young divinity student again and

the roses of June were blooming red and fragrant on the dark, queenly head of his Cecilia. He sat there and

dreamed like any boy. And it was at this propitious moment that Rosemary West stepped aside from the

bypath and stood beside him in that dangerous, spellweaving place. John Meredith stood up as she came in

He had met her in his church once or twice and shaken hands with her abstractedly as he did with anyone he

happened to encounter on his way down the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, for the Wests were

Episcopalians, with church affinities in Lowbridge, and no occasion for calling upon them had ever arisen.

Before tonight, if anyone had asked John Meredith what Rosemary West looked like he would not have had

the slightest notion. But he was never to forget her, as she appeared to him in the glamour of kind moonlight

She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who had always been his ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia had

been small and dark and vivacious-Rosemary West was tall and fair and placid, yet John Meredith thought he

She was bareheaded and her golden hair-hair of a warm gold, "molasses taffy" colour as Di Blythe had

said-was pinned in sleek, close coils over her head; she had large, tranquil, blue eyes that always seemed full

Rosemary West was always called a "sweet woman." She was so sweet that even her highbred, stately air

had never gained for her the reputation of being "stuckup," which it would inevitably have done in the case

of anyone else in Glen St. Mary. Life had taught her to be brave, to be patient, to love, to forgive. She had

watched the ship on which her lover went sailing out of Four Winds Harbour into the sunset. But, though she

watched long, she had never seen it coming sailing back. That vigil had taken girlhood from her eyes, yet she

kept her youth to a marvellous degree. Perhaps this was because she always seemed to preserve that attitude

of delighted surprise towards life which most of us leave behind in childhood-an attitude which not only

made Rosemary herself seem young, but flung a pleasing illusion of youth over the consciousness of every

John Meredith was startled by her loveliness and Rosemary was startled by his presence. She had never

thought she would find anyone by that remote spring, least of all the recluse of Glen St. Mary manse. She

almost dropped the heavy armful of books she was carrying home from the Glen lending library, and then, to

cover her confusion, she told one of those small fibs which even the best of women do tell at times.

"I-I came for a drink," she said, stammering a little, in answer to Mr. Meredith's grave "good evening, Miss

West." She felt that she was an unpardonable goose and she longed to shake herself. But John Meredith was

not a vain man and he knew she would likely have been as much startled had she met old Elder Clow in that

unexpected fashion. Her confusion put him at ease and he forgot to be shy; besides, even the shyest of men

"Let me get you a cup," he said smiling. There was a cup near by, if he had only known it, a cracked,

handleless blue cup secreted under the maple by the Rainbow Valley children; but he did not know it, so he

stepped out to one of the birchtrees and stripped a bit of its white skin away. Deftly he fashioned this into a

Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish herself for her fib, for she was not in the least thirsty, and to

drink a fairly large cupful of water when you are not thirsty is somewhat of an ordeal. Yet the memory of that

draught was to be very pleasant to Rosemary. In after years it seemed to her that there was something

sacramental about it. Perhaps this was because of what the minister did when she handed him back the cup.

He stooped again and filled it and drank of it himself. It was only by accident that he put his lips just where

Rosemary had put hers, and Rosemary knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curious significance for her. They two

had drunk of the same cup. She remembered idly that an old aunt of hers used to say that when two people

did this their afterlives would be linked in some fashion, whether for good or ill.

John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He did not know what to do with it. The logical thing would have

been to toss it away, but somehow he was disinclined to do this. Rosemary held out her hand for it.

"Will you let me have it?" she said. "You made it so knackily. I never saw anyone make a birch cup so since

"I learned how to make them when I was a boy, camping out one summer. An old hunter taught me," said Mr.

Rosemary was startled into another fib and said oh, they were not heavy. But the minister took them from her

with quite a masterful air and they walked away together. It was the first time Rosemary had stood by the

valley spring without thinking of Martin Crawford. The mystic tryst had been broken.

The little bypath wound around the marsh and then struck up the long wooded hill on the top of which

Rosemary lived. Beyond, through the trees, they could see the moonlight shining across the level summer

fields. But the little path was shadowy and narrow. Trees crowded over it, and trees are never quite as

friendly to human beings after nightfall as they are in daylight. They wrap themselves away from us. They

whisper and plot furtively. If they reach out a hand to us it has a hostile, tentative touch. People walking amid

trees after night always draw closer together instinctively and involuntarily, making an alliance, physical and

mental, against certain alien powers around them. Rosemary's dress brushed against John Meredith as they

walked. Not even an absentminded minister, who was after all a young man still, though he firmly believed

he had outlived romance, could be insensible to the charm of the night and the path and the companion.

It is never quite safe to think we have done with life. When we imagine we have finished our story fate has a

trick of turning the page and showing us yet another chapter. These two people each thought their hearts

belonged irrevocably to the past; but they both found their walk up that hill very pleasant. Rosemary thought

the Glen minister was by no means as shy and tonguetied as he had been represented. He seemed to find no

difficulty in talking easily and freely. Glen housewives would have been amazed had they heard him. But

then so many Glen housewives talked only gossip and the price of eggs, and John Meredith was not interested

in either. He talked to Rosemary of books and music and wideworld doings and something of his own

history, and found that she could understand and respond. Rosemary, it appeared, possessed a book which

Mr. Meredith had not read and wished to read. She offered to lend it to him and when they reached the old

The house itself was an oldfashioned gray one, hung with vines, through which the light in the sittingroom

winked in friendly fashion. It looked down the Glen, over the harbour, silvered in the moonlight, to the

sanddunes and the moaning ocean. They walked in through a garden that always seemed to smell of roses,

even when no roses were in bloom. There was a sisterhood of lilies at the gate and a ribbon of asters on either

side of the broad walk, and a lacery of fir trees on the hill's edge beyond the house.

"You have the whole world at your doorstep here," said John Meredith, with a long breath. "What a

view-what an outlook! At times I feel stifled down there in the Glen. You can breathe up here."

"It is calm tonight," said Rosemary laughing. "If there were a wind it would blow your breath away. We get

'a' the airts the wind can blow' up here. This place should be called Four Winds instead of the Harbour."

"I like wind," he said. "A day when there is no wind seems to me dead. A windy day wakes me up." He gave

a conscious laugh. "On a calm day I fall into day dreams. No doubt you know my reputation, Miss West. If I

cut you dead the next time we meet don't put it down to bad manners. Please understand that it is only

They found Ellen West in the sitting room when they went in. She laid her glasses down on the book she had

been reading and looked at them in amazement tinctured with something else. But she shook hands amiably

with Mr. Meredith and he sat down and talked to her, while Rosemary hunted out his book.

Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary, and so different from her that it was hard to believe they were

sisters. She was dark and massive, with black hair, thick, black eyebrows and eyes of the clear, slaty blue of

the gulf water in a north wind. She had a rather stern, forbidding look, but she was in reality very jolly, with a

hearty, gurgling laugh and a deep, mellow, pleasant voice with a suggestion of masculinity about it. She had

once remarked to Rosemary that she would really like to have a talk with that Presbyterian minister at the

Glen, to see if he could find a word to say to a woman when he was cornered. She had her chance now and

she tackled him on world politics. Miss Ellen, who was a great reader, had been devouring a book on the

"I believe you!" Miss Ellen nodded. "Mark my words, Mr. Meredith, that man is going to fight somebody yet.

"If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate a great war I hardly think so," said Mr. Meredith."The day has

"Bless you, it hasn't," rumbled Ellen. "The day never goes by for men and nations to make asses of

themselves and take to the fists. The millenniun isn't that near, Mr. Meredith, and you don't think it is any

more than I do. As for this Kaiser, mark my words, he is going to make a heap of trouble"-and Miss Ellen

prodded her book emphatically with her long finger. "Yes, if he isn't nipped in the bud he's going to make

trouble. We'll live to see it-you and I will live to see it, Mr. Meredith. And who is going to nip him? England

Mr. Meredith couldn't tell her, but they plunged into a discussion of German militarism that lasted long after

Rosemary had found the book. Rosemary said nothing, but sat in a little rocker behind Ellen and stroked an

important black cat meditatively. John Meredith hunted big game in Europe with Ellen, but he looked oftener

at Rosemary than at Ellen, and Ellen noticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the door with him and come

Rosemary quivered. Ellen's speech was like a blow to her. It rubbed all the bloom off the pleasant evening.

"Nonsense," she said, and laughed, a little too carelessly. "You see a beau for me in every bush, Ellen. Why

he told me all about his wife tonight-how much she was to him-how empty her death had left the world."

"Well, that may be his way of courting," retorted Ellen. "Men have all kinds of ways, I understand. But don't

"There is no need of my either forgetting or remembering it," said Rosemary, a little wearily. "You forget that

I'm an old maid, Ellen. It is only your sisterly delusion that I am still young and blooming and dangerous. Mr.

Meredith merely wants to be a friend-if he wants that much itself. He'll forget us both long before he gets

"I've no objection to your being friends with him," conceded Ellen, "but it musn't go beyond friendship,

remember. I'm always suspicious of widowers. They are not given to romantic ideas about friendship. They're

apt to mean business. As for this Presbyterian man, what do they call him shy for? He's not a bit shy, though

he may be absentminded-so absentminded that he forgot to say goodnight to me when you started to go to

the door with him. He's got brains, too. There's so few men round here that can talk sense to a body. I've

enjoyed the evening. I wouldn't mind seeing more of him. But no philandering, Rosemary, mind you-no

Rosemary was quite used to being warned by Ellen from philandering if she so much as talked five minutes

to any marriageable man under eighty or over eighteen. She had always laughed at the warning with

unfeigned amusement. This time it did not amuse her-it irritated her a little. Who wanted to philander?

"Don't be such a goose, Ellen," she said with unaccustomed shortness as she took her lamp. She went upstairs

"What is she so cross about, St. George?" she asked. "When you howl you're hit, I've always heard, George.

But she promised, Saint-she promised, and we Wests always keep our word. So it won't matter if he does

Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a long while looking out of the window across the moonlit garden to

the distant, shining harbour. She felt vaguely upset and unsettled. She was suddenly tired of outworn dreams.

And in the garden the petals of the last red rose were scattered by a sudden little wind. Summer was over-it

JOHN MEREDITH walked slowly home. At first he thought a little about Rosemary, but by the time he

reached Rainbow Valley he had forgotten all about her and was meditating on a point regarding German

theology which Ellen had raised. He passed through Rainbow Valley and knew it not. The charm of Rainbow

Valley had no potency against German theology. When he reached the manse he went to his study and took

down a bulky volume in order to see which had been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed in its mazes

until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation and pursued it like a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly lost

to the world, his parish and his family. He read day and night; he forgot to go to his meals when Una was not

there to drag him to them; he never thought about Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall,

overharbour, was very ill and sent for him, but the message lay unheeded on his desk and gathered dust.

Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave him. A young couple came to the manse to be married and Mr.

Meredith, with unbrushed hair, in carpet slippers and faded dressing gown, married them. To be sure, he

began by reading the funeral service to them and got along as far as "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" before

The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who was not in the least nervous, giggled.

"Excuse me," said Mr. Meredith, as it it did not matter much. He turned up the marriage service and got

through with it, but the bride never felt quite properly married for the rest of her life.

He forgot his prayermeeting again-but that did not matter, for it was a wet night and nobody came. He

might even have forgotten his Sunday service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on

Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith

sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in Glen St. Mary church whom he positively detested.

Unfortunately, she was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith against

offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldly matter as his stipend; but the managers were

more practical. Also, they were astute. Without mentioning money, they contrived to instil into Mr.

Meredith's mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis. Otherwise, he would likely have

forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt Martha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a

Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air of scornful disapproval.

What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that Faith and Una

had taken them down the day before to use as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten to put them

up again, but she could not have accused those windows more fiercely if she had known. The blinds were

cracked and torn. The pictures on the walls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the vases were full of faded

"What are we coming to?" Mrs. Davis asked herself, and then primmed up her unbeautiful mouth.

Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banisters as she came through the hall. They did not

see her and continued whooping and sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith's pet

rooster ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway and looked at her. Not liking her looks, he did

not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave a scornful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters paraded the halls and

"Shoo, there," commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her flounced, changeablesilk parasol at him.

Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. Davis had wrung the necks of so many roosters with her own

fair hands in the course of her fifty years that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adam

Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hair still fell in uncaredfor locks over his

high brow. But he looked the gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumed bonnet,

and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarsesouled woman she was. Each felt the antagonisn of

the other's personality. Mr. Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. She had come to

the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister and she meant to lose no time in proposing it. She was

going to do him a favour-a great favour-and the sooner he was made aware of it the better. She had been

thinking about it all summer and had come to a decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis

thought. When she decided a thing it was decided. Nobody else had any say in the matter. That had always

been her attitude. When she had made her mind up to marry Alec Davis she had married him and that was the

end to it. Alec had never known how it happened, but what odds? So in this case-Mrs. Davis had arranged

everything to her own satisfaction. Now it only remained to inform Mr. Meredith.

"Will you please shut that door?" said Mrs. Davis, unprimming her mouth slightly to say it, but speaking with

asperity. "I have something important to say, and I can't say it with that racket in the hall."

Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly aware of her

yet. His mind was still wrestling with Ewald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment and it annoyed

"I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith," she said aggressively, "that I have decided to adopt Una."

"To-adopt-Una!" Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, not understanding in the least.

"Yes. I've been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought of adopting a child, since my husband's

death. But it seemed so hard to get a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into my home. I

wouldn't think of taking a home child-some outcast of the slums in all probability. And there is hardly ever

any other child to be got. One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left six youngsters. They

tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave them to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that.

Their grandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted a girl-a quiet, obedient girl that I

could train up to be a lady. Una will suit me exactly. She would be a nice little thing if she was properly

looked after-so different from Faith. I would never dream of adopting Faith. But I'll take Una and I'll give her

a good home, and upbringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself I'll leave her all my money when I

die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of it in any case, I'm determined on that. It was the idea of

aggravating them that set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as anything in the first place. Una shall

be well dressed and educated and trained, Mr. Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons and

Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint flush in his pale cheek and a dangerous

light in his fine dark eyes. Was this woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed out of her at

every pore, actually asking him to give her Una-his dear little wistful Una with Cecilia's own darkblue

eyes-the child whom the dying mother had clasped to her heart after the other children had been led weeping

from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of death had shut between them. She had looked

"Take good care of her, John," she had entreated. "She is so small-and sensitive. The others can fight their

way-but the world will hurt her. Oh, John, I don't know what you and she are going to do. You both need me

These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettable ones for him alone. And it was this child

whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announced her intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at

Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed slippers there was something about him that

made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old reverence for "the cloth" in which she had been brought up. After all,

there was a certain divinity hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one.

"I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis," said Mr. Meredith with a gentle, final, quite awful

"Why, Mr. Meredith," she said in astonishment. "You must be cr-you can't mean it. You must think it

"There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out of the question. All the worldly advantages it

is in your power to bestow on her could not compensate for the loss of a father's love and care. I thank you

Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to control. Her broad red face turned

"Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your children," retorted Mrs. Davis

contemptuously. "You neglect them scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fed and dressed

properly, and they're not trained at all. They have no more manners than a pack of wild Indians. You never

think of doing your duty as a father. You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and never

took any notice of her-a child that swore like a trooper I'm told. You wouldn't have cared if they'd caught

smallpox from her. And Faith made an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech!

And she rid a pig down the street-under your very eyes I understand. The way they act is past belief and you

never lift a finger to stop them or try to teach them anything. And now when I offer one of them a good home

and good prospects you refuse it and insult me. A pretty father you, to talk of loving and caring for your

"That will do, woman!" said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her

quail. "That will do," he repeated. "I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may be

that I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind me of it in such

Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, but she took her departure. As she swept

past the minister a large, plump toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost under her

feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading on the awful thing, lost her balance and her

parasol. She did not exactly fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignified fashion

and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen

the toad, wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic seizure, and ran in

alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously.

"Don't you dare to touch me," she almost shouted. "This is some more of your children's doings, I suppose.

This is no fit place for a decent woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'll never darken the doors of

Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and

marched out. Jerry and Carl had given up banister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda with

Faith. Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their healthy young voices "There'll be a hot time in

the old town tonight." Mrs. Davis believed the song was meant for her and her only. She stopped and shook

"Your father is a fool," she said, "and you are three young varmints that ought to be whipped within an inch

John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a few minutes; then he went back to his study and sat

down. But he did not return to his German theology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis had

wakened him up with a vengeance. Was he such a remiss, careless father as she had accused him of being?

Had he so scandalously neglected the bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless creatures

dependent on him? Were his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davis had declared? It must be so, since

Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una in the full and confident belief that he would hand the child over to her

as unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcome kitten. And, if so, what then?

John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty, disordered room. What could he do?

He loved his children as deeply as any father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of her

ilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved him devotedly. But was he fit to have charge of them? He

knew-none better-his weaknesses and limitations. What was needed was a good woman's presence and

influence and common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he able to get such a housekeeper

it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She believed she could still do all that was meet and necessary. He

could not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind to him and his. How devoted she had

been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he suddenly

remembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to marry again. He felt she would not resent a

wife as she would a housekeeper. But that was out of the question. He did not wish to marry-he did not and

could not care for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly occurred to him that he would go over to

Ingleside and talk over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women he never felt

shy or tonguetied with. She was always so sympathetic and refreshing. It might be that she could suggest

some solution of his problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt that he needed a little decent

human companionship after his dose of Mrs. Davis-something to take the taste of her out of his soul.

He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual. It occurred to him that it was a poor

meal. He looked at his children; they were rosy and healthy looking enough-except Una, and she had never

been very strong even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing and talking-certainly they seemed

happy. Carl was especially happy because he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper

plate. Their voices were pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they were considerate of and gentle to one

another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their behaviour was the talk of the congregation.

As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove past on the road that led to

Lowbridge. The minister's face fell. Mrs. Blythe was going away-there was no use in going to Ingleside. And

he craved a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed rather hopelessly over the landscape the sunset

light struck on a window of the old West homestead on the hill. It flared out rosily like a beacon of good

hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought that he would relish some of Ellen's

pungent conversation. He thought it would be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm,

heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney's say?- "continual comfort in a

face"-that just suited her. And he needed comfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had asked

him to drop in sometimes and there was Rosemary's book to take back-he ought to take it back before he

forgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that there were a great many books in his library which he had borrowed

at sundry times and in divers places and had forgotten to take back. It was surely his duty to guard against

that in this case. He went back into his study, got the book, and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley.

ON the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the overharbour section had been buried Miss Cornelia and

Mary Vance came up to Ingleside. There were several things concerning which Miss Cornelia wished to

unburden her soul. The funeral had to be all talked over, of course. Susan and Miss Cornelia thrashed this out

between them; Anne took no part or delight in such goulish conversations. She sat a little apart and watched

the autumnal flame of dahlias in the garden, and the dreaming, glamorous harbour of the September sunset.

Mary Vance sat beside her, knitting meekly. Mary's heart was down in the Rainbow Valley, whence came

sweet, distancesoftened sounds of children's laughter, but her fingers were under Miss Cornelia's eye. She

had to knit so many rounds of her stocking before she might go to the valley. Mary knit and held her tongue,

"I never saw a nicer looking corpse," said Miss Cornelia judicially. "Myra Murray was always a pretty

woman-she was a Corey from Lowbridge and the Coreys were noted for their good looks."

"I said to the corpse as I passed it, 'poor woman. I hope you are as happy as you look.'" sighed Susan. "She

had not changed much. That dress she wore was the black satin she got for her daughter's wedding fourteen

years ago. Her Aunt told her then to keep it for her funeral, but Myra laughed and said, 'I may wear it to my

funeral, Aunty, but I will have a good time out of it first.' And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not a

woman to attend her own funeral before she died. Many a time afterwards when I saw her enjoying herself

out in company I thought to myself, 'You are a handsome woman, Myra Murray, and that dress becomes you,

but it will likely be your shroud at last.' And you see my words have come true, Mrs. Marshall Elliott."

Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying herself hugely. A funeral was really a delightful subject of

"I always liked to meet Myra," said Miss Cornelia. "She was always so gay and cheerful-she made you feel

"That is true," asserted Susan. "Her sisterinlaw told me that when the doctor told her at last that he could

do nothing for her and she would never rise from that bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, 'Well, if that is

so, I'm thankful the preserving is all done, and I will not have to face the fall housecleaning. I always liked

housecleaning in spring,' she says, 'but I always hated it in the fall. I will get clear of it this year, thank

goodness.' There are people who would call that levity, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and I think her sisterinlaw

was a little ashamed of it. She said perhaps her sickness had made Myra a little lightheaded. But I said, 'No,

Mrs. Murray, do not worry over it. It was just Myra's way of looking at the bright side.'"

"Her sister Luella was just the opposite," said Miss Cornelia. "There was no bright side for Luella-there was

just black and shades of gray. For years she used always to be declaring she was going to die in a week or so.

'I won't be here to burden you long,' she would tell her family with a groan. And if any of them ventured to

talk about their little future plans she'd groan also and say, 'Ah, I won't be here then.' When I went to see her I

always agreed with her and it made her so mad that she was always quite a lot better for several days

afterwards. She has better health now but no more cheerfulness. Myra was so different. She was always doing

or saying something to make some one feel good. Perhaps the men they married had something to do with it.

Luella's man was a Tartar, believe me, while Jim Murray was decent, as men go. He looked heartbroken

today. It isn't often I feel sorry for a man at his wife's funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray."

"No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife like Myra again in a hurry," said Susan. "Maybe he will not

try, since his children are all grown up and Mirabel is able to keep house. But there is no predicting what a

"We'll miss Myra terrible in church," said Miss Cornelia. "She was such a worker. Nothing ever stumped her.

If she couldn't get over a difficulty she'd get around it, and if she couldn't get around it she'd pretend it wasn't

there-and generally it wasn't. 'I'll keep a stiff upper lip to my journey's end,' said she to me once. Well, she

"Do you think so?" asked Anne suddenly, coming back from dreamland. "I can't picture her journey as being

ended. Can you think of her sitting down and folding her hands-that eager, asking spirit of hers, with its fine

adventurous outlook? No, I think in death she just opened a gate and went through-on-on-to new, shining

"Maybe-maybe," assented Miss Cornelia. "Do you know, Anne dearie, I never was much taken with this

everlasting rest doctrine myself-though I hope it isn't heresy to say so. I want to bustle round in heaven the

same as here. And I hope there'll be a celestial substitute for pies and doughnuts-something that has to be

made. Of course, one does get awful tired at times-and the older you are the tireder you get. But the very

tiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you'd think-except, perhaps, a lazy man."

"When I meet Myra Murray again," said Anne, "I want to see her coming towards me, brisk and laughing,

"Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, in a shocked tone, "you surely do not think that Myra will be laughing in the

"No, no, Mrs. Dr. dear, do not misunderstand me. I do not think we shall be either crying or laughing."

"Well," said Susan, driven to it. "it is my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear, that we shall just look solemn and holy."

"And do you really think, Susan," said Anne, looking solemn enough, "that either Myra Murray or I could

"Well," admitted Susan reluctantly, "I might go so far as to say that you both would have to smile now and

again, but I can never admit that there will be laughing in heaven. The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs. Dr.

"Well, to come back to earth," said Miss Cornelia, "who can we get to take Myra's class in Sunday School?

Julia Clow has been teaching it since Myra took ill, but she's going to town for the winter and we'll have to

"I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it," said Anne. "The Jamiesons have come to church very

"New brooms!" said Miss Cornelia dubiously. "Wait till they've gone regularly for a year."

"You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan solemnly. "She died once and when

they were measuring her for her coffin, after laying her out just beautiful, did she not go and come back to

"She might turn Methodist at any moment." said Miss Cornelia. "They tell me they went to the Methodist

Church at Lowbridge quite as often as to the Presbyterian. I haven't caught them at it here yet, but I would not

approve of taking Mrs. Jamieson into the Sunday School. Yet we must not offend them. We are losing too

many people, by death or bad temper. Mrs. Alec Davis has left the church, no one knows why. She told the

managers that she would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith's salary. Of course, most people say that the

children offended her, but somehow I don't think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I could get out of her was

that Mrs. Davis had come, seemingly in high good humour, to see her father, and had left in an awful rage,

"Varmints, indeed!" said Susan furiously. "Does Mrs. Alec Davis forget that her uncle on her mother's side

was suspected of poisoning his wife? Not that it was ever proved, Mrs. Dr. dear, and it does not do to believe

all you hear. But if I had an uncle whose wife died without any satisfactory reason, I would not go about the

"The point is," said Miss Cornelia, "that Mrs. Davis paid a large subscription, and how its loss is going to be

made up is a problem. And if she turns the other Douglases against Mr. Meredith, as she will certainly try to

"I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well liked by the rest of the clan," said Susan. "It is not likely she will

"But those Douglases all hang together so. If you touch one, you touch all. We can't do without them, so

much is certain. They pay half the salary. They are not mean, whatever else may be said of them. Norman

"He declared a member of the session cheated him in a cow deal. He hasn't come to church for twenty years.

His wife used to come regular while she was alive, poor thing, but he never would let her pay anything,

except one red cent every Sunday. She felt dreadfully humiliated. I don't know that he was any too good a

husband to her, though she was never heard to complain. But she always had a cowed look. Norman Douglas

didn't get the woman he wanted thirty years ago and the Douglases never liked to put up with second best."

"Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I believe, but they went about together for two years. And then

they just broke off-nobody ever know why. Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went and married

Hester Reese before his temper had time to cool-married her just to spite Ellen, I haven't a doubt. So like a

man! Hester was a nice little thing, but she never had much spirit and he broke what little she had. She was

too meek for Norman. He needed a woman who could stand up to him. Ellen would have kept him in fine

order and he would have liked her all the better for it. He despised Hester, that is the truth, just because she

always gave in to him. I used to hear him say many a time, long ago when he was a young fellow 'Give me a

spunky woman-spunk for me every time.' And then he went and married a girl who couldn't say boo to a

goose-manlike. That family of Reeses were just vegetables. They went through the motions of living, but

"Russell Reese used his first wife's weddingring to marry his second," said Susan reminiscently. "That was

too economical in my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear. And his brother John has his own tombstone put up in the

overharbour graveyard, with everything on it but the date of death, and he goes and looks at it every

Sunday. Most folks would not consider that much fun, but it is plain he does. People do have such different

ideas of enjoyment. As for Norman Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When the last minister asked him why

he never went to church he said "Too many ugly women there, parson-too many ugly women!" I should like

to go to such a man, Mrs. Dr. dear, and say to him solemnly, 'There is a hell!'"

"Oh, Norman doesn't believe there is such a place," said Miss Cornelia. "I hope he'll find out his mistake

when he comes to die. There, Mary, you've knit your three inches and you can go and play with the children

Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rainbow Valley with a heart as light as her heels, and in the

"And Mrs. Elliott says that she'll turn all the Douglases against your father and then he'll have to leave the

Glen because his salary won't be paid," concluded Mary. "I don't know what is to be done, honest to

goodness. If only old Norman Douglas would come back to church and pay, it wouldn't be so bad. But he

Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that night. The thought of leaving the Glen was unbearable.

Nowhere else in the world were there such chums as the Blythes. Her little heart had been wrung when they

had left Maywater-she had shed many bitter tears when she parted with Maywater chums and the old manse

there where her mother had lived and died. She could not contemplate calmly the thought of such another and

harder wrench. She couldn't leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valley and that delicious graveyard.

"It's awful to be minister's family," groaned Faith into her pillow. "Just as soon as you get fond of a place you

are torn up by the roots. I'll never, never, never marry a minister, no matter how nice he is."

Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vinehung window. The night was very still, the silence broken

only by Una's soft breathing. Faith felt terribly alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary lying under

the starry blue meadows of the autumn night. Over the valley a light shone from the girls' room at Ingleside,

and another from Walter's room. Faith wondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Then she sighed, with a

little passing sigh of envy of Nan and Di. They had a mother and a settled home-they were not at the mercy of

people who got angry without any reason and called you a varmint. Away beyond the Glen, amid fields that

were very quiet with sleep, another light was burning. Faith knew it shone in the house where Norman

Douglas lived. He was reputed to sit up all hours of the night reading. Mary had said if he could only be

induced to return to the church all would be well. And why not? Faith looked at a big, low star hanging over

the tall, pointed spruce at the gate of the Methodist Church and had an inspiration. She knew what ought to be

done and she, Faith Meredith, would do it. She would make everything right. With a sigh of satisfaction, she

WITH Faith, to decide was to act. She lost no time in carrying out the idea. As soon as she came home from

school the next day she left the manse and made her way down the Glen. Walter Blythe joined her as she

"I'm going to Mrs. Elliott's on an errand for mother," he said. "Where are you going, Faith?"

"I am going somewhere on church business," said Faith loftily. She did not volunteer any further information

and Walter felt rather snubbed. They walked on in silence for a little while. It was a warm, windy evening

with a sweet, resinous air. Beyond the sand dunes were gray seas, soft and beautiful. The Glen brook bore

down a freight of gold and crimson leaves, like fairy shallops. In Mr. James Reese's buckwheat stubbleland,

with its beautiful tones of red and brown, a crow parliament was being held, whereat solemn deliberations

regarding the welfare of crowland were in progress. Faith cruelly broke up the august assembly by climbing

up on the fence and hurling a broken rail at it. Instantly the air was filled with flapping black wings and

"Why did you do that?" said Walter reproachfully. "They were having such a good time."

"Oh, I hate crows," said Faith airily. "The are so black and sly I feel sure they're hypocrites. They steal little

birds' eggs out of their nests, you know. I saw one do it on our lawn last spring. Walter, what makes you so

"Yes-a raging one. I couldn't sleep a wink-so I just paced up and down the floor and imagined I was an early

Christian martyr being tortured at the command of Nero. That helped ever so much for a while-and then I got

"No-but I lay down on the floor and groaned," admitted Walter. "Then the girls came in and Nan put cayenne

pepper in it-and that made it worse-Di made me hold a swallow of cold water in my mouth-and I couldn't

stand it, so they called Susan. Susan said it served me right for sitting up in the cold garret yesterday writing

poetry trash. But she started up the kitchen fire and got me a hotwater bottle and it stopped the toothache.

As soon as I felt better I told Susan my poetry wasn't trash and she wasn't any judge. And she said no, thank

goodness she was not and she did not know anything about poetry except that it was mostly a lot of lies. Now

you know, Faith, that isn't so. That is one reason why I like writing poetry-you can say so many things in it

that are true in poetry but wouldn't be true in prose. I told Susan so, but she said to stop my jawing and go to

sleep before the water got cold, or she'd leave me to see if rhyming would cure toothache, and she hoped it

"It would be a big pain. I hate being hurt. Father said he wouldn't insist on my going-he'd wait until I'd made

"It wouldn't hurt as long as the toothache," argued Faith, "You've had five spells of toothache. If you'd just go

and have it out there'd be no more bad nights. I had a tooth out once. I yelled for a moment, but it was all over

"The bleeding is worst of all-it's so ugly," cried Walter. "It just made me sick when Jem cut his foot last

summer. Susan said I looked more like fainting than Jem did. But I couldn't hear to see Jem hurt, either.

Somebody is always getting hurt, Faith-and it's awful. I just can't bear to see things hurt. It makes me just

"There's no use making a fuss over anyone getting hurt," said Faith, tossing her curls. "Of course, if you've

hurt yourself very bad, you have to yell-and blood is messy-and I don't like seeing other people hurt, either.

But I don't want to run-I want to go to work and help them. Your father has to hurt people lots of times to

"I didn't say I would run. I said I wanted to run. That's a different thing. I want to help people, too. But oh, I

wish there weren't any ugly, dreadful things in the world. I wish everything was glad and beautiful."

"Well, don't let's think of what isn't," said Faith. "After all, there's lots of fun in being alive. You wouldn't

have toothache if you were dead, but still, wouldn't you lots rather be alive than dead? I would, a hundred

"So do I. All us girls do. I'm just going to walk past and never take the least notice of him. You watch me!"

Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her chin out and an expression of scorn that bit into his soul. He

Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But her lip trembled slightly with a sense of outrage. She knew she

was no match for Dan Reese when it came to an exchange of epithets. She wished Jem Blythe had been with

her instead of Walter. If Dan Reese had dared to call her a piggirl in Jem's hearing, Jem would have wiped

up the dust with him. But it never occurred to Faith to expect Walter to do it, or blame him for not doing it.

Walter, she knew, never fought other boys. Neither did Charlie Clow of the north road. The strange part was

that, while she despised Charlie for a coward, it never occurred to her to disdain Walter. It was simply that he

seemed to her an inhabitant of a world of his own, where different traditions prevailed. Faith would as soon

have expected a starryeyed young angel to pummel dirty, freckled Dan Reese for her as Walter Blythe. She

would not have blamed the angel and she did not blame Walter Blythe. But she wished that sturdy Jem or

Walter was pale no longer. He had flushed crimson and his beautiful eyes were clouded with shame and

anger. he knew that he ought to have avenged Faith. Jem would have sailed right in and made Dan eat his

words with bitter sauce. Ritchie Warren would have overwhelmed Dan with worse "names" than Dan had

called Faith. But Walter could not-simply could not-"call names." He knew he would get the worst of it. He

could never conceive or utter the vulgar, ribald insults of which Dan Reese had unlimited command. And as

for the trial by fist, Walter couldn't fight. He hated the idea. It was rough and painful-and, worst of all, it was

ugly. He never could understand Jem's exultation in an occasional conflict. But he wished he could fight Dan

Reese. He was horribly ashamed because Faith Meredith had been insulted in his presence and he had not

tried to punish her insulter. He felt sure she must despise him. She had not even spoken to him since Dan had

Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different reason. She wanted to be alone because she suddenly felt

rather nervous about her errand. Impulse had cooled, especially since Dan had bruised her selfrespect. She

must go through with it, but she no longer had enthusiasm to sustain her. She was going to see Norman

Douglas and ask him to come back to church, and she began to be afraid of him. What had seemed so easy

and simple up at the Glen seemed very different down here. She had heard a good deal about Norman

Douglas, and she knew that even the biggest boys in school were afraid of him. Suppose he called her

something nasty-she had heard he was given to that. Faith could not endure being called names-they subdued

her far more quickly than a physical blow. But she would go on-Faith Meredith always went on. If she did

At the end of the long lane Faith came to the house-a big, oldfashioned one with a row of soldierly

Lombardies marching past it. On the back veranda Norman Douglas himself was sitting, reading a

newspaper. His big dog was beside him. Behind, in the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was

getting supper, there was a clatter of dishes-an angry clatter, for Norman Douglas had just had a quarrel with

Mrs. Wilson, and both were in a very bad temper over it. Consequently, when Faith stepped on the veranda

and Norman Douglas lowered his newspaper she found herself looking into the choleric eyes of an irritated

Norman Douglas was rather a finelooking personage in his way. He had a sweep of long red beard over his

broad chest and a mane of red hair, ungrizzled by the years, on his massive head. His high, white forehead

was unwrinkled and his blue eyes could flash still with all the fire of his tempestuous youth. He could be very

amiable when he liked, and he could be very terrible. Poor Faith, so anxiously bent on retrieving the situation

He did not know who she was and he gazed at her with disfavour. Norman Douglas liked girls of spirit and

flame and laughter. At this moment Faith was very pale. She was of the type to which colour means

everything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemed meek and even insignificant. She looked apologetic and

"Who the dickens are you? And what do you want here?" he demanded in his great resounding voice, with a

For once in her life Faith had nothing to say. She had never supposed Norman Douglas was like this. She was

"What's the matter with you?" he boomed. "You look as if you wanted to say something and was scared to

No. Faith could not speak up. No words would come. But her lips began to tremble.

"For heaven's sake, don't cry," shouted Norman. "I can't stand snivelling. If you've anything to say, say it and

have done. Great Kitty, is the girl possessed of a dumb spirit? Don't look at me like that-I'm human-I haven't

Norman's voice could have been heard at the harbour. Operations in the kitchen were suspended. Mrs. Wilson

was listening openeared and eyed. Norman put his huge brown hands on his knees and leaned forward,

staring into Faith's pallid, shrinking face. He seemed to loom over her like some evil giant out of a fairy tale.

"Meredith, hey? One of the parson's youngsters, hey? I've heard of you-I've heard of you! Riding on pigs and

breaking the Sabbath! A nice lot! What do you want here, hey? What do you want of the old pagan, hey?I

Faith wished herself a thousand miles away. She stammered out her thought in its naked simplicity.

"That's a lie. Don't lie to me! Who sent you here? It wasn't your father-he hasn't the smeddum of a flea-but he

wouldn't send you to do what he dassn't do himself. I suppose it was some of them confounded old maids at

"No-I thought you were a gentleman," said Faith faintly, and certainly without any thought of being sarcastic.

"Mind your own business. I don't want to hear another word from you. If you wasn't such a kid I'd teach you

to interfere in what doesn't concern you. When I want parsons or pilldosers I'll send for them. Till I do I'll

Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the steps, out of the yard gate and into the lane. Half way up the

lane her daze of fear passed away and a reaction of tingling anger possessed her. By the time she reached the

end of the lane she was in such a furious temper as she had never experienced before. Norman Douglas'

insults burned in her soul, kindling a scorching flame. Go home! Not she! She would go straight back and tell

that old ogre just what she thought of him-she would show him-oh, wouldn't she! Cheeseface, indeed!

Unhesitatingly she turned and walked back. The veranda was deserted and the kitchen door shut. Faith

opened the door without knocking, and went in. Norman Douglas had just sat down at the supper table, but he

still held his newspaper. Faith walked inflexibly across the room, caught the paper from his hand, flung it on

the floor and stamped on it. Then she faced him, with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was such a

Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes against which so few people could hold their own.

"I have come back to tell you exactly what I think of you," said Faith in clear, ringing tones. "I am not afraid

of you. You are a rude, unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old man. Susan says you are sure to go to hell, and I

was sorry for you, but I am not now. Your wife never had a new hat for ten years-no wonder she died. I am

going to make faces at you whenever I see you after this. Every time I am behind you you will know what is

happening. Father has a picture of the devil in a book in his study, and I mean to go home and write your

name under it. You are an old vampire and I hope you'll have the Scotch fiddle!"

Faith did not know what a vampire meant any more than she knew what the Scotch fiddle was. She had heard

Susan use the expressions and gathered from her tone that both were dire things. But Norman Douglas knew

what the latter meant at least. He had listened in absolute silence to Faith's tirade. When she paused for

breath, with a stamp of her foot, he suddenly burst into loud laughter. With a mighty slap of hand on knee he

"I will not." Faith's eyes flashed more passionately. She thought she was being made fun of-treated

contemptuously. She would have enjoyed another explosion of rage, but this cut deep. "I will not sit down in

your house. I am going home. But I am glad I came back here and told you exactly what my opinion of you

"So am I-so am I," chuckled Norman. "I like you-you're fine-you're great. Such roses-such vim! Did I call her

cheeseface? Why, she never smelt a cheese. Sit down. If you'd looked like that at the first, girl! So you'll

write my name under the devil's picture, will you? But he's black, girl, he's black-and I'm red. It won't do-it

won't do! And you hope I'll have the Scotch fiddle, do you? Lord love you, girl, I had it when I was a boy.

"Oh, yes, you will. Come, come now, I apologize, girl-I apologize. I made a fool of myself and I'm sorry.

Man can't say fairer. Forget and forgive. Shake hands, girl-shake hands. She won't-no, she won't! But she

must! Lookahere, girl, if you'll shake hands and break bread with me I'll pay what I used to to the salary

and I'll go to church the first Sunday in every month and I'll make Kitty Alec hold her jaw. I'm the only one

It seemed a bargain. Faith found herself shaking hands with the ogre and then sitting at his board. Her temper

was over-Faith's tempers never lasted very long-but its excitement still sparkled in her eyes and crimsoned

"Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson," he ordered, "and stop sulking, woman, stop sulking. What if

we did have a quarrel, woman? A good squall clears the air and briskens things up. But no drizzling and

fogging afterwards-no drizzling and fogging, woman. I can't stand that. Temper in a woman but no tears for

me. Here, girl, is some messed up meat and potatoes for you. Begin on that. Wilson has some fancy name for

it, but I call lit macanaccady. Anything I can't analyze in the eating line I call macanaccady and anything wet

that puzzles me I call shallamagouslem. Wilson's tea is shallamagouslem. I swear she makes it out of

burdocks. Don't take any of the ungodly black liquid-here's some milk for you. What did you say your name

"Don't like the name, don't like it. There's no smeddum to it. Besides, it makes me think of my Aunt Jinny.

She called her three girls Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith didn't believe in anything-Hope was a born

pessimist-and Charity was a miser. You ought to be called Red Rose-you look like one when you're mad. I'll

call you Red Rose. And you've roped me into promising to go to church? But only once a month,

remember-only once a month. Come now, girl, will you let me off? I used to pay a hundred to the salary

every year and go to church. If I promise to pay two hundred a year will you let me off going to church?

"No, no, sir," said Faith, dimpling roguishly. "I want you to go to church, too."

"Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon I can stand it twelve times a year. What a sensation it'll make the first

Sunday I go! And old Susan Baker says I'm going to hell, hey? Do you believe I'll go there-come, now, do

"Why do you hope not? Come, now, why do you hope not? Give us a reason, girl-give us a reason."

"Uncomfortable? All depends on your taste in comfortable, girl. I'd soon get tired of angels. Fancy old Susan

Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so much that she had to laugh. Norman eyed her approvingly.

"See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you-you're great. About this church business, now-can your father preach?"

"He is, hey? I'll see-I'll watch out for flaws. He'd better be careful what he says before me. I'll catch him-I'll

trip him up-I'll keep tabs on his arguments. I'm bound to have some fun out of this church going business.

"Too bad. I like sermons on that subject. You tell him that if he wants to keep me in good humour to preach a

good riproaring sermon on hell once every six months-and the more brimstone the better. I like 'em

smoking. And think of all the pleasure he'd give the old maids, too. They'd all keep looking at old Norman

Douglas and thinking, 'That's for you, you old reprobate. That's what's in store for you!' I'll give an extra ten

dollars every time you get your father to preach on hell. Here's Wilson and the jam. Like that, hey? It isn't

Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful Norman held out to her. Luckily it was good.

"Best plum jam in the world," said Norman, filling a large saucer and plumping it down before her. "Glad

you like it. I'll give you a couple of jars to take home with you. There's nothing mean about me-never was.

The devil can't catch me at that corner, anyhow. It wasn't my fault that Hester didn't have a new hat for ten

years. It was her own-she pinched on hats to save money to give yellow fellows over in China. I never gave a

cent to missions in my life-never will. Never you try to bamboozle me into that! A hundred a year to the

salary and church once a month-but no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians! Why, girl, they

wouldn't be fit for heaven or hell-clean spoiled for either place-clean spoiled. Hey, Wilson, haven't you got a

smile on yet? Beats all how you women can sulk! I never sulked in my life-it's just one big flash and crash

with me and then-pouf-the squall's over and the sun is out and you could eat out of my hand."

Norman insisted on driving Faith home after supper and he filled the buggy up with apples, cabbages,

"There's a nice little tompussy out in the barn. I'll give you that too, if you'd like it. Say the word," he said.

"No, thank you," said Faith decidedly. "I don't like cats, and besides, I have a rooster."

"Listen to her. You can't cuddle a rooster as you can a kitten. Who ever heard of petting a rooster? Better take

Norman yielded the point rather reluctantly. He gave Faith an exciting drive home, behind his wild twoyear

old, and when he had let her out at the kitchen door of the manse and dumped his cargo on the back veranda

Faith went up to bed, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, as if she had just escaped from the grasp of a genial

whirlwind. She was happy and thankful. No fear now that they would have the leave the glen and the

graveyard and Rainbow Valley. But she fell asleep troubled by a disagreeable subconsciousness that Dan

Reese had called her piggirl and that, having stumbled on such a congenial epithet, he would continue to

NORMAN DOUGLAS came to church the first Sunday in November and made all the sensation he desired.

Mr. Meredith shook hands with him absently on the church steps and hoped dreamily that Mrs. Douglas was

"She wasn't very well just before I buried her ten years ago, but I reckon she has better health now," boomed

Norman, to the horror and amusement of every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbed in wondering if

he had made the last head of his sermon as clear as he might have, and hadn't the least idea what Norman had

"Kept my word, you see-kept my word, Red Rose. I'm free now till the first Sunday in December. Fine

sermon, girl-fine sermon. Your father has more in his head than he carries on his face. But he contradicted

himself once-tell him he contradicted himself. And tell him I want that brimstone sermon in December. Great

way to wind up the old year-with a taste of hell, you know. And what's the matter with a nice tasty discourse

on heaven for New Year's? Though it wouldn't be half as interesting as hell, girl-not half. Only I'd like to

know what your father thinks about heaven-he can think-rarest thing in the world-a person who can think.

But he did contradict himself. Ha, ha! Here's a question you might ask him sometime when he's awake, girl.

'Can God make a stone so big He couldn't lift it Himself?' Don't forget now. I want to hear his opinion on it.

Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan Reese, standing among the crowd of boys at the gate, looked

at her and shaped his mouth into "piggirl," but dared not utter it aloud just there. Next day in school was a

different matter. At noon recess Faith encountered Dan in the little spruce plantation behind the school and

Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion behind a little clump of firs where he had been reading.

"Oh, hello, Miss Walter," retorted Dan, not at all abashed. He vaulted airily to the top of the rail fence and

"You are a coincidence!" said Walter scornfully, turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy idea what a

coincidence was, but Dan had none at all and thought it must be something peculiarly opprobrious.

"Yah! Cowardy!" he yelled gain. "Your mother writes lies-lies-lies! And Faith Meredith is a

piggirl-a-piggirl-a piggirl! And she's a roostergirl-a roostergirl-a roostergirl! Yah!

Dan got no further. Walter had hurled himself across the intervening space and knocked Dan off the fence

backward with one welldirected blow. Dan's sudden inglorious sprawl was greeted with a burst of laughter

and a clapping of hands from Faith. Dan sprang up, purple with rage, and began to climb the fence. But just

then the schoolbell rang and Dan knew what happened to boys who were late during Mr. Hazard's regime.

"Oh, no, no, Walter," protested Faith. "Don't fight him. I don't mind what he says-I wouldn't condescend to

"He insulted you and he insulted my mother," said Walter, with the same deadly calm. "Tonight after school,

"I've got to go right home from school to pick taters after the harrows, dad says," answered Dan sulkily. "But

Walter shuddered-not so much from fear of the threat as from repulsion over the ugliness and vulgarity of it.

But he held his head high and marched into school. Faith followed in a conflict of emotions. She hated to

think of Walter fighting that little sneak, but oh, he had been splendid! And he was going to fight for her

-Faith Meredith-to punish her insulter! Of course he would win-such eyes spelled victory.

Faith's confidence in her champion had dimmed a little by evening, however. Walter had seemed so very

"If it were only Jem," she sighed to Una, as they sat on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the graveyard. "He is

such a fighter-he could finish Dan off in no time. But Walter doesn't know much about fighting."

"I'm so afraid he'll be hurt," sighed Una, who hated fighting and couldn't understand the subtle, secret

"Dan hasn't done much fighting when you come to count up," said Faith. "I believe he's really a coward. He

didn't think Walter would fight, or he wouldn't have called names before him. Oh, if you could just have seen

Walter's face when he looked at him, Una! It made me shiver-with a nice shiver. He looked just like Sir

"Oh, it's got to go on now," cried Faith. "It's a matter of honour. Don't you dare tell anyone, Una. If you do I'll

"I won't tell," agreed Una. "But I won't stay tomorrow to watch the fight. I'm coming right home."

"Oh, all right. I have to be there-it would be mean not to, when Walter is fighting for me. I'm going to tie my

colours on his arm-that's the thing to do when he's my knight. How lucky Mrs. Blythe gave me that pretty

blue hairribbon for my birthday! I've only worn it twice so it will be almost new. But I wish I was sure

Faith would have been yet more dubious if she could have seen her champion just then. Walter had gone

home from school with all his righteous anger at a low ebb and a very nasty feeling in its place. He had to

fight Dan Reese the next night-and he didn't want to-he hated the thought of it. And he kept thinking of it all

the time. Not for a minute could he get away from the thought. Would it hurt much? He was terribly afraid

He could not eat any supper worth speaking of. Susan had made a big batch of his favourite monkeyfaces,

but he could choke only one down. Jem ate four. Walter wondered how he could. How could anybody eat?

And how could they all talk gaily as they were doing? There was mother, with her shining eyes and pink

cheeks. She didn't know her son had to fight next day. Would she be so gay if she knew, Walter wondered

darkly. Jem had taken Susan's picture with his new camera and the result was passed around the table and

"I am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. dear, and well I know it, and have always known it," she said in an aggrieved tone,

"but that I am as ugly as that picture makes me out I will never, no, never believe."

Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again with him. Walter couldn't endure it. He got up and fled to his

"That child has got something on his mind, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "He has et next to nothing. Do you

Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit from the starry realms of poesy just then. He propped his elbow

"Come on down to the shore, Walter," cried Jem, busting in. "The boys are going to burn the sandhill grass

At any other time Walter would have been delighted. He gloried in the burning of the sandhill grass. But

now he flatly refused to go, and no arguments or entreaties could move him. Disappointed Jem, who did not

care for the long dark walk to Four Winds Point alone, retreated to his museum in the garret and buried

himself in a book. He soon forgot his disappointment, revelling with the heroes of old romance, and pausing

occasionally to picture himself a famous general, leading his troops to victory on some great battlefield.

Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di crept in, hoping to be told what was wrong, but Walter could not

talk of it, even to Di. Talking of it seemed to give it a reality from which he shrank. It was torture enough to

think of it. The crisp, withered leaves rustled on the maple trees outside his window. The glow of rose and

flame had died out of the hollow, silvery sky, and the full moon was rising gloriously over Rainbow Valley.

Afar off, a ruddy woodfire was painting a page of glory on the horizon beyond the hills. It was a sharp, clear

evening when faraway sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking across the pond; an engine was

puffing down at the Glen station; a bluejay was screaming madly in the maple grove; there was laughter

over on the manse lawn. How could people laugh? How could foxes and bluejays and engines behave as if

He slept very little that night and had hard work choking down his porridge in the morning. Susan was rather

lavish in her platefuls. Mr. Hazard found him an unsatisfactory pupil that day. Faith Meredith's wits seemed

to be woolgathering, too. Dan Reese kept drawing surreptitious pictures of girls, with pig or rooster heads,

on his slate and holding them up for all to see. The news of the coming battle had leaked out and most of the

boys and many of the girls were in the spruce plantation when Dan and Walter sought it after school. Una had

gone home, but Faith was there, having tied her blue ribbon around Walter's arm. Walter was thankful that

neither Jem nor Di nor Nan were among the crowd of spectators. Somehow they had not heard of what was in

the wind and had gone home, too. Walter faced Dan quite undauntedly now. At the last moment all his fear

had vanished, but he still felt disgust at the idea of fighting. Dan, it was noted, was really paler under his

freckles than Walter was. One of the older boys gave the word and Dan struck Walter in the face.

Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow tingled through all his sensitive frame for a moment. Then he felt

pain no longer. Something, such as he had never experienced before, seemed to roll over him like a flood. His

face flushed crimson, his eyes burned like flame. The scholars of Glen St. Mary school had never dreamed

that "Miss Walter" could look like that. He hurled himself forward and closed with Dan like a young wildcat.

There were no particular rules in the fights of the Glen school boys. It was catchascatch can, and get your

blows in anyhow. Walter fought with a savage fury and a joy in the struggle against which Dan could not

hold his ground. It was all over very speedily. Walter had no clear consciousness of what he was doing until

suddenly the red mist cleared from his sight and he found himself kneeling on the body of the prostrate Dan

Walter had intended to ask, "And you are a liar?" but pity intervened and he did not humiliate Dan further.

There was a loud clapping from the boys who were perched on the rail fence, but some of the girls were

crying. They were frightened. They had seen schoolboy fights before, but nothing like Walter as he had

grappled with Dan. There had been something terrifying about him. They thought he would kill Dan. Now

that all was over they sobbed hysterically-except Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked.

Walter did not stay for any conqueror's meed. He sprang over the fence and rushed down the spruce hill to

Rainbow Valley. He felt none of the victor's joy, but he felt a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and

honour avenged-mingled with a sickish qualm when he thought of Dan's gory nose. It had been so ugly, and

Also, he began to realize that he himself was somewhat sore and battered up. His lip was cut and swollen and

one eye felt very strange. In Rainbow Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who was coming home from an

afternoon call on the Miss Wests. That reverend gentleman looked gravely at him.

"Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and that that Faith was a piggirl," answered Walter bluntly.

"Not always-and not often-but sometimes-yes, sometimes," said John Meredith. "When womenkind are

insulted for instance-as in your case. My motto, Walter, is, don't fight till you're sure you ought to, and then

put every ounce of you into it. In spite of sundry discolorations I infer that you came off best."

"I never fought before-and I didn't want to right up to the last-and then," said Walter, determined to make a

"I was a whole lot frightened," said honest Walter. "But I'm not going to be frightened any more, sir. Being

frightened of things is worse than the things themselves. I'm going to ask father to take me over to Lowbridge

"Right again. 'Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears.' Do you know who wrote that, Walter? It was

Shakespeare. Was there any feeling or emotion or experience of the human heart that that wonderful man did

Walter did not tell her that, however; but he told her all the rest, and she sympathized with him and told him

she was glad he had stood up for her and Faith, and she anointed his sore spots and rubbed cologne on his

"Are all mothers as nice as you?" asked Walter, hugging her. "You're worth standing up for."

Miss Cornelia and Susan were in the living room when Anne came downstairs, and listened to the story with

"I am real glad to hear he has had a good fight, Mrs. Dr. dear. Perhaps it may knock that poetry nonsense out

of him. And I never, no, never could bear that little viper of a Dan Reese. Will you not sit nearer to the fire,

"Thank you, Susan, I'm not cold. I called at the manse before I came here and got quite warm-though I had to

go to the kitchen to do it, for there was no fire anywhere else. The kitchen looked as if it had been stirred up

with a stick, believe me. Mr. Meredith wasn't home. I couldn't find out where he was, but I have an idea that

he was up at the Wests'. Do you know, Anne dearie, they say he has been going there frequently all the fall

"He would get a very charming wife if he married Rosemary," said Anne, piling driftwood on the fire. "She is

one of the most delightful girls I've ever known-truly one of the race of Joseph."

"Ye-s-only she is an Episcopalian," said Miss Cornelia doubtfully. "Of course, that is better than if she was a

Methodist-but I do think Mr. Meredith could find a good enough wife in his own denomination. However,

very likely there is nothing in it. It's only a month ago that I said to him, 'You ought to marry again, Mr.

Meredith.' He looked as shocked as if I had suggested something improper. 'My wife is in her grave, Mrs.

Elliott,' he said, in that gentle, saintly way of his. 'I suppose so,' I said, 'or I wouldn't be advising you to marry

again.' Then he looked more shocked than ever. So I doubt if there is much in this Rosemary story. If a single

minister calls twice at a house where there is a single woman all the gossips have it he is courting her."

"It seems to me-if I may presume to say so-that Mr. Meredith is too shy to go courting a second wife," said

"He isn't shy, believe me," retorted Miss Cornelia. "Absentminded-yes-but shy, no. And for all he is so

abstracted and dreamy he has a very good opinion of himself, manlike, and when he is really awake he

wouldn't think it much of a chore to ask any woman to have him. No, the trouble is, he's deluding himself

into believing that his heart is buried, while all the time it's beating away inside of him just like anybody

else's. He may have a notion of Rosemary West and he may not. If he has, we must make the best of it. She is

a sweet girl and a fine housekeeper, and would make a good mother to those poor, neglected children. And,"

MARY VANCE, whom Mrs. Elliott had sent up to the manse on an errand, came tripping down Rainbow

Valley on her way to Ingleside where she was to spend the afternoon with Nan and Di as a Saturday treat.

Nan and Di had been picking sprucegum with Faith and Una in the manse woods and the four of them were

now sitting on a fallen pine by the brook, all, it must be admitted, chewing rather vigorously. The Ingleside

twins were not allowed to chew sprucegum anywhere but in the seclusion of Rainbow Valley, but Faith and

Una were unrestricted by such rules of etiquette and cheerfully chewed it everywhere, at home and abroad, to

the very proper horror of the Glen. Faith had been chewing it in church one day; but Jerry had realized the

enormity of that, and had given her such an olderbrotherly scolding that she never did it again.

"I was so hungry I just felt as if I had to chew something," she protested. "You know well enough what

breakfast was like, Jerry Meredith. I couldn't eat scorched porridge and my stomach just felt so queer and

empty. The gum helped a lot-and I didn't chew very hard. I didn't make any noise and I never cracked the

"You mustn't chew gum in church, anyhow," insisted Jerry. "Don't let me catch you at it again."

"That's different," said Jerry loftily. "Prayermeeting isn't on Sunday. Besides, I sat away at the back in a

dark seat and nobody saw me. You were sitting right up front where every one saw you. And I took the gum

out of my mouth for the last hymn and stuck it on the back of the pew right up in front where every one saw

you. And I took the gum out of my mouth for the last hymn and stuck it on the back of the pew in front of

me. Then I came away and forgot it. I went back to get it next morning, but it was gone. I suppose Rod

Mary Vance walked down the Valley with her head held high. She had on a new blue velvet cap with a

scarlet rosette in it, a coat of navy blue cloth and a little squirrelfur muff. She was very conscious of her new

clothes and very well pleased with herself. Her hair was elaborately crimped, her face was quite plump, her

cheeks rosy, her white eyes shining. She did not look much like the forlorn and ragged waif the Merediths

had found in the old Taylor barn. Una tried not to feel envious. Here was Mary with a new velvet cap, but she

and Faith had to wear their shabby old gray tams again this winter. Nobody ever thought of getting them new

ones and they were afraid to ask their father for them for fear that he might be short of money and then he

would feel badly. Mary had told them once that ministers were always short of money, and found it "awful

hard" to make ends meet. Since then Faith and Una would have gone in rags rather than ask their father for

anything if they could help it. They did not worry a great deal over their shabbiness; but it was rather trying

to see Mary Vance coming out in such style and putting on such airs about it, too. The new squirrel muff was

really the last straw. Neither Faith nor Una had ever had a muff, counting themselves lucky if they could

compass mittens without holes in them. Aunt Martha could not see to darn holes and though Una tried to, she

made sad cobbling. Somehow, they could not make their greeting of Mary very cordial. But Mary did not

mind or notice that; she was not overly sensitive. She vaulted lightly to a seat on the pine tree, and laid the

offending muff on a bough. Una saw that it was lined with shirred red satin and had red tassels. She looked

down at her own rather purple, chapped, little hands and wondered if she would ever, ever be able to put them

"Give us a chew," said Mary companionably. Nan, Di and Faith all produced an amberhued knot or two

from their pockets and passed them to Mary. Una sat very still. She had four lovely big knots in the pocket of

her tight, threadbare little jacket, but she wasn't going to give one of them to Mary Vance-not one Let Mary

pick her own gum! People with squirrel muffs needn't expect to get everything in the world.

"Great day, isn't it ?" said Mary, swinging her legs, the better, perhaps, to display new boots with very smart

cloth tops. Una tucked her feet under her. There was a hole in the toe of one of her boots and both laces were

much knotted. But they were the best she had. Oh, this Mary Vance! Why hadn't they left her in the old barn?

Una never felt badly because the Ingleside twins were better dressed than she and Faith were. They wore their

pretty clothes with careless grace and never seemed to think about them at all. Somehow, they did not make

other people feel shabby. But when Mary Vance was dressed up she seemed fairly to exude clothes-to walk in

an atmosphere of clothes-to make everybody else feel and think clothes. Una, as she sat there in the

honeytinted sunshine of the gracious December afternoon, was acutely and miserably conscious of

everything she had on-the faded tam, which was yet her best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for three

winters, the holes in her skirt and her boots, the shivering insufficiency of her poor little undergarments. Of

course, Mary was going out for a visit and she was not. But even if she had been she had nothing better to put

"Say, this is great gum. Listen to me cracking it. There ain't any gum spruces down at Four Winds," said

Mary. "Sometimes I just hanker after a chew. Mrs. Elliott won't let me chew gum if she sees me. She says it

ain't ladylike. This ladybusiness puzzles me. I can't get on to all its kinks. Say, Una, what's the matter with

"No," said Una, who could not drag her fascinated eyes from that squirrel muff. Mary leaned past her, picked

"Stick your paws in that for a while," she ordered. "They look sorter pinched. Ain't that a dandy muff? Mrs.

Elliott give it to me last week for a birthday present. I'm to get the collar at Christmas. I heard her telling Mr.

"You bet she is. And I 'm good to her, too," retorted Mary. " I work like a nigger to make it easy for her and

have everything just as she likes it. We was made for each other. 'Tisn't every one could get along with her as

"So you did. She's never tried to lay a finger on me and I ain't never told a lie to her-not one, true's you live.

She combs me down with her tongue sometimes though, but that just slips off me like water off a duck's

"Well, if you're satisfied, I am. Say, old Kitty Alec has come back to church as meek as Moses and nobody

knows why. But everybody is saying it was Faith brought Norman Douglas out. His housekeeper says you

"Fancy your spunk!" said Mary admiringly. "I wouldn't have dared do that and I'm not so slow. Mrs. Wilson

says the two of you jawed something scandalous, but you come off best and then he just turned round and

"No. He's going to exchange with Mr. Perry from Charlottetown. Father went to town this morning and Mr.

"I thought there was something in the wind, though old Martha wouldn't give me any satisfaction But I felt

"I don't know what rooster. I didn't see it. When she took the butter Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she'd been

"Now, don't fly off the handle. Martha said the butcher at the Glen had no meat this week and she had to have

"She'll go crazy now. She was so fond of that Adam. He ought to have been in the pot long ago-he'll be as

tough as sole leather. But I wouldn't like to be in Martha's shoes. Faith's just white with rage; Una, you'd

Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls when Una suddenly turned and ran after her.

"Here's some gum for you, Mary," she said, with a little repentant catch in her voice, thrusting all her four

"Why, thanks," said Mary, rather taken by surprise. To the Blythe girls, after Una had gone, she said, "Ain't

WHEN Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted. Aunt

Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed,

encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith's passion of grief and anger not a whit.

"We had to have something for the strange minister's dinner," she said. "You're too big a girl to make such a

"Don't you go bothering your poor father. He has troubles enough. And I 'm housekeeper here."

"Adam was mine -Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no business to touch him," stormed Faith.

"Don't you get sassy now. The rooster's killed and there's an end of it. I ain't going to set no strange minister

down to a dinner of cold b'iled mutton. I was brought up to know better than that, if I have come down in the

Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not go to church the next morning. But at dinner

The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristling white moustache, bushy white eyebrows,

and a shining bald head. He was certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort of person.

But if he had looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with the tongues of men and angels Faith would

still have utterly detested him. He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white hands and very

handsome diamond ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all through the performance. Jerry and Carl giggled,

and even Una smiled wanly, because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith only scowled darkly. The

Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad. Once, when he was delivering himself of an unctuous

remark to Jerry, Faith broke in rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew his bushy eyebrows

"Little girls should not interrupt," he said, "and they should not contradict people who know far more than

This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called "little girl" as if she were no bigger than chubby

Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! It was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even

picked poor Adam's bones. Neither Faith nor Una would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the boys as little

better than cannibals. Faith felt that if that awful repast did not soon come to an end she would wind it up by

throwing something at Mr. Perry's gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha's leathery apple

pie too much even for his powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, after a long grace in which Mr.

Perry offered up devout thanks for the food which a kind and beneficent Providence had provided for

"God hadn't a single thing to do with providing Adam for you," muttered Faith rebelliously under her breath.

The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una went to help Aunt Martha with the dishes-though that

rather grumpy old dame never welcomed her timid assistance-and Faith betook herself to the study where a

cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. She thought she would thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry,

who had announced his intention of taking a nap in his room during the afternoon. But scarcely had Faith

settled herself in a corner, with a book, when he walked in and, standing before the fire, proceeded to survey

"You father's books seem to be in somewhat deplorable confusion, my little girl," he said severely.

Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. She would not talk to this-this creature.

"You should try to put them in order," Mr. Perry went on, playing with his handsome watch chain and

smiling patronizingly on Faith. "You are quite old enough to attend to such duties. My little daughter at home

is only ten and she is already an excellent little housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort to her mother.

She is a very sweet child. I wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you in many ways.

Of course, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a good mother's care and training. A sad lack-a very

sad lack. I have spoken more than once to your father in this connection and pointed out his duty to him

faithfully, but so far with no effect. I trust he may awaken to a realization of his responsibility before it is too

late. In the meantime, it is your duty and privilege to endeavour to take your sainted mother's place. You

might exercise a great influence over your brothers and your little sister-you might be a true mother to them. I

fear that you do not think of these things as you should. My dear child, allow me to open your eyes in regard

Mr. Perry's oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in his element. Nothing suited him better than to lay

down the law, patronize and exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood before the fire,

his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard not a word. She

was really not listening to him at all. But she was watching his long black coattails with impish delight

growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing very near the fire. His coattails began to scorch-his

coattails began to smoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. The coattails smoked

worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burning wood and alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught and

spread into a smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and broke into a stifled giggle.

Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly he became conscious that a reek of

burning cloth filled the room. He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands to his coattails

and brought them around in front of him. There was already quite a hole in one of them-and this was his new

"You said it wasn't good manners to interrupt, sir," said Faith, more demurely still.

"If-if I was your father, I would give you a spanking that you would remember all your life, Miss," said a

very angry reverend gentleman, as he stalked out of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith's second best suit

would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to the evening service with his singed coattail. But he did not walk

up the aisle with his usual consciousness of the honour he was conferring on the building. He never would

agree to an exchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again, and he was barely civil to the latter when they met

for a few minutes at the station the next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. Adam was

NEXT day in school was a hard one for Faith. Mary Vance had told the tale of Adam, and all the scholars,

except the Blythes, thought it quite a joke. The girls told Faith, between giggles, that it was too bad, and the

boys wrote sardonic notes of condolence to her. Poor Faith went home from school feeling her very soul raw

"I'm going over to Ingleside to have a talk with Mrs. Blythe," she sobbed. "She won't laugh at me, as

everybody else does. I've just got to talk to somebody who understands how bad I feel."

She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment had been at work the night before. A light snow had

fallen and the powdered firs were dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to be. The long hill beyond was

richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosy light of sunset lay over the world like a pink kiss. Of all the airy,

fairy places, full of weird, elfin grace, Rainbow Valley that winter evening was the most beautiful. But all its

By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary West, who was sitting on the old pine tree. She was on her

way home from Ingleside, where she had been giving the girls their music lesson. She had been lingering in

Rainbow Valley quite a little time, looking across its white beauty and roaming some byways of dream.

Judging from the expression of her face, her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, occasional tinkle

from the bells on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking smile to her lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned by

the consciousness that John Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in the gray house on the white

Into Rosemary's dreams burst Faith Meredith full of rebellious bitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when she

saw Miss West. She did not know her very well-just well enough to speak to when they met. And she did not

want to see any one just then-except Mrs. Blythe. She knew her eyes and nose were red and swollen and she

"Oh!" Rosemary smiled. "You mean nothing that you can tell to outsiders, don't you?"

Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. Here was a person who understood things. And how pretty

she was! How golden her hair was under her plumy hat! How pink her cheeks were over her velvet coat!

How blue and companionable her eyes were! Faith felt that Miss West could be a lovely friend-if only she

"I-I'm going up to tell Mrs. Blythe," said Faith. "She always understands-she never laughs at us. I always talk

"Dear girlie, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Blythe isn't home," said Miss West, sympathetically. "She

"I suppose so-unless you think you could bring yourself to talk it over with me instead," said Miss Rosemary

gently. "It is such a help to talk things over. I know. I don't suppose I can be as good at understanding as Mrs.

"No, I wouldn't laugh inside, either. Why should I? Something has hurt you-it never amuses me to see

anybody hurt, no matter what hurts them. If you feel that you'd like to tell me what has hurt you I'll be glad to

Faith took another long, earnest look into Miss West's eyes. They were very serious-there was no laughter in

them, not even far, far back. With a little sigh she sat down on the old pine beside her new friend and told her

Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She understood and sympathized-really, she was almost as

"Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should have been a butcher," said Faith bitterly. "He is so fond of carving

things up. He enjoyed cutting poor Adam to pieces. He just sliced into him as if he were any common

"Between you and me, Faith, I don't like Mr. Perry very well myself," said Rosemary, laughing a little-but at

Mr. Perry, not at Adam, as Faith clearly understood. "I never did like him. I went to school with him-he was a

Glen boy, you know-and he was a most detestable little prig even then. Oh, how we girls used to hate holding

his fat, clammy hands in the ringaround games. But we must remember, dear, that he didn't know that Adam

had been a pet of yours. He thought he was just a common rooster. We must be just, even when we are

"I suppose so," admitted Faith. "But why does everybody seem to think it funny that I should have loved

Adam so much, Miss West? If it had been a horrid old cat nobody would have thought it queer. When Lottie

Warren's kitten had its legs cut off by the binder everybody was sorry for her. She cried two days in school

and nobody laughed at her, not even Dan Reese. And all her chums went to the kitten's funeral and helped her

bury it-only they couldn't bury its poor little paws with it, because they couldn't find them. It was a horrid

thing to have happen, of course, but I don't think it was as dreadful as seeing your pet eaten up. Yet

"I think it is because the name 'rooster' seems rather a funny one," said Rosemary gravely. "There is

something in it that is comical. Now, 'chicken' is different. It doesn't sound so funny to talk of loving a

"Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just a little golden ball. He would run up to me and

peck out of my hand. And he was handsome when he grew up, too-white as snow, with such a beautiful

curving white tail, though Mary Vance said it was too short. He knew his name and always came when I

called him-he was a very intelligent rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was mine. It

"No, it wasn't," said Rosemary decidedly. "Not a bit fair. I remember I had a pet hen when I was a little girl.

She was such a pretty little thing-all golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved any pet.

She was never killed-she died of old age. Mother wouldn't have her killed because she was my pet."

"If my mother had been living she wouldn't have let Adam be killed," said Faith. "For that matter, father

wouldn't have either, if he'd been home and known of it. I'm sure he wouldn't, Miss West."

"I'm sure, too," said Rosemary. There was a little added flush on her face. She looked rather conscious but

"Was it very wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coattails were scorching?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, terribly wicked," answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. "But I would have been just as naughty,

Faith-I wouldn't have told him they were scorching-and I don't believe I would ever have been a bit sorry for

"Dearest, if a minister doesn't behave as a gentleman we are not bound to respect his coattails. I know I

would just have loved to see Jimmy Perry's coattails burning up. It must have been fun."

"Don't say that, dear. We miss so much out of life if we don't love. The more we love the richer life is-even if

it is only some little furry or feathery pet. Would you like a canary, Faith-a little golden bit of a canary? If

"Oh, I would like that," cried Faith. "I love birds. Only-would Aunt Martha's cat eat it? It's so tragic to have

"If you hang the cage far enough from the wall I don't think the cat could harm it. I'll tell you just how to take

"It will give every gossip in the Glen something to talk of, but I will not care. I want to comfort this poor little

Faith was comforted. Sympathy and understanding were very sweet. She and Miss Rosemary sat on the old

pine until the twilight crept softly down over the white valley and the evening star shone over the gray maple

grove. Faith told Rosemary all her small history and hopes, her likes and dislikes, the ins and outs of life at

the manse, the ups and downs of school society. Finally they parted firm friends.

Mr. Meredith was, as usual, lost in dreams when supper began that evening, but presently a name pierced his

abstraction and brought him back to reality. Faith was telling Una of her meeting with Rosemary.

"She is just lovely, I think," said Faith. "Just as nice as Mrs. Blythe-but different. I felt as if I wanted to hug

her. She did hug me -such a nice, velvety hug. And she called me 'dearest.' It thrilled me. I could tell her

"So you liked Miss West, Faith?" Mr. Meredith asked, with a rather odd intonation.

JOHN MEREDITH walked meditatively through the clear crispness of a winter night in Rainbow Valley.

The hills beyond glistened with the chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir tree in the long

valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost. His children and the Blythe lads and lasses were

coasting down the eastern slope and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were having a glorious time and

their gay voices and gayer laughter echoed up and down the valley, dying away in elfin cadences among the

trees. On the right the lights of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the genial lure and invitation

which seems always to glow in the beacons of a home where we know there is love and goodcheer and a

welcome for all kin whether of flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very well on occasion to spend an evening

arguing with the doctor by the drift wood fire, where the famous china dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch

and ward, as became deities of the hearth, but tonight he did not look that way. Far on the western hill

gleamed a paler but more alluring star. Mr. Meredith was on his way to see Rosemary West, and he meant to

tell her something which had been slowly blossoming in his heart since their first meeting and had sprung

into full flower on the evening when Faith had so warmly voiced her admiration for Rosemary.

He had come to realize that he had learned to care for Rosemary. Not as he had cared for Cecilia, of course.

That was entirely different. That love of romance and dream and glamour could never, he thought, return. But

Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear-very dear. She was the best of companions. He was happier in

her company than he had ever expected to be again. She would be an ideal mistress for his home, a good

During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith had received innumerable hints from brother members of

Presbytery and from many parishioners who could not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from

some who could, that he ought to marry again: But these hints never made any impression on him. It was

commonly thought he was never aware of them. But he was quite acutely aware of them. And in his own

occasional visitations of common sense he knew that the common sensible thing for him to do was to marry.

But common sense was not the strong point of John Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and

coldbloodedly, some "suitable" woman, as one might choose a housekeeper or a business partner, was

something he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated that word "suitable." It reminded him so strongly

of James Perry. "A suit able woman of suit able age," that unctuous brother of the cloth had said, in his far

from subtle hint. For the moment John Meredith had had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly away

and propose marriage to the youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible to discover.

Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he liked her. But when she had bluntly told him he should

marry again he felt as if she had torn away the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his innermost life,

and he had been more or less afraid of her ever since. He knew there were women in his congregation "of

suitable age" who would marry him quite readily. That fact had seeped through all his abstraction very early

in his ministry in Glen St. Mary. They were good, substantial, uninteresting women, one or two fairly

comely, the others not exactly so and John Meredith would as soon have thought of marrying any one of

them as of hanging himself. He had some ideals to which no seeming necessity could make him false. He

could ask no woman to fill Cecilia's place in his home unless he could offer her at least some of the affection

and homage he had given to his girlish bride. And where, in his limited feminine acquaintance, was such a

Rosemary West had come into his life on that autumn evening bringing with her an atmosphere in which his

spirit recognized native air. Across the gulf of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship. He knew her

better in that ten minutes by the hidden spring than he knew Emmeline Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or Amy

Annetta Douglas in a year, or could know them, in a century. He had fled to her for comfort when Mrs. Alec

Davis had outraged his mind and soul and had found it. Since then he had gone often to the house on the hill,

slipping through the shadowy paths of night in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen gossip could never be

absolutely certain that he did go to see Rosemary West. Once or twice he had been caught in the West living

room by other visitors; that was all the Ladies' Aid had to go by. But when Elizabeth Kirk heard it she put

away a secret hope she had allowed herself to cherish, without a change of expression on her kind plain face,

and Emmeline Drew resolved that the next time she saw a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge she would not

snub him as she had done at a previous meeting. Of course, if Rosemary West was out to catch the minister

she would catch him; she looked younger than she was and men thought her pretty; besides, the West girls

"It is to be hoped that he won't be so absentminded as to propose to Ellen by mistake," was the only

malicious thing she allowed herself to say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmeline bore no further grudge

towards Rosemary. When all was said and done, an unencumbered bachelor was far better than a widower

with four children. It had been only the glamour of the manse that had temporarily blinded Emmeline's eyes

A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. Meredith to the pond. Faith's long curls streamed in the

wind and her laughter rang above that of the others. John Meredith looked after them kindly and longingly.

He was glad that his children had such chums as the Blythes-glad that they had so wise and gay and tender a

friend as Mrs. Blythe. But they needed something more, and that something would be supplied when he

brought Rosemary West as a bride to the old manse. There was in her a quality essentially maternal.

It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturday night, which was supposed to be dedicated

to a thoughtful revision of Sunday's sermon. But he had chosen this night because he had learned that Ellen

West was going to be away and Rosemary would be alone. Often as he had spent pleasant evenings in the

house on the hill he had never, since that first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary alone. Ellen had always

He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He liked Ellen West very much and they were the best of

friends. Ellen had an almost masculine understanding and a sense of humour which his own shy, hidden

appreciation of fun found very agreeable. He liked her interest in politics and world events. There was no

man in the Glen, not even excepting Dr. Blythe, who had a better grasp of such things.

"I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long as you live," she had said. "If you're not, it doesn't

He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked the hearty laugh with which she always ended up some

jolly and welltold story. She never gave him digs about his children as other Glen women did; she never

bored him with local gossip; she had no malice and no pettiness. She was always splendidly sincere. Mr.

Meredith, who had picked up Miss Cornelia's way of classifying people, considered that Ellen belonged to

the race of Joseph. Altogether, an admirable woman for a sisterinlaw. Nevertheless, a man did not want

even the most admirable of women around when he was proposing to another woman. And Ellen was always

around. She did not insist on talking to Mr. Meredith herself all the time. She let Rosemary have a fair share

of him. Many evenings, indeed, Ellen effaced herself almost totally, sitting back in the corner with St. George

in her lap, and letting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk and sing and read books together. Sometimes they

quite forgot her presence. But if their conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed the least tendency to what

Ellen considered philandering, Ellen promptly nipped that tendency in the bud and blotted Rosemary out for

the rest of the evening. But not even the grimmest of amiable dragons can altogether prevent a certain subtle

language of eye and smile and eloquent silence; and so the minister's courtship progressed after a fashion.

But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax must come when Ellen was away. And Ellen was so seldom

away, especially in winter. She found her own fireside the pleasantest place in the world, she vowed. Gadding

had no attraction for her. She was fond of company but she wanted it at home. Mr. Meredith had almost been

driven to the conclusion that he must write to Rosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen casually

announced one evening that she was going to a silver wedding next Saturday night. She had been bridesmaid

when the principals were married. Only old guests were invited, so Rosemary was not included. Mr. Meredith

pricked up his ears a trifle and a gleam flashed into his dreamy dark eyes. Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it;

and both Ellen and Rosemary felt, with a tingling shock, that Mr. Meredith would certainly come up the hill

"Might as well have it over with, St. George," Ellen sternly told the black cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone

home and Rosemary had silently gone upstairs. "He means to ask her, St. George-I'm perfectly sure of that.

So he might as well have his chance to do it and find out he can't get her, George. She'd rather like to take

him, Saint. I know that-but she promised, and she's got to keep her promise. I'm rather sorry in some ways,

St. George. I don't know of a man I'd sooner have for a brotherinlaw if a brotherinlaw was convenient. I

haven't a thing against him, Saint-not a thing except that he won't see and can't be made to see that the Kaiser

is a menace to the peace of Europe. That's his blind spot. But he's good company and I like him. A woman

can say anything she likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith's and be sure of not being

misunderstood. Such a man is more precious than rubies, Saint-and much rarer, George. But he can't have

Rosemary-and I suppose when he finds out he can't have her he'll drop us both. And we'll miss him,

Saint-we'll miss him something scandalous, George. But she promised, and I'll see that she keeps her

Ellen's face looked almost ugly in its lowering resolution. Upstairs Rosemary was crying into her pillow.

So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking very beautiful. Rosemary had not made any special toilet

for the occasion; she wanted to, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meant to refuse.

So she wore her plain dark afternoon dress and looked like a queen in it. Her suppressed excitement coloured

her face to brilliancy, her great blue eyes were pools of light less placid than usual.

She wished the interview were over. She had looked forward to it all day with dread. She felt quite sure that

John Meredith cared a great deal for her after a fashion-and she felt just as sure that he did not care for her as

he had cared for his first love. She felt that her refusal would disappoint him considerably, but she did not

think it would altogether overwhelm him. Yet she hated to make it; hated for his sake and-Rosemary was

quite honest with herself-for her own. She knew she could have loved John Meredith if-if it had been

permissible. She knew that life would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, he refused longer to be a friend.

She knew that she could be very happy with him and that she could make him happy. But between her and

happiness stood the prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years ago. Rosemary could not

remember her father. He had died when she was only three years old. Ellen, who had been thirteen,

remembered him, but with no special tenderness. He had been a stern, reserved man many years older than

his fair, pretty wife. Five years later their brother of twelve died also; since his death the two girls had always

lived alone with their mother. They had never mingled very freely in the social life of the Glen or Lowbridge,

though where they went the wit and spirit of Ellen and the sweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them

welcome guests. Both had what was called "a disappointment" in their girlhood. The sea had not given up

Rosemary's lover; and Norman Douglas, then a handsome, redhaired young giant, noted for wild driving

and noisy though harmless escapades, had quarrelled with Ellen and left her in a fit of pique.

There were not lacking candidates for both Martin's and Norman's places, but none seemed to find favour in

the eyes of the West girls, who drifted slowly out of youth and bellehood without any seeming regret. They

were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic invalid. The three had a little circle of home interests-books

Mrs. West's death, which occurred on Rosemary's twentyfifth birthday, was a bitter grief to them. At first

they were intolerably lonely. Ellen, especially, continued to grieve and brood, her long, moody musings

broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The old Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he feared

Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either to speak or eat, Rosemary had flung herself on her knees by

"Oh, Ellen, you have me yet," she said imploringly. "Am I nothing to you? We have always loved each other

"I won't have you always," Ellen had said, breaking her silence with harsh intensity. "You will marry and

leave me. I shall be left all alone. I cannot bear the thought-I cannot. I would rather die."

Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humour Ellen. What did it matter? She knew quite well she

would never want to marry any one. Her love had gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the sea;

and without love she could not marry any one. So she promised readily, though Ellen made rather a fearsome

rite of it. They clasped hands over the Bible, in their mother's vacant room, and both vowed to each other that

Ellen's condition improved from that hour. She soon regained her normal cheery poise. For ten years she and

Rosemary lived in the old house happily, undisturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in marriage.

Their promise sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed to remind her sister of it whenever any eligible

male creature crossed their paths, but she had never been really alarmed until John Meredith came home that

night with Rosemary. As for Rosemary, Ellen's obsession regarding that promise had always been a little

matter of mirth to her-until lately. Now, it was a merciless fetter, selfimposed but never to be shaken off.

It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she had given to her boylover she could never give to another.

But she knew now that she could give to John Meredith a love richer and more womanly. She knew that he

touched deeps in her nature that Martin had never touched-that had not, perhaps, been in the girl of seventeen

to touch. And she must send him away tonight-send him back to his lonely hearth and his empty life and his

heartbreaking problems, because she had promised Ellen, ten years before, on their mother's Bible, that she

John Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity. On the contrary, he talked for two good hours on

the least loverlike of subjects. He even tried politics, though politics always bored Rosemary. The later

began to think that she had been altogether mistaken, and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed to her

grotesque. She felt flat and foolish. The glow went out of her face and the lustre out of her eyes. John

And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, and standing by her chair, he asked it. The room

had grown terribly still. Even St. George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard her own heart beating and was sure

Now was the time for her to say no, gently but firmly. She had been ready for days with her stilted, regretful

little formula. And now the words of it had completely vanished from her mind. She had to say no-and she

suddenly found she could not say it. It was the impossible word. She knew now that it was not that she could

have loved John Meredith, but that she did love him. The thought of putting him from her life was agony.

She must say something; she lifted her bowed golden head and asked him stammeringly to give her a few

John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not vainer than any man has a right to be, but he had expected

that Rosemary West would say yes. He had been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this doubt-this

hesitation? She was not a school girl to be uncertain as to her own mind. He felt an ugly shock of

disappointment and dismay. But he assented to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and went away

"I will tell you in a few days," said Rosemary, with downcast eyes and burning face.

AT midnight Ellen West was walking home from the Pollock silver wedding. She had stayed a little while

after the other guests had gone, to help the grayhaired bride wash the dishes. The distance between the two

houses was not far and the road good, so that Ellen was enjoying the walk back home in the moonlight.

The evening had been a pleasant one. Ellen, who had not been to a party for years, found it very pleasant. All

the guests had been members of her old set and there was no intrusive youth to spoil the flavour, for the only

son of the bride and groom was far away at college and could not be present. Norman Douglas had been there

and they had met socially for the first time in years, though she had seen him once or twice in church that

winter. Not the least sentiment was awakened in Ellen's heart by their meeting. She was accustomed to

wonder, when she thought about it at all, how she could ever have fancied him or felt so badly over his

sudden marriage. But she had rather liked meeting him again. She had forgotten how bracing and stimulating

he could be. No gathering was ever stagnant when Norman Douglas was present. Everybody had been

surprised when Norman came. It was well known he never went anywhere. The Pollocks had invited him

because he had been one of the original guests, but they never thought he would come. He had taken his

second cousin, Amy Annetta Douglas, out to supper and seemed rather attentive to her. But Ellen sat across

the table from him and had a spirited argument with him-an argument during which all his shouting and

banter could not fluster her and in which she came off best, flooring Norman so composedly and so

completely that he was silent for ten minutes. At the end of which time he had muttered in his ruddy

beard-"spunky as ever-spunky as ever"-and began to hector Amy Annetta, who giggled foolishly over his

Ellen thought these things over as she walked home, tasting them with reminiscent relish. The moonlit air

sparkled with frost. The snow crisped under her feet. Below her lay the Glen with the white harbour beyond.

There was a light in the manse study. So John Meredith had gone home. Had he asked Rosemary to marry

him? And after what fashion had she made her refusal known? Ellen felt that she would never know this,

though she was quite curious. She was sure Rosemary would never tell her anything about it and she would

not dare to ask. She must just be content with the fact of the refusal. After all, that was the only thing that

"I hope he'll have sense enough to come back once in a while and be friendly," she said to herself. She

disliked so much to be alone that thinking aloud was one of her devices for circumventing unwelcome

solitude."It's awful never to have a manbody with some brains to talk to once in a while. And like as not

he'll never come near the house again. There's Norman Douglas, too-I like that man, and I'd like to have a

good rousing argument with him now and then. But he'd never dare come up for fear people would think he

was courting me again-for fear I'd think it, too, most likely-though he's more a stranger to me now than John

Meredith. It seems like a dream that we could ever have been beaus. But there it is-there's only two men in

the Glen I'd ever want to talk to-and what with gossip and this wretched lovemaking business it's not likely

I'll ever see either of them again. I could," said Ellen, addressing the unmoved stars with a spiteful emphasis,

She paused at her gate with a sudden vague feeling of alarm. There was still a light in the livingroom and to

and fro across the windowshades went the shadow of a woman walking restlessly up and down. What was

Rosemary doing up at this hour of the night? And why was she striding about like a lunatic?

Ellen went softly in. As she opened the hall door Rosemary came out of the room. She was flushed and

Ellen composedly removed her wraps and overshoes, and followed her sister into the warm, firelighted

room. She stood with her hand on the table and waited. She was looking very handsome herself, in her own

grim, blackbrowed style. The new black velvet dress, with its train and Vneck, which she had made

purposely for the party, became her stately, massive figure. She wore coiled around her neck the rich heavy

necklace of amber beads which was a family heirloom. Her walk in the frosty air had stung her cheeks into a

glowing scarlet. But her steelblue eyes were as icy and unyielding as the sky of the winter night. She stood

"Rosemary." Ellen clenched her hands and took an involuntary step forward. "Do you mean to tell me that

"I hardly see why that was necessary," said Ellen, coldly contemptuous, "when there is only the one answer

"Ellen," she said desperately, "I love John Meredith-I want to be his wife. Will you set me free from that

"Listen," interrupted Ellen. "I did not ask you for that promise. You offered it."

"I know-I know. But I did not think then that I could ever care for anyone again."

"You offered it," went on Ellen unmovably. "You promised it over our mother's Bible. It was more than a

"I will not do it. A promise is a promise in my eyes. I will not do it. Break your promise-be forsworn if you

"Hard on you! And what of me? Have you ever given a thought to what my loneliness would be here if you

left me? I could not bear it-I would go crazy. I cannot live alone. Haven't I been a good sister to you? Have I

"Then why do you want to leave me for this man whom you hadn't seen a year ago?"

"Love! You talk like a school miss instead of a middleaged woman. He doesn't love you. He wants a

housekeeper and a governess. You don't love him. You want to be 'Mrs.'-you are one of those weakminded

women who think it's a disgrace to be ranked as an old maid. That's all there is to it."

Rosemary quivered. Ellen could not, or would not, understand. There was no use arguing with her.

"No, I won't. And I won't talk of it again. You promised and you've got to keep your word. That's all. Go to

bed. Look at the time! You're all romantic and worked up. Tomorrow you'll be more sensible. At any rate,

Rosemary went without another word, pale and spiritless. Ellen walked stormily about the room for a few

minutes, then paused before the chair where St. George had been calmly sleeping through the whole evening.

A reluctant smile overspread her dark face. There had been only one time in her life-the time of her mother's

death-when Ellen had not been able to temper tragedy with comedy. Even in that long ago bitterness, when

Norman Douglas had, after a fashion, jilted her, she had laughed at herself quite as often as she had cried.

"I expect there'll be some sulking, St. George. Yes, Saint, I expect we are in for a few unpleasant foggy days.

Well, we'll weather them through, George. We've dealt with foolish children before, Saint. Rosemary'll sulk a

while-and then she'll get over it-and all will be as before, George. She promised-and she's got to keep her

promise. And that's the last word on the subject I'll say to you or her or anyone, Saint."

There was no sulking, however. Rosemary was pale and quiet the next day, but beyond that Ellen could

detect no difference in her. Certainly, she seemed to bear Ellen no grudge. It was stormy, so no mention was

made of going to church. In the afternoon Rosemary shut herself in her room and wrote a note to John

Meredith. She could not trust herself to say "no" in person. She felt quite sure that if he suspected she was

saying"no" reluctantly he would not take it for an answer, and she could not face pleading or entreaty. She

must make him think she cared nothing at all for him and she could do that only by letter. She wrote him the

stiffest, coolest little refusal imaginable. It was barely courteous; it certainly left no loophole of hope for the

boldest lover-and John Meredith was anything but that. He shrank into himself, hurt and mortified, when he

read Rosemary's letter next day in his dusty study. But under his mortification a dreadful realization presently

made itself felt. He had thought he did not love Rosemary as deeply as he had loved Cecilia. Now, when he

had lost her, he knew that he did. She was everything to him-everything! And he must put her out of his life

completely. Even friendship was impossible now. Life stretched before him in intolerable dreariness. He must

go on-there was his work-his children-but the heart had gone out of him. He sat alone all that evening in his

dark, cold, comfortless study with his head bowed on his hands. Up on the hill Rosemary had a headache and

went early to bed, while Ellen remarked to St. George, purring his disdain of foolish humankind, who did not

"What would women do if headaches had never been invented, St. George? But never mind, Saint. We'll just

wink the other eye for a few weeks. I admit I don't feel comfortable myself, George. I feel as if I had drowned

a kitten. But she promised, Saint-and she was the one to offer it, George. Bismillah!"

A LIGHT rain had been falling all day-a little, delicate, beautiful spring rain, that somehow seemed to hint

and whisper of mayflowers and wakening violets. The harbour and the gulf and the lowlying shore fields

had been dim with pearlgray mists. But now in the evening the rain had ceased and the mists had blown out

to sea. Clouds sprinkled the sky over the harbour like little fiery roses. Beyond it the hills were dark against a

spendthrift splendour of daffodil and crimson. A great silvery evening star was watching over the bar. A

brisk, dancing, newsprung wind was blowing up from Rainbow Valley, resinous with the odours of fir and

damp mosses. It crooned in the old spruces around the graveyard and ruffled Faith's splendid curls as she sat

on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone with her arms round Mary Vance and Una. Carl and Jerry were sitting

opposite them on another tombstone and all were rather full of mischief after being cooped up all day.

"The air just shines tonight, doesn't it? It's been washed so clean, you see," said Faith happily.

Mary Vance eyed her gloomily. Knowing what she knew, or fancied she knew, Mary considered that Faith

was far too lighthearted. Mary had something on her mind to say and she meant to say it before she went

home. Mrs. Elliott had sent her up to the manse with some newlaid eggs, and had told her not to stay longer

than half an hour. The half hour was nearly up, so Mary uncurled her cramped legs from under her and said

"Never mind about the air. Just you listen to me. You manse young ones have just got to behave yourselves

better than you've been doing this spring-that's all there is to it. I just come up tonight apurpose to tell you

"What have we been doing now?" cried Faith in amazement, pulling her arm away from Mary. Una's lips

trembled and her sensitive little soul shrank within her. Mary was always so brutally frank. Jerry began to

whistle out of bravado. He meant to let Mary see he didn't care for her tirades. Their behaviour was no

"Doing now! You're doing all the time," retorted Mary. "Just as soon as the talk about one of your didos fades

away you do something else to start it up again. It seems to me you haven't any idea of how manse children

"I can tell you what will happen if you don't learn to behave yourselves. The session will ask your father to

resign. There now, Master Jerryknowitall. Mrs. Alec Davis said so to Mrs. Elliott. I heard her. I always

have my ears pricked up when Mrs. Alec Davis comes to tea. She said you were all going from bad to worse

and that though it was only what was to be expected when you had nobody to bring you up, still the

congregation couldn't be expected to put up with it much longer, and something would have to be done. The

Methodists just laugh and laugh at you, and that hurts the Presbyterian feelings. She says you all need a good

dose of birch tonic. Lor', if that would make folks good I oughter be a young saint. I'm not telling you this

because I want to hurt your feelings. I'm sorry for you"-Mary was past mistress of the gentle art of

condescension."I understand that you haven't much chance, the way things are. But other people don't make

as much allowance as I do. Miss Drew says Carl had a frog in his pocket in Sunday School last Sunday and it

hopped out while she was hearing the lesson. She says she's going to give up the class. Why don't you keep

"I popped it right back in again," said Carl. "It didn't hurt anybody-a poor little frog! And I wish old Jane

Drew would give up our class. I hate her. Her own nephew had a dirty plug of tobacco in his pocket and

offered us fellows a chew when Elder Clow was praying. I guess that's worse than a frog."

"No, 'cause frogs are more unexpectedlike. They make more of a sensation. 'Sides, he wasn't caught at it.

And then that praying competition you had last week has made a fearful scandal. Everybody is talking about

"Why, the Blythes were in that as well as us," cried Faith, indignantly. "It was Nan Blythe who suggested it

"Well, you get the credit of it any way. It wouldn't have been so bad if you hadn't had it in the graveyard."

"Deacon Hazard drove past when you were praying," said Mary, "and he saw and heard you, with your hands

folded over your stomach, and groaning after every sentence. He thought you were making fun of him."

"So I was," declared unabashed Jerry. "Only I didn't know he was going by, of course. That was just a mean

accident. I wasn't praying in real earnest-I knew I had no chance of winning the prize. So I was just getting

what fun I could out of it. Walter Blythe can pray bully. Why, he can pray as well as dad."

"Well, if praying scandalizes people so much we mustn't do it any more, " sighed Una.

"Shucks, you can pray all you want to, only not in the graveyard-and don't make a game of it. That was what

"Well, a soapbubble party then. You had something. The overharbour people swear you had a teaparty,

"Well, Martha wouldn't let us blow bubbles in the house. She was awful cross that day," explained Jerry.

"Weren't they pretty?" cried Faith, her eyes sparkling over the remembrance. "They reflected the trees and the

hills and the harbour like little fairy worlds, and when we shook them loose they floated away down to

"I'm glad we did it once, anyhow, before we found out it was wrong," said Faith.

"It wouldn't have been wrong to blow them on the lawn," said Mary impatiently. "Seems like I can't knock

any sense into your heads. You've been told often enough you shouldn't play in the graveyard. The

"We forget," said Faith dolefully. "And the lawn is so small-and so caterpillary-and so full of shrubs and

"It's the things you do in the graveyard. It wouldn't matter if you just sat here and talked quiet, same as we're

doing now. Well, I don't know what is going to come of it all, but I do know that Elder Warren is going to

"Well, people think he ought to bother himself about you a little more. I don't-I understand him. He's a child

in some ways himself-that's what he is, and needs some one to look after him as bad as you do. Well, perhaps

"Well, you are a lot of innocents, upon my word. Why, everybody is talking of it. Your pa goes to see

"Well, I dunno. I just go by what folks say. I don't give it for a fact. But it would be a good thing. Rosemary

West'd make you toe the mark if she came here, I'll bet a cent, for all she's so sweet and smiley on the face of

her. They're always that way till they've caught them. But you need some one to bring you up. You're

disgracing your pa and I feel for him. I've always thought an awful lot of your pa ever since that night he

talked to me so nice. I've never said a single swear word since, or told a lie. And I'd like to see him happy and

comfortable, with his buttons on and his meals decent, and you young ones licked into shape, and that old cat

of a Martha put in her proper place. The way she looked at the eggs I brought her tonight. 'I hope they're

fresh,' says she. I just wished they was rotten. But you just mind that she gives you all one for breakfast,

including your pa. Make a fuss if she doesn't. That was what they was sent up for-but I don't trust old Martha.

Mary's tongue being temporarily tired, a brief silence fell over the graveyard. The manse children did not feel

like talking. They were digesting the new and not altogether palatable ideas Mary had suggested to them.

Jerry and Carl were somewhat startled. But, after all, what did it matter? And it wasn't likely there was a

word of truth in it. Faith, on the whole, was pleased. Only Una was seriously upset. She felt that she would

"Will there be any stars in my crown?" sang the Methodist choir, beginning to practise in the Methodist

"I want just three," said Mary, whose theological knowledge had increased notably since her residence with

Mrs. Elliott. "Just three-setting up on my head, like a corownet, a big one in the middle and a small one each

"Of course. Why, little babies must have smaller ones than big men. Well, it's getting dark and I must scoot

home. Mrs. Elliott doesn't like me to be out after dark. Laws, when I lived with Mrs. Wiley the dark was just

the same as the daylight to me. I didn't mind it no more'n a gray cat. Them days seem a hundred years ago.

Now, you mind what I've said and try to behave yourselves, for you pa's sake. I'll always back you up and

defend you-you can be dead sure of that. Mrs. Elliott says she never saw the like of me for sticking up for my

friends. I was real sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs. Elliott combed me down for it afterwards.

The fair Cornelia has a tongue of her own and no mistake. But she was pleased underneath for all, 'cause she

Mary sailed off, excellently well pleased with herself, leaving a rather depressed little group behind her.

"Mary Vance always says something that makes us feel bad when she comes up," said Una resentfully.

"May as well have the game as the name," retorted unrepentant Jerry. "If people say we're so bad let's be

Jerry squirmed uncomfortably. He adored his father. Through the unshaded study window they could see Mr.

Meredith at his desk. He did not seem to be either reading or writing. His head was in his hands and there was

something in his whole attitude that spoke of weariness and dejection. The children suddenly felt it.

"I dare say somebody's been worrying him about us today," said Faith. "I wish we could get along without

Jem Blythe had slipped into the graveyard and sat down beside the girls. He had been prowling about

Rainbow Valley and had succeeded in finding the first little starwhite cluster of arbutus for his mother. The

manse children were rather silent after his coming. Jem was beginning to grow away from them somewhat

this spring. He was studying for the entrance examination of Queen's Academy and stayed after school with

the older pupils for extra lessons. Also, his evenings were so full of work that he seldom joined the others in

"Not much," agreed Faith dolefully. "There wouldn't be much fun in you either if you knew you were

"Everybody-so Mary Vance says." And Faith poured out her troubles to sympathetic Jem. "You see," she

concluded dolefully, "we've nobody to bring us up. And so we get into scrapes and people think we're bad."

"Why don't you bring yourselves up?" suggested Jem. "I'll tell you what to do. Form a GoodConduct Club

"That's a good idea, " said Faith, struck by it. "But," she added doubtfully, "things that don't seem a bit of

harm to us seem simply dreadful to other people. How can we tell? We can't be bothering father all the

"You could mostly tell if you stopped to think a thing over before doing it and ask yourselves what the

congregation would say about it," said Jem. "The trouble is you just rush into things and don't think them

over at all. Mother says you're all too impulsive, just as she used to be. The GoodConduct Club would help

you to think, if you were fair and honest about punishing yourselves when you broke the rules. You'd have to

"Not exactly. You'd have to think up different ways of punishment to suit the person. You wouldn't punish

each other-you'd punish yourselves. I read all about such a club in a storybook. You try it and see how it

"Let's, " said Faith; and when Jem was gone they agreed they would. "If things aren't right we've just got to

"We've got to be fair and square, as Jem says," said Jerry. "This is a club to bring ourselves up, seeing there's

nobody else to do it. There's no use in having many rules. Let's just have one and any of us that breaks it has

"We'll think that up as we go along. We'll hold a session of the club here in the graveyard every night and talk

over what we've done through the day, and if we think we've done anything that isn't right or that would

disgrace dad the one that does it, or is responsible for it, must be punished. That's the rule. We'll all decide on

the kind of punishment-it must be made to fit the crime, as Mr. Flagg says. And the one that's, guilty will be

bound to carry it out and no shirking. There's going to be fun in this," concluded Jerry, with a relish.

"But that was before we'd formed the club," said Jerry hastily. "Everything starts from tonight."

"But what if we can't agree on what's right, or what the punishment ought to be? S'pose two of us thought of

"We can ask Jem Blythe to be umpire. He is the squarest boy in Glen St. Mary. But I guess we can settle our

own affairs mostly. We want to keep this as much of a secret as we can. Don't breathe a word to Mary Vance.

"I think," said Faith, "that there's no use in spoiling every day by dragging punishments in. Let's have a

"We'd better choose Saturday because there is no school to interfere," suggested Una.

"And spoil the one holiday in the week," cried Faith. "Not much! No, let's take Friday. That's fish day,

anyhow, and we all hate fish. We may as well have all the disagreeable things in one day. Then other days we

"Nonsense," said Jerry authoritatively. "Such a scheme wouldn't work at all. We'll just punish ourselves as we

go along and keep a clear slate. Now, we all understand, don't we? This is a GoodConduct Club, for the

purpose of bringing ourselves up. We agree to punish ourselves for bad conduct, and always to stop before

we do anything, no matter what, and ask ourselves if it is likely to hurt dad in any way, and any one who

shirks is to be cast out of the club and never allowed to play with the rest of us in Rainbow Valley again. Jem

Blythe to be umpire in case of disputes. No more taking bugs to Sunday School, Carl, and no more chewing

"No more making fun of elders praying or going to the Methodist prayer meeting," retorted Faith.

"Why, it isn't any harm to go to the Methodist prayer meeting," protested Jerry in amazement.

"Mrs. Elliott says it is, She says manse children have no business to go anywhere but to Presbyterian things."

"Darn it, I won't give up going to the Methodist prayer meeting," cried Jerry. "It's ten times more fun than

"Not till it's all down in black and white. We're only talking the club over. It isn't really formed until we've

written it out and signed it. There's got to be a constitution and bylaws. And you know there's nothing

"But it's not only the wrong things we're to punish ourselves for, but anything that might hurt father."

"It won't hurt anybody. You know Mrs. Elliott is cracked on the subject of Methodists. Nobody else makes

any fuss about my going. I always behave myself. You ask Jem or Mrs. Blythe and see what they say. I'll

abide by their opinion. I'm going for the paper now and I'll bring out the lantern and we'll all sign."

Fifteen minutes later the document was solemnly signed on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, on the centre of

which stood the smoky manse lantern, while the children knelt around it. Mrs. Elder Clow was going past at

the moment and next day all the Glen heard that the manse children had been having another praying

competition and had wound it up by chasing each other all over the graves with a lantern. This piece of

embroidery was probably suggested by the fact that, after the signing and sealing was completed, Carl had

taken the lantern and had walked circumspectly to the little hollow to examine his anthill. The others had

"Do you think it is true that father is going to marry Miss West?" Una had tremulously asked of Faith, after

"Oh, I wouldn't," said Una, chokingly. "She is nice the way she is. But Mary Vance says it changes people

altogether to be made stepmothers. They get horrid cross and mean and hateful then, and turn your father

against you. She says they're sure to do that. She never knew it to fail in a single case."

"Mary says anybody would. She knows all about stepmothers, Faith-she says she's seen hundreds of

them-and you've never seen one. Oh, Mary has told me bloodcurdling things about them. She says she knew

of one who whipped her husband's little girls on their bare shoulders till they bled, and then shut them up in a

cold, dark coal cellar all night. She says they're all aching to do things like that."

"I don't believe Miss West would. You don't know her as well as I do, Una. Just think of that sweet little bird

"It's just being a stepmother changes them. Mary says they can't help it. I wouldn't mind the whippings so

"You know nothing could make father hate us. Don't be silly, Una. I dare say there's nothing to worry over.

Likely if we run our club right and bring ourselves up properly father won't think of marrying any one. And if

FOR a fortnight things ran smoothly in the GoodConduct Club. It seemed to work admirably. Not once was

Jem Blythe called in as umpire. Not once did any of the manse children set the Glen gossips by the ears. As

for their minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other and gamely underwent their

selfimposed punishment-generally a voluntary absence from some gay Friday night frolic in Rainbow

Valley, or a sojourn in bed on some spring evening when all young bones ached to be out and away. Faith,

for whispering in Sunday School, condemned herself to pass a whole day without speaking a single word,

unless it was absolutely necessary, and accomplished it. It was rather unfortunate that Mr. Baker from

overharbour should have chosen that evening for calling at the manse, and that Faith should have happened

to go to the door. Not one word did she reply to his genial greeting, but went silently away to call her father

briefly. Mr. Baker was slightly offended and told his wife when he went home that that the biggest Meredith

girl seemed a very shy, sulky little thing, without manners enough to speak when she was spoken to. But

nothing worse came of it, and generally their penances did no harm to themselves or anybody else. All of

them were beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it was a very easy matter to bring yourself up.

"I guess people will soon see that we can behave ourselves properly as well as anybody," said Faith

She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone. It had been a cold, raw, wet day of spring storm and

Rainbow Valley was out of the question for girls, though the manse and the Ingleside boys were down there

fishing. The rain had held up, but the east wind blew mercilessly in from the sea, cutting to bone and marrow.

Spring was late in spite of its early promise, and there was even yet a hard drift of old snow and ice in the

northern corner of the graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had come up to bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped

in through the gate shivering. She belonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth and her father had, for

thirty years, made a practice of sending a mess from his first spring catch to the manse. He never darkened a

church door; he was a hard drinker and a reckless man, but as long as he sent those herring up to the manse

every spring, as his father had done before him, he felt comfortably sure that his account with the Powers

That Govern was squared for the year. He would not have expected a good mackerel catch if he had not so

Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such a small, wizened little creature. Tonight,

as she sidled boldly enough up to the manse girls, she looked as if she had never been warm since she was

born. Her face was purple and her paleblue, bold little eyes were red and watery. She wore a tattered print

dress and a ragged woollen comforter, tied across her thin shoulders and under her arms. She had walked the

three miles from the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road where there was still snow and slush and mud.

Her feet and legs were as purple as her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was used to being cold,

and she had been going barefooted for a month already, like all the other swarming young fry of the fishing

village. There was no selfpity in her heart as she sat down on the tombstone and grinned cheerfully at Faith

and Una. Faith and Una grinned cheerfully back. They knew Lida slightly, having met her once or twice the

"Hello!" said Lida, "ain't this a fierce kind of a night? "T'ain't fit for a dog to be out, is it?"

"Pa made me bring you up some herring," returned Lida. She shivered, coughed, and stuck out her bare feet.

Lida was not thinking about herself or her feet, and was making no bid for sympathy. She held her feet out

instinctively to keep them from the wet grass around the tombstone. But Faith and Una were instantly

"Oh, why are you barefooted on such a cold night?" cried Faith. "Your feet must be almost frozen."

"Pretty near," said Lida proudly. "I tell you it was fierce walking up that harbour road."

"Hain't none to put on. All I had was wore out by the time winter was over," said Lida indifferently.

For a moment Faith stated in horror. This was terrible. Here was a little girl, almost a neighbour, half frozen

because she had no shoes or stockings in this cruel spring weather. Impulsive Faith thought of nothing but the

dreadfulness of it. In a moment she was pulling off her own shoes and stockings.

"Here, take these and put them right on," she said, forcing them into the hands of the astonished Lida. "Quick

Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered gift, with a sparkle in her dull eyes. Sure she would put

them on, and that mighty quick, before any one appeared with authority to recall them. In a minute she had

pulled the stockings over her scrawny little legs and slipped Faith's shoes over her thick little ankles.

"No-and I don't care if they are," said Faith. "Do you think I could see any one freezing to death without

helping them if I could? It wouldn't be right, especially when my father's a minister."

"Will you want them back? It's awful cold down at the harbour mouth-long after it's warm up here," said Lida

"No, you're to keep them, of course. That is what I meant when I gave them. I have another pair of shoes and

Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls about many things. But now she thought she had better get

away before somebody came and made her yield up her booty. So she shuffled off through the bitter twilight,

in the noiseless, shadowy way she had slipped in. As soon as she was out of sight of the manse she sat down,

took off the shoes and stockings, and put them in her herring basket. She had no intention of keeping them on

down that dirty harbour road. They were to be kept good for gala occasions. Not another little girl down at

the harbour mouth had such fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost new shoes. Lida was

furnished forth for the summer. She had no qualms in the matter. In her eyes the manse people were quite

fabulously rich, and no doubt those girls had slathers of shoes and stockings. Then Lida ran down to the Glen

village and played for an hour with the boys before Mr. Flagg's store, splashing about in a pool of slush with

"I don't think, Faith, that you should have done that," said Una, a little reproachfully, after Lida had gone.

"I don't care," cried Faith, still in the fine glow of having done a kindness to a fellow creature. "It isn't fair

that I should have two pairs of shoes and poor little Lida Marsh not have any. Now we both have a pair. You

know perfectly well, Una, that father said in his sermon last Sunday that there was no real happiness in

getting or having-only in giving. And it's true. I feel far happier now than I ever did in my whole life before.

Just think of Lida walking home this very minute with her poor little feet all nice and warm and comfy."

"You know you haven't another pair of black cashmere stockings," said Una. "Your other pair were so full of

holes that Aunt Martha said she couldn't darn them any more and she cut the legs up for stove dusters. You've

All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her gladness collapsed like a pricked balloon. She sat for a few

"Oh, Una, I never thought of that," she said dolefully. "I didn't stop to think at all."

The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockings of blue and red which Aunt Martha had knit

for Faith in the winter. They were undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them as she had never loathed anything

before. Wear them she certainly would not. They were still unworn in her bureau drawer.

"You'll have to wear the striped stockings after this," said Una. "Just think how the boys in school will laugh

at you. You know how they laugh at Mamie Warren for her striped stockings and call her barber pole and

Faith did know this. The one thing on which Aunt Martha troubled herself to insist was that they must all go

to church, rain or shine. How they were dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned her. But go

they must. That was how Aunt Martha had been brought up seventy years ago, and that was how she meant to

Una shook her head. "No, you know I only have the one black pair. And they're so tight I can hardly get them

on. They wouldn't go on you. Neither would my gray ones. Besides, the legs of them are all darned and

"I won't wear those striped stockings," said Faith stubbornly. "The feel of them is even worse than the looks.

They make me feel as if my legs were as big as barrels and they're so scratchy."

"If father was home I'd go and ask him to get me a new pair before the store closes. But he won't be home till

too late. I'll ask him Monday-and I won't go to church tomorrow. I'll pretend I'm sick and Aunt Martha'll have

"That would be acting a lie, Faith," cried Una. "You can't do that. You know it would be dreadful. What

would father say if he knew? Don't you remember how he talked to us after mother died and told us we must

always be true, no matter what else we failed in. He said we must never tell or act a lie-he said he'd trust us

not to. You can't do it, Faith. Just wear the striped stockings. It'll only be for once. Nobody will notice them

in church. It isn't like school. And your new brown dress is so long they won't show much. Wasn't it lucky

Aunt Martha made it big, so you'd have room to grow in it, for all you hated it so when she finished it?"

"I won't wear those stockings," repeated Faith. She uncoiled her bare, white legs from the tombstone and

deliberately walked through the wet, cold grass to the bank of snow. Setting her teeth, she stepped upon it and

"What are you doing?" cried Una aghast. "You'll catch your death of cold, Faith Meredith."

"I'm trying to," answered Faith. "I hope I'll catch a fearful cold and be awful sick tomorrow. Then I won't be

"But, Faith, you might really die. You might get pneumonia. Please, Faith don't. Let's go into the house and

get something for your feet. Oh, here's Jerry. I'm so thankful. Jerry, make Faith get off that snow. Look at her

"Then are you punishing yourself for something? It isn't right, if you are. You'll be sick."

"Because Lida had none-and her feet were so cold. And now she wants to be sick so that she won't have to go

Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled one way and Faith pulled another. Una ran behind Faith

and pushed. Faith stormed at Jerry to leave her alone. Jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy idiot; and

Una cried. They made no end of noise and they were close to the road fence of the graveyard. Henry Warren

and his wife drove by and heard and saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that the manse children had been

having an awful fight in the graveyard and using most improper language. Meanwhile, Faith had allowed

herself to be pulled off the ice because her feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to get off any way.

They all went in amiably and went to bed. Faith slept like a cherub and woke in the morning without a trace

of a cold. She felt that she couldn't feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that longago talk with her

father. But she was still as fully determined as ever that she would not wear those abominable stockings to

FAITH went early to Sunday School and was seated in the corner of her class pew before any one came.

Therefore, the dreadful truth did not burst upon any one until Faith left the class pew near the door to walk up

to the manse pew after Sunday School. The church was already half filled and all who were sitting near the

Faith's new brown dress, which Aunt Martha had made from an ancient pattern, was absurdly long for her,

but even so it did not meet her boottops. Two good inches of bare white leg showed plainly.

Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew. Jerry had gone into the gallery to sit with a chum and the Blythe

girls had taken Una with them. The Meredith children were given to "sitting all over the church" in this

fashion and a great many people thought it very improper. The gallery especially, where irresponsible lads

congregated and were known to whisper and suspected of chewing tobacco during service, was no place, for

a son of the manse. But Jerry hated the manse pew at the very top of the church, under the eyes of Elder Clow

Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning its web at the window, did not notice Faith's legs. She walked

home with her father after church and he never noticed them. She got on the hated striped stockings before

Jerry and Una arrived, so that for the time being none of the occupants of the manse knew what she had done.

But nobody else in Glen St. Mary was ignorant of it. The few who had not seen soon heard. Nothing else was

talked of on the way home from church. Mrs. Alec Davis said it was only what she expected, and the next

thing you would see some of those young ones coming to church with no clothes on at all. The president of

the Ladies' Aid decided that she would bring the matter up at the next Aid meeting, and suggest that they wait

in a body on the minister and protest. Miss Cornelia said that she, for her part, gave up. There was no use

worrying over the manse fry any longer. Even Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt a little shocked, though she attributed the

occurrence solely to Faith's forgetfulness. Susan could not immediately begin knitting stockings for Faith

because it was Sunday, but she had one set up before any one else was out of bed at Ingleside the next

"You need not tell me anything but that it was old Martha's fault, Mrs. Dr. dear." she told Anne. "I suppose

that poor little child had no decent stockings to wear. I suppose every stocking she had was in holes, as you

know very well they generally are. And I think, Mrs. Dr. dear, that the Ladies' Aid would be better employed

in knitting some for them than in fighting over the new carpet for the pulpit platform. I am not a Ladies'

Aider, but I shall knit Faith two pairs of stockings, out of this nice black yarn, as fast as my fingers can move

and that you may tie to. Never shall I forget my sensations, Mrs. Dr. dear, when I saw a minister's child

walking up the aisle of our church with no stockings on. I really did not know what way to look."

"And the church was just full of Methodists yesterday, too," groaned Miss Cornelia, who had come up to the

Glen to do some shopping and run into Ingleside to talk the affair over. "I don't know how it is, but just as

sure as those manse children do something especially awful the church is sure to be crowded with

Methodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon Hazard's eyes would drop out of her head. When she came out of church

she said, 'Well, that exhibition was no more than decent. I do pity the Presbyterians.' And we just had to take

"There was something I could have said, Mrs. Dr. dear, if I had heard her," said Susan grimly. "I would have

said, for one thing, that in my opinion clean bare legs were quite as decent as holes. And I would have said,

for another, that the Presbyterians did not feel greatly in need of pity seeing that they had a minister who

could preach and the Methodists had not. I could have squelched Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs. Dr dear, and that

"I wish Mr. Meredith didn't preach quite so well and looked after his family a little better," retorted Miss

Cornelia. "He could at least glance over his children before they went to church and see that they were quite

Meanwhile, Faith's soul was being harrowed up in Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance was there and, as usual, in a

lecturing mood. She gave Faith to understand that she had disgraced herself and her father beyond

redemption and that she, Mary Vance, was done with her. "Everybody" was talking, and "everybody" said the

"We are going to associate with her then," cried Nan Blythe. Nan secretly thought Faith had done a awful

thing, but she wasn't going to let Mary Vance run matters in this highhanded fashion. "And if you are not

Nan and Di both put their arms around Faith and glared defiance at Mary. The latter suddenly crumpled up,

"It ain't that I don't want to," she wailed. "But if I keep in with Faith people'll be saying I put her up to doing

things. Some are saying it now, true's you live. I can't afford to have such things said of me, now that I'm in a

respectable place and trying to be a lady. And I never went barelegged in church in my toughest days. I'd

never have thought of doing such a thing. But that hateful old Kitty Alec says Faith has never been the same

girl since that time I stayed in the manse. She says Cornelia Elliott will live to rue the day she took me in. It

"I think you needn't worry about him," said Di scornfully. "It isn't likely necessary. Now, Faith darling, stop

Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls sympathized with her, and even Mary Vance agreed that it was a

hard position to be in. But Jerry, on whom the thing came like a thunderbolt, refused to be placated. So this

was what some mysterious hints he had got in school that day meant! He marched Faith and Una home

without ceremony, and the GoodConduct Club held an immediate session in the graveyard to sit in

"I don't see that it was any harm," said Faith defiantly. "Not much of my legs showed. It wasn't wrong and it

"It will hurt Dad. You know it will. You know people blame him whenever we do anything queer."

"That's just the trouble. You didn't think and you should have thought. That's what our Club is for-to bring us

up and make us think. We promised we'd always stop and think before doing things. You didn't and you've

got to be punished, Faith-and real hard, too. You'll wear those striped stockings to school for a week for

"Yes, a whole week," said inexorable Jerry. "It is fair-ask Jem Blythe if it isn't."

Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about such a matter. She was beginning to realize that

"You're getting off easy," said, Jerry severely. "And no matter how we punish you it won't help father. People

will always think you just did it for mischief, and they'll blame father for not stopping it. We can never

This aspect of the case weighed on Faith's mind. Her own condemnation she could bear, but it tortured her

that her father should be blamed. If people knew the true facts of the case they would not blame him. But how

could she make them known to all the world? Getting up in church, as she had once done, and explaining the

matter was out of the question. Faith had heard from Mary Vance how the congregation had looked upon that

performance and realized that she must not repeat it. Faith worried over the problem for half a week. Then

she had an inspiration and promptly acted upon it. She spent that evening in the garret, with a lamp and an

exercise book, writing busily, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It was the very thing! How clever she

was to have thought of it! It would put everything right and explain everything and yet cause no scandal. It

was eleven o'clock when she had finished to her satisfaction and crept down to bed, dreadfully tired, but

In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen under the name of The Journal came out as usual, and

the Glen had another sensation. A letter signed "Faith Meredith" occupied a prominent place on the front

I want to explain to everybody how it was I came to go to church without stockings on, so that everybody

will know that father was not to blame one bit for it, and the old gossips need not say he is, because it is not

true. I gave my only pair of black stockings to Lida Marsh, because she hadn't any and her poor little feet

were awful cold and I was so sorry for her. No child ought to have to go without shoes and stockings in a

Christian community before the snow is all gone, and I think the W. F. M. S. ought to have given her

stockings. Of course, I know they are sending things to the little heathen children, and that is all right and a

kind thing to do. But the little heathen children have lots more warm weather than we have, and I think the

women of our church ought to look after Lida and not leave it all to me. When I gave her my stockings I

forgot they were the only black pair I had without holes, but I am glad I did give them to her, because my

conscience would have been uncomfortable if I hadn't. When she had gone away, looking so proud and

happy, the poor little thing, I remembered that all I had to wear were the horrid red and blue things Aunt

Martha knit last winter for me out of some yarn that Mrs. Joseph Burr of Upper Glen sent us. It was

dreadfully coarse yarn and all knots, and I never saw any of Mrs. Burr's own children wearing things made of

such yarn. But Mary Vance says Mrs. Burr gives the minister stuff that she can't use or eat herself, and thinks

I just couldn't bear to wear those hateful stockings. They were so ugly and rough and felt so scratchy.

Everybody would have made fun of me. I thought at first I'd pretend to be sick and not go to church next day,

but I decided I couldn't do that, because it would be acting a lie, and father told us after mother died that was

something we must never, never do. It is just as bad to act a lie as to tell one, though I know some people,

right here in the Glen, who act them, and never seem to feel a bit bad about it. I will not mention any names,

Then I tried my best to catch cold and really be sick by standing on the snowbank in the Methodist graveyard

with my bare feet until Jerry pulled me off. But it didn't hurt me a bit and so I couldn't get out of going to

church. So I just decided I would put my boots on and go that way. I can't see why it was so wrong and I was

so careful to wash my legs just as clean as my face, but, anyway, father wasn't to blame for it. He was in the

study thinking of his sermon and other heavenly things, and I kept out of his way before I went to Sunday

School. Father does not look at people's legs in church, so of course he did not notice mine, but all the gossips

did and talked about it, and that is why I am writing this letter to the Journal to explain. I suppose I did very

wrong, since everybody says so, and I am sorry and I am wearing those awful stockings to punish myself,

although father bought me two nice new black pairs as soon as Mr. Flagg's store opened on Monday morning.

But it was all my fault, and if people blame father for it after they read this they are not Christians and so I do

There is another thing I want to explain about before I stop. Mary Vance told me that Mr. Evan Boyd is

blaming the Lew Baxters for stealing potatoes out of his field last fall. They did not touch his potatoes. They

are very poor, but they are honest. It was us did it-Jerry and Carl and I. Una was not with us at the time. We

never thought it was stealing. We just wanted a few potatoes to cook over a fire in Rainbow Valley one

evening to eat with our fried trout. Mr. Boyd's field was the nearest, just between the valley and the village,

so we climbed over his fence and pulled up some stalks. The potatoes were awful small, because Mr. Boyd

did not put enough fertilizer on them and we had to pull up a lot of stalks before we got enough, and then

they were not much bigger than marbles. Walter and Di Blythe helped us eat them, but they did not come

along until we had them cooked and did not know where we got them, so they were not to blame at all, only

us. We didn't mean any harm, but if it was stealing we are very sorry and we will pay Mr. Boyd for them if he

will wait until we grow up. We never have any money now because we are not big enough to earn any, and

Aunt Martha says it takes every cent of poor father's salary, even when it is paid up regularly-and it isn't

often-to run this house. But Mr. Boyd must not blame the Lew Baxters any more, when they were quite

"SUSAN, after I'm dead I'm going to come back to earth every time when the daffodils blow in this garden,"

said Anne rapturously. "Nobody may see me, but I'll be here. If anybody is in the garden at the time-I think

I'll come on an evening just like this, but it might be just at dawn-a lovely, palepinky spring dawn-they'll

just see the daffodils nodding wildly as if an extra gust of wind had blown past them, but it will be I."

"Indeed, Mrs. Dr. dear, you will not be thinking of flaunting worldly things like daffies after you are

"Oh, Susan, I shall not be a ghost! That has such a horrible sound. I shall just be me. And I shall run around

in the twilight, whether it is morn or eve, and see all the spots I love. Do you remember how badly I felt when

I left our little House of Dreams, Susan? I thought I could never love Ingleside so well. But I do. I love every

"I am rather fond of the place myself," said Susan, who would have died if she had been removed from it,

"but we must not set our affections too much on earthly things, Mrs. Dr. dear. There are such things as fires

and earthquakes. We should always be prepared. The Tom MacAllisters overharbour were burned out three

nights ago. Some say Tom MacAllister set the house on fire himself to get the insurance. That may or may

not be. But I advise the doctor to have our chimneys seen to at once. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound

of cure. But I see Mrs. Marshall Elliott coming in at the gate, looking as if she had been sent for and couldn't

Miss Cornelia's voice was trembling, partly from emotion, partly from the fact that she had hurried up from

Anne bent over the daffodils to hide a smile. She and Gilbert had laughed heartily and heartlessly over the

front page of the Journal that day, but she knew that to dear Miss Cornelia it was almost a tragedy, and she

"Isn't it dreadful? What is to be done?" asked Miss Cornelia despairingly. Miss Cornelia had vowed that she

was done with worrying over the pranks of the manse children, but she went on worrying just the same.

Anne led the way to the veranda, where Susan was knitting, with Shirley and Rilla conning their primers on

either side. Susan was already on her second pair of stockings for Faith. Susan never worried over poor

humanity. She did what in her lay for its betterment and serenely left the rest to the Higher Powers.

"Cornelia Elliott thinks she was born to run this world, Mrs. Dr. dear," she had once said to Anne, "and so she

is always in a stew over something. I have never thought I was, and so I go calmly along. Not but what it has

sometimes occurred to me that things might be run a little better than they are. But it is not for us poor worms

to nourish such thoughts. They only make us uncomfortable and do not get us anywhere."

"I don't see that anything can be done-now-" said Anne, pulling out a nice, cushiony chair for Miss Cornelia.

"But how in the world did Mr. Vickers allow that letter to be printed? Surely he should have known better."

"Why, he's away, Anne dearie-he's been away to New Brunswick for a week. And that young scalawag of a

Joe Vickers is editing the Journal in his absence. Of course, Mr. Vickers would never have put it in, even if

he is a Methodist, but Joe would just think it a good joke. As you say, I don't suppose there is anything to be

done now, only live it down. But if I ever get Joe Vickers cornered somewhere I'll give him a talking to he

won't forget in a hurry. I wanted Marshall to stop our subscription to the Journal instantly, but he only

laughed and said that today's issue was the only one that had had anything readable in it for a year. Marshall

never will take anything seriously-just like a man. Fortunately, Evan Boyd is like that, too. He takes it as a

joke and is laughing all over the place about it. And he's another Methodist! As for Mrs. Burr of Upper Glen,

of course she will be furious and they will leave the church. Not that it will be a great loss from any point of

"It serves Mrs. Burr right," said Susan, who had an old feud with the lady in question and had been hugely

tickled over the reference to her in Faith's letter. "She will find that she will not be able to cheat the Methodist

"The worst of it is, there's not much hope of things getting any better," said Miss Cornelia gloomily. "As long

as Mr. Meredith was going to see Rosemary West I did hope the manse would soon have a proper mistress.

But that is all off. I suppose she wouldn't have him on account of the children-at least, everybody seems to

"I do not believe that he ever asked her," said Susan, who could not conceive of any one refusing a minister.

"Well, nobody knows anything about that. But one thing is certain, he doesn't go there any longer. And

Rosemary didn't look well all the spring. I hope her visit to Kingsport will do her good. She's been gone for a

month and will stay another month, I understand. I can't remember when Rosemary was away from home

before. She and Ellen could never bear to be parted. But I understand Ellen insisted on her going this time.

"Is that really so?" asked Anne, laughing. "I heard a rumour of it, but I hardly believed it."

"Believe it! You may believe it all right, Anne, dearie. Nobody is in ignorance of it. Norman Douglas never

left anybody in doubt as to his intentions in regard to anything. He always did his courting before the public.

He told Marshall that he hadn't thought about Ellen for years, but the first time he went to church last fall he

saw her and fell in love with her all over again. He said he'd clean forgot how handsome she was. He hadn't

seen her for twenty years, if you can believe it. Of course he never went to church, and Ellen never went

anywhere else round here. Oh, we all know what Norman means, but what Ellen means is a different matter. I

"He jilted her once-but it seems that does not count with some people, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan remarked rather

"He jilted her in a fit of temper and repented it all his life," said Miss Cornelia. "That is different from a

coldblooded jilting. For my part, I never detested Norman as some folks do. He could never overcrow me.

I do wonder what started him coming to church. I have never been able to believe Mrs. Wilsons's story that

Faith Meredith went there and bullied him into it. I've always intended to ask Faith herself, but I've never

happened to think of it just when I saw her. What influence could she have over Norman Douglas? He was in

the store when I left, bellowing with laughter over that scandalous letter. You could have heard him at Four

Winds Point. 'The greatest girl in the world,' he was shouting. 'She's that full of spunk she's bursting with it.

And all the old grannies want to tame her, darn them. But they'll never be able to do it-never! They might as

well try to drown a fish. Boyd, see that you put more fertilizer on your potatoes next year. Ho, ho, ho!' And

"Oh, Norman isn't mean in some ways. He'd give a thousand without blinking a lash, and roar like a Bull of

Bashan if he had to pay five cents too much for anything. Besides, he likes Mr. Meredith's sermons, and

Norman Douglas was always willing to shell out if he got his brains tickled up. There is no more Christianity

about him than there is about a black, naked heathen in Africa and never will be. But he's clever and well

read and he judges sermons as he would lectures. Anyhow, it's well he backs up Mr. Meredith and the

children as he does, for they'll need friends more than ever after this. I am tired of making excuses for them,

"Do you know, dear Miss Cornelia," said Anne seriously, "I think we have all been making too many

excuses. It is very foolish and we ought to stop it. I am going to tell you what I'd like to do. I shan't do it, of

course"-Anne had noted a glint of alarm in Susan's eye-"it would be too unconventional, and we must be

conventional or die, after we reach what is supposed to be a dignified age. But I'd like to do it. I'd like to call

a meeting of the Ladies Aid and W.M.S. and the Girls Sewing Society, and include in the audience all and

any Methodists who have been criticizing the Merediths-although I do think if we Presbyterians stopped

criticizing and excusing we would find that other denominations would trouble themselves very little about

our manse folks. I would say to them, 'Dear Christian friends'-with marked emphasis on 'Christian'-I have

something to say to you and I want to say it good and hard, that you may take it home and repeat it to your

families. You Methodists need not pity us, and we Presbyterians need not pity ourselves. We are not going to

do it any more. And we are going to say, boldly and truthfully, to all critics and sympathizers, 'We are proud

of our minister and his family. Mr. Meredith is the best preacher Glen St. Mary church ever had. Moreover,

he is a sincere, earnest teacher of truth and Christian charity. He is a faithful friend, a judicious pastor in all

essentials, and a refined, scholarly, wellbred man. His family are worthy of him. Gerald Meredith is the

cleverest pupil in the Glen school, and Mr. Hazard says that he is destined to a brilliant career. He is a manly,

honourable, truthful little fellow. Faith Meredith is a beauty, and as inspiring and original as she is beautiful.

There is nothing commonplace about her. All the other girls in the Glen put together haven't the vim, and wit,

and joyousness and 'spunk' she has. She has not an enemy in the world. Every one who knows her loves her.

Of how many, children or grownups, can that be said? Una Meredith is sweetness personified. She will

make a most lovable woman. Carl Meredith, with his love for ants and frogs and spiders, will some day be a

naturalist whom all Canada-nay, all the world, will delight to honour. Do you know of any other family in the

Glen, or out of it, of whom all these things can be said? Away with shamefaced excuses and apologies. We

Anne stopped, partly because she was out of breath after her vehement speech and partly because she could

not trust herself to speak further in view of Miss Cornelia's face. That good lady was staring helplessly at

Anne, apparently engulfed in billows of new ideas. But she came up with a gasp and struck out for shore

"Anne Blythe, I wish you would call that meeting and say just that! You've made me ashamed of myself, for

one, and far be it from me to refuse to admit it. Of course, that is how we should have talked-especially to the

Methodists. And it's every word of it true-every word. We've just been shutting our eyes to the big

worthwhile things and squinting them on the little things that don't really matter a pin's worth. Oh, Anne

dearie, I can see a thing when it's hammered into my head. No more apologizing for Cornelia Marshall! I

shall hold my head up after this, believe me -though I may talk things over with you as usual just to relieve

my feelings if the Merediths do any more startling stunts. Even that letter I felt so bad about-why, it's only a

good joke after all, as Norman says. Not many girls would have been cute enough to think of writing it-and

all punctuated so nicely and not one word misspelled. Just let me hear any Methodist say one word about

it-though all the same I'll never forgive Joe Vickers-believe me! Where are the rest of your small fry

"They are all crazy about Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance thinks it's the only place in the world. She'd be off up

here every evening if I'd let her. But I don't encourage her in gadding. Besides, I miss the creature when she

isn't around, Anne dearie. I never thought I'd get so fond of her. Not but what I see her faults and try to

correct them. But she has never said one saucy word to me since she came to my house and she is a great

help-for when all is said and done, Anne dearie, I am not so young as I once was, and there is no sense

denying it. I was fiftynine my last birthday. I don't feel it, but there is no gainsaying the Family Bible."

IN spite of Miss Cornelia's new point of view she could not help feeling a little disturbed over the next

performance of the manse children. In public she carried off the situation splendidly, saying to all the gossips

the substance of what Anne had said in daffodil time, and saying it so pointedly and forcibly that her hearers

found themselves feeling rather foolish and began to think that, after all, they were making too much of a

childish prank. But in private Miss Cornelia allowed herself the relief of bemoaning it to Anne.

"Anne dearie, they had a concert in the graveyard last Thursday evening, while the Methodist prayer meeting

was going on. There they sat, on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, and sang for a solid hour. Of course, I

understand it was mostly hymns they sang, and it wouldn't have been quite so bad if they'd done nothing else.

But I'm told they finished up with Polly Wolly Doodle at full length-and that just when Deacon Baxter was

"I was there that night," said Susan," and, although I did not say anything about it to you, Mrs. Dr. dear, I

could not help thinking that it was a great pity they picked that particular evening. It was truly

bloodcurdling to hear them sitting there in that abode of the dead, shouting that frivolous song at the tops of

"I don't know what you were doing in a Methodist prayer meeting," said Miss Cornelia acidly.

"I have never found that Methodism was catching," retorted Susan stiffly. "And, as I was going to say when I

was interrupted, badly as I felt, I did not give in to the Methodists. When Mrs. Deacon Baxter said, as we

came out, 'What a disgraceful exhibition!' I said, looking her fairly in the eye, 'They are all beautiful singers,

and none of your choir, Mrs. Baxter, ever bother themselves coming out to your prayer meeting, it seems.

Their voices appear to be in tune only on Sundays!' She was quite meek and I felt that I had snubbed her

properly. But I could have done it much more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. dear, if only they had left out Polly Wolly

"Some of those dead folks sang Polly Wolly Doodle when they were living, Susan. Perhaps they like to hear

Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully and made up her mind that, on some future occasion, she would

hint to Anne that the doctor should be admonished not to say such things. They might injure his practice.

People might get it into their heads that he wasn't orthodox. To be sure, Marshall said even worse things

"I understand that their father was in his study all the time, with his windows open, but never noticed them at

all. Of course, he was lost in a book as usual. But I spoke to him about it yesterday, when he called."

"Dare! It's time somebody dared something. Why, they say he knows nothing about that letter of Faith's to the

Journal because nobody liked to mention it to him. He never looks at a Journal of course. But I thought he

ought to know of this to prevent any such performances in future. He said he would 'discuss it with them.' But

of course he'd never think of it again after he got out of our gate. That man has no sense of humour, Anne,

believe me. He preached last Sunday on 'How to Bring up Children.' A beautiful sermon it was, too-and

Miss Cornelia did Mr. Meredith an injustice in thinking he would soon forget what she had told him. He went

home much disturbed and when the children came from Rainbow Valley that night, at a much later hour than

They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an unusual thing for their father to do. What could he be going to

say to them? They racked their memories for any recent transgression of sufficient importance. but could not

recall any. Carl had spilled a saucerful of jam on Mrs. Peter Flagg's silk dress two evenings before, when, at

Aunt Martha's invitation, she had stayed to supper. But Mr. Meredith had not noticed it, and Mrs. Flagg, who

was a kindly soul, had made no fuss. Besides, Carl had been punished by having to wear Una's dress all the

Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father meant to tell them that he was going to marry Miss West. Her

heart began to beat violently and her legs trembled. Then she saw that Mr. Meredith looked very stern and

"Children," said Mr. Meredith, "I have heard something that has pained me very much. Is it true that you sat

out in the graveyard all last Thursday evening and sang ribald songs while a prayer meeting was being held in

"Great Caesar, Dad, we forgot all about it being their prayer meeting night," exclaimed Jerry in dismay.

"Why, Dad, I don't know what you mean by ribald songs. We sang hymns-it was a sacred concert, you know.

What harm was that? I tell you we never thought about it's being Methodist prayer meeting night. They used

to have their meeting Tuesday nights and since they've changed to Thursdays it's hard to remember."

"Why," said Jerry, turning red, "we did sing Polly Wolly Doodle at the last. Faith said, 'Let's have something

cheerful to wind up with.' But we didn't mean any harm, Father-truly we didn't."

"The concert was my idea, Father," said Faith, afraid that Mr. Meredith might blame Jerry too much. "You

know the Methodists themselves had a sacred concert in their church three Sunday nights ago. I thought it

would be good fun to get one up in imitation of it. Only they had prayers at theirs, and we left that part out,

because we heard that people thought it awful for us to pray in a graveyard. You were sitting in here all the

"I did not notice what you were doing. That is no excuse for me, of course. I am more to blame than you-I

"We didn't think, " muttered Jerry, feeling that it was a very lame excuse, seeing that he had lectured Faith so

strongly in the GoodConduct Club sessions for her lack of thought. "We're sorry, Father-truly, we are. Pitch

But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching into. He sat down and gathered his small culprits close to

him and talked a little to them, tenderly and wisely. They were overcome with remorse and shame, and felt

"We've just got to punish ourselves good and hard for this," whispered Jerry as they crept upstairs. "We'll

have a session of the Club first thing tomorrow and decide how we'll do it. I never saw father so cut up. But I

wish to goodness the Methodists would stick to one night for their prayer meeting and not wander all over the

Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had sat down at his desk and buried his face in his arms.

"God help me!" he said. "I'm a poor sort of father. Oh, Rosemary! If you had only cared!"

THE GoodConduct Club had a special session the next morning before school. After various suggestions, it

"We won't eat a single thing for a whole day," said Jerry. "I'm kind of curious to see what fasting is like,

"What day will we choose for it?" asked Una, who thought it would he quite an easy punishment and rather

"Let's pick Monday," said Faith. "We mostly have a pretty filling dinner on Sundays, and Mondays meals

"But that's just the point," exclaimed Jerry. "We mustn't take the easiest day to fast, but the hardest-and that's

Sunday, because, as you say, we mostly have roast beef that day instead of cold ditto. It wouldn't be much

punishment to fast from ditto. Let's take next Sunday. It will be a good day, for father is going to exchange

for the morning service with the Upper Lowbridge minister. Father will be away till evening. If Aunt Martha

wonders what's got into us, we'll tell her right up that we're fasting for the good of our souls, and it is in the

Aunt Martha did not. She merely said in her fretful mumbling way, "What foolishness are you young rips up

to now?" and thought no more about it. Mr. Meredith had gone away early in the morning before any one was

up. He went without his breakfast, too, but that was, of course, of common occurrence. Half of the time he

forgot it and there was no one to remind him of it. Breakfast-Aunt Martha's breakfast-was not a hard meal to

miss. Even the hungry "young rips" did not feel it any great deprivation to abstain from the "lumpy porridge

and blue milk" which had aroused the scorn of Mary Vance. But it was different at dinner time. They were

furiously hungry then, and the odor of roast beef which pervaded the manse, and which was wholly delightful

in spite of the fact that the roast beef was badly underdone, was almost more than they could stand. In

desperation they rushed to the graveyard where they couldn't smell it. But Una could not keep her eyes from

the dining room window, through which the Upper Lowbridge minister could be seen, placidly eating.

"Now, you stop that," commanded Jerry. "Of course it's hard-but that's the punishment of it. I could eat a

graven image this very minute, but am I complaining? Let's think of something else. We've just got to rise

At supper time they did not feel the pangs of hunger which they had suffered earlier in the day.

"I suppose we're getting used to it," said Faith. "I feel an awfully queer allgone sort of feeling, but I can't say

But she went gamely to church with the others. If Mr. Meredith had not been so wholly wrapped up in and

carried away with his subject he might have noticed the pale little face and hollow eyes in the manse pew

beneath. But he noticed nothing and his sermon was something longer than usual. Then, just before be gave

out the final hymn, Una Meredith tumbled off the seat of the manse pew and lay in a dead faint on the floor.

Mrs. Elder Clow was the first to reach her. She caught the thin little body from the arms of whitefaced,

terrified Faith and carried it into the vestry. Mr. Meredith forgot the hymn and everything else and rushed

"She has just fainted, I think," said Mrs. Clow. "Oh, here's the doctor, thank goodness."

Gilbert did not find it a very easy thing to bring Una back to consciousness. He worked over her for a long

time before her eyes opened. Then he carried her over to the manse, followed by Faith, sobbing hysterically

"She is just hungry, you know-she didn't eat a thing today-none of us did-we were all fasting."

"My child, I don't want you to punish yourselves for that," said Mr. Meredith in distress. "I gave you your

"Yes, but we had to be punished," explained Faith. "It's our rule-in our GoodConduct Club, you know-if we

do anything wrong, or anything that is likely to hurt father in the congregation, we have to punish ourselves.

Mr. Meredith groaned, but the doctor got up from Una's side with an air of relief.

"Then this child simply fainted from lack of food and all she needs is a good square meal," he said. "Mrs.

Clow, will you be kind enough to see she gets it? And I think from Faith's story that they all would be the

"I suppose we shouldn't have made Una fast," said Faith remorsefully. "When I think of it, only Jerry and I

"I sang Polly Wolly just the same as the rest of you," said Una's weak little voice, "so I had to be punished,

Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith and Jerry and Carl sneaked off to the pantry, and John Meredith

went into his study, where he sat in the darkness for a long time, alone with his bitter thoughts. So his

children were bringing themselves up because there was "nobody to do it"-struggling along amid their little

perplexities without a hand to guide or a voice to counsel. Faith's innocently uttered phrase rankled in her

father's mind like a barbed shaft. There was "nobody" to look after them-to comfort their little souls and care

for their little bodies. How frail Una had looked, lying there on the vestry sofa in that long faint! How thin

were her tiny hands, how pallid her little face! She looked as if she might slip away from him in a

breath-sweet little Una, of whom Cecilia had begged him to take such special care. Since his wife's death he

had not felt such an agony of dread as when he had hung over his little girl in her unconsciousness. He must

do something-but what? Should he ask Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? She was a good woman-she would be

kind to his children. He might bring himself to do it if it were not for his love for Rosemary West. But until

he had crushed that out he could not seek another woman in marriage. And he could not crush it out-he had

tried and he could not. Rosemary had been in church that evening, for the first time since her return from

Kingsport. He had caught a glimpse of her face in the back of the crowded church, just as he had finished his

sermon. His heart had given a fierce throb. He sat while the choir sang the "collection piece," with his bent

head and tingling pulses. He had not seen her since the evening upon which he had asked her to marry him.

When he had risen to give out the hymn his hands were trembling and his pale face was flushed. Then Una's

fainting spell had banished everything from his mind for a time. Now, in the darkness and solitude of the

study it rushed back. Rosemary was the only woman in the world for him. It was of no use for him to think of

marrying any other. He could not commit such a sacrilege even for his children's sake. He must take up his

burden alone-he must try to be a better, a more watchful father-he must tell his children not to be afraid to

come to him with all their little problems. Then he lighted his lamp and took up a bulky new book which was

setting the theological world by the ears. He would read just one chapter to compose his mind. Five minutes

ON an early June evening Rainbow Valley was an entirely delightful place and the children felt it to be so, as

they sat in the open glade where the bells rang elfishly on the Tree Lovers, and the White Lady shook her

green tresses. The wind was laughing and whistling about them like a leal, gladhearted comrade. The young

ferns were spicy in the hollow. The wild cherry trees scattered over the valley, among the dark firs, were

mistily white. The robins were whistling over in the maples behind Ingleside. Beyond, on the slopes of the

Glen, were blossoming orchards, sweet and mystic and wonderful, veiled in dusk. It was spring, and young

things must be glad in spring. Everybody was glad in Rainbow Valley that evening-until Mary Vance froze

Jem was not there. Jem spent his evenings now studying for his entrance examination in the Ingleside garret.

Jerry was down near the pond, trouting. Walter had been reading Longfellow's sea poems to the others and

they were steeped in the beauty and mystery of the ships. Then they talked of what they would do when they

were grown up-where they would travel-the far, fair shores they would see. Nan and Di meant to go to

Europe. Walter longed for the Nile moaning past its Egyptian sands, and a glimpse of the sphinx. Faith

opined rather dismally that she supposed she would have to be a missionary-old Mrs. Taylor told her she

ought to be-and then she would at least see India or China, those mysterious lands of the Orient. Carl's heart

was set on African jungles. Una said nothing. She thought she would just like to stay at home. It was prettier

here than anywhere else. It would be dreadful when they were all grown up and had to scatter over the world.

The very idea made Una feel lonesome and homesick. But the others dreamed on delightedly until Mary

"Laws, but I'm out of puff," she exclaimed. "I've run down that hill like sixty. I got an awful scare up there at

"I dunno. I was poking about under them lilacs in the old garden, trying to see if there was any

liliesofthevalley out yet. It was dark as a pocket there-and all at once I seen something stirring and

rustling round at the other side of the garden, in those cherry bushes. It was white. I tell you I didn't stop for a

second look. I flew over the dyke quicker than quick. I was sure it was Henry Warren's ghost."

"Laws, did you never hear the story? And you brought up in the Glen. Well, wait a minute till I get by breath

Walter shivered delightsomely. He loved ghost stories. Their mystery, their dramatic climaxes, their eeriness

gave him a fearful, exquisite pleasure. Longfellow instantly grew tame and commonplace. He threw the book

aside and stretched himself out, propped upon his elbows to listen wholeheartedly, fixing his great luminous

eyes on Mary's face. Mary wished he wouldn't look at her so. She felt she could make a better job of the ghost

story if Walter were not looking at her. She could put on several frills and invent a few artistic details to

enhance the horror. As it was, she had to stick to the bare truth-or what had been told her for the truth.

"Well," she began, "you know old Tom Bailey and his wife used to live in that house up there thirty years

ago. He was an awful old rip, they say, and his wife wasn't much better. They'd no children of their own, but

a sister of old Tom's died and left a little boy-this Henry Warren-and they took him. He was about twelve

when he came to them, and kind of undersized and delicate. They say Tom and his wife used him awful from

the start-whipped him and starved him. Folks said they wanted him to die so's they could get the little bit of

money his mother had left for him. Henry didn't die right off, but he begun having fits-epileps, they called

'em-and he grew up kind of simple, till he was about eighteen. His uncle used to thrash him in that garden up

there 'cause it was back of the house where no one could see him. But folks could hear, and they say it was

awful sometimes hearing poor Henry plead with his uncle not to kill him. But nobody dared interfere 'cause

old Tom was such a reprobate he'd have been sure to get square with 'em some way. He burned the barns of a

man at Harbour Head who offended him. At last Henry died and his uncle and aunt give out he died in one of

his fits and that was all anybody ever knowed, but everybody said Tom had just up and killed him for keeps

at last. And it wasn't long till it got around that Henry walked. That old garden was ha'nted. He was heard

there at nights, moaning and crying. Old Tom and his wife got out-went out West and never came back. The

place got such a bad name nobody'd buy or rent it. That's why it's all gone to ruin. That was thirty years ago,

"Well, good people have seen him-and heard him." retorted Mary. "They say he appears and grovels on the

ground and holds you by the legs and gibbers and moans like he did when he was alive. I thought of that as

soon as I seen that white thing in the bushes and thought if it caught me like that and moaned I'd drop down

dead on the spot. So I cut and run. It mightn't have been his ghost, but I wasn't going to take any chances with

"It was likely old Mrs. Stimson's white calf," laughed Di. "It pastures in that garden-I've seen it."

"Maybe so. But I 'm not going home through the Bailey garden any more. Here's Jerry with a big string of

trout and it's my turn to cook them. Jem and Jerry both say I'm the best cook in the Glen. And Cornelia told

me I could bring up this batch of cookies. I all but dropped them when I saw Henry's ghost."

Jerry hooted when he heard the ghost story-which Mary repeated as she fried the fish, touching it up a trifle

or so, since Walter had gone to help Faith to set the table. It made no impression on Jerry, but Faith and Una

and Carl had been secretly much frightened, though they would never have given in to it. It was all right as

long as the others were with them in the valley: but when the feast was over and the shadows fell they quaked

with remembrance. Jerry went up to Ingleside with the Blythes to see Jem about something, and Mary Vance

went around that way home. So Faith and Una and Carl had to go back to the manse alone. They walked very

close together and gave the old Bailey garden a wide berth. They did not believe that it was haunted, of

SOMEHOW, Faith and Carl and Una could not shake off the hold which the story of Henry Warren's ghost

had taken upon their imaginations. They had never believed in ghosts. Ghost tales they had heard

aplenty-Mary Vance had told some far more bloodcurdling than this; but those tales were all of places and

people and spooks far away and unknown. After the first halfawful, halfpleasant thrill of awe and terror

they thought of them no more. But this story came home to them. The old Bailey garden was almost at their

very door-almost in their beloved Rainbow Valley. They had passed and repassed it constantly; they had

hunted for flowers in it; they had made short cuts through it when they wished to go straight from the village

to the valley. But never again! After the night when Mary Vance told them its gruesome tale they would not

have gone through or near it on pain of death. Death! What was death compared to the unearthly possibility

One warm July evening the three of them were sitting under the Tree Lovers, feeling a little lonely. Nobody

else had come near the valley that evening. Jem Blythe was away in Charlottetown, writing on his entrance

examinations. Jerry and Walter Blythe were off for a sail on the harbour with old Captain Crawford. Nan and

Di and Rilla and Shirley had gone down the harbour road to visit Kenneth and Persis Ford, who had come

with their parents for a flying visit to the little old House of Dreams. Nan had asked Faith to go with them,

but Faith had declined. She would never have admitted it, but she felt a little secret jealousy of Persis Ford,

concerning whose wonderful beauty and city glamour she had heard a great deal. No, she wasn't going to go

down there and play second fiddle to anybody. She and Una took their story books to Rainbow Valley and

read, while Carl investigated bugs along the banks of the brook, and all three were happy until they suddenly

realized that it was twilight and that the old Bailey garden was uncomfortably near by. Carl came and sat

down close to the girls. They all wished they had gone home a little sooner, but nobody said anything.

Great, velvety, purple clouds heaped up in the west and spread over the valley. There was no wind and

everything was suddenly, strangely, dreadfully still. The marsh was full of thousands of fireflies. Surely

some fairy parliament was being convened that night. Altogether, Rainbow Valley was not a canny place just

Faith looked fearfully up the valley to the old Bailey garden. Then, if anybody's blood ever did freeze, Faith

Meredith's certainly froze at that moment. The eyes of Carl and Una followed her entranced gaze and chills

began gallopading up and down their spines also. For there, under the big tamarack tree on the tumbledown,

grassgrown dyke of the Bailey garden, was something white-shapelessly white in the gathering gloom. The

"It's-too-big-for the calf," whispered Faith. Her mouth and lips were so dry she could hardly articulate the

The girls gave one last agonized glance. Yes, it was creeping down over the dyke, as no calf ever did or could

creep. Reason fled before sudden, overmastering panic. For the moment every one of the trio was firmly

convinced that what they saw was Henry Warren's ghost. Carl sprang to his feet and bolted blindly. With a

simultaneous shriek the girls followed him. Like mad creatures they tore up the hill, across the road and into

the manse. They had left Aunt Martha sewing in the kitchen. She was not there. They rushed to the study. It

was dark and tenantless. As with one impulse, they swung around and made for Ingleside-but not across

Rainbow Valley. Down the hill and through the Glen street they flew on the wings of their wild terror, Carl in

the lead, Una bringing up the rear. Nobody tried to stop them, though everybody who saw them wondered

what fresh devilment those manse youngsters were up to now. But at the gate of Ingleside they ran into

She saw their ghastly faces and staring eyes. She realized that their poor little souls were wrung with some

awful and real fear, whatever its cause. She caught Carl with one arm and Faith with the other. Una stumbled

"Yes," sobbed Faith hysterically. "It's there-on the Bailey dyke-we saw it-and it started to-chase us."

Rosemary herded the three distracted creatures to the Ingleside veranda. Gilbert and Anne were both away,

having also gone to the House of Dreams, but Susan appeared in the doorway, gaunt and practical and

Again the children gasped out their awful tale, while Rosemary held them close to her and soothed them with

An owl! The Meredith children never had any opinion of Susan's intelligence after that!

"It was bigger than a million owls," said Carl, sobbing-oh, how ashamed Carl was of that sobbing in after

days-"and it-it grovelled just as Mary said-and it was crawling down over the dyke to get at us. Do owls

"I will go and see," said Susan coolly. "Now, children, calm yourselves. Whatever you have seen, it was not a

ghost. As for poor Henry Warren, I feel sure he would be only too glad to rest quietly in his peaceful grave

once he got there. No fear of him venturing back, and that you may tie to. If you can make them see reason,

Susan departed for Rainbow Valley, valiantly grasping a pitchfork which she found leaning against the back

fence where the doctor had been working in his little hayfield. A pitchfork might not be of much use against

"ha'nts," but it was a comforting sort of weapon. There was nothing to be seen in Rainbow Valley when

Susan reached it. No white visitants appeared to be lurking in the shadowy, tangled old Bailey garden. Susan

marched boldly through it and beyond it, and rapped with her pitchfork on the door of the little cottage on the

Back at Ingleside Rosemary had succeeded in calming the children. They still sobbed a little from shock, but

they were beginning to feel a lurking and salutary suspicion that they had made dreadful geese of themselves.

"I have found out what your ghost was," she said, with a grim smile, sitting down on a rocker and fanning

herself. "Old Mrs. Stimson has had a pair of factory cotton sheets bleaching in the Bailey garden for a week.

She spread them on the dyke under the tamarack tree because the grass was clean and short there. This

evening she went out to take them in. She had her knitting in her hands so she hung the sheets over her

shoulders by way of carrying them. And then she must have dropped one of her needles and find it she could

not and has not yet. But she went down on her knees and crept about to hunt for it, and she was at that when

she heard awful yells down in the valley and saw the three children tearing up the hill past her. She thought

they had been bit by something and it gave her poor old heart such a turn that she could not move or speak,

but just crouched there till they disappeared. Then she staggered back home and they have been applying

stimulants to her ever since, and her heart is in a terrible condition and she says she will not get over this

The Merediths sat, crimson with a shame that even Rosemary's understanding sympathy could not remove.

They sneaked off home, met Jerry at the manse gate and made remorseful confession. A session of the

"Yes," admitted Una. "It is such a pity it changes people so much to be made stepmothers."

"I DON'T see why we should be punished at all," said Faith, rather sulkily. "We didn't do anything wrong.

We couldn't help being frightened. And it won't do father any harm. It was just an accident."

"You were cowards," said Jerry with judicial scorn, "and you gave way to your cowardice. That is why you

should be punished. Everybody will laugh at you about this, and that is a disgrace to the family."

"If you knew how awful the whole thing was," said Faith with a shiver, "you would think we had been

punished enough already. I wouldn't go through it again for anything in the whole world."

"It didn't look a bit like an old woman," cried Faith. "It was just a great, big, white thing crawling about in the

grass just as Mary Vance said Henry Warren did. It's all very fine for you to laugh, Jerry Meredith, but you'd

have laughed on the other side of your mouth if you'd been there. And how are we to be punished? I don't

"The way I look at it," said Jerry, frowning, "is that Carl was the most to blame. He bolted first, as I

understand it. Besides, he was a boy, so he should have stood his ground to protect you girls, whatever the

"Very well. This is to be your punishment. Tonight you'll sit on Mr. Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the

Carl gave a little shudder. The graveyard was not so very far from the old Bailey garden. It would be a trying

ordeal, but Carl was anxious to wipe out his disgrace and prove that he was not a coward after all.

"The study windows are open and you'll hear the clock striking. And mind you that you are not to budge out

of that graveyard until the last stroke. As for you girls, you've got to go without jam at supper for a week."

Faith and Una looked rather blank. They were inclined to think that even Carl's comparatively short though

sharp agony was lighter punishment than this long drawnout ordeal. A whole week of soggy bread without

the saving grace of jam! But no shirking was permitted in the club. The girls accepted their lot with such

That night they all went to bed at nine, except Carl, who war already keeping vigil on the tombstone. Una

"I won't sleep a wink till after twelve," said Una. "If you get lonesome just look up at our window and

remember that I'm inside, awake, and thinking about you. That will be a little company, won't it?"

But in spite of his dauntless words Carl was a pretty lonely boy when the lights went out in the manse. He

had hoped his father would be in the study as he so often was. He would not feel alone then. But that night

Mr. Meredith had been summoned to the fishing village at the harbour mouth to see a dying man. He would

A Glen man went past carrying a lantern. The mysterious shadows caused by the lanternlight went hurtling

madly over the graveyard like a dance of demons or witches. Then they passed and darkness fell again. One

by one the lights in the Glen went out. It was a very dark night, with a cloudy sky, and a raw east wind that

was cold in spite of the calendar. Far away on the horizon was the low dim lustre of the Charlottetown lights.

The wind wailed and sighed in the old firtrees. Mr. Alec Davis' tall monument gleamed whitely through the

gloom. The willow beside it tossed long, writhing arms spectrally. At times, the gyrations of its boughs made

Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his legs tucked under him. It wasn't precisely pleasant to hang

them over the edge of the stone. Just suppose-just suppose-bony hands should reach up out of Mr. Pollock's

grave under it and clutch him by the ankles. That had been one of Mary Vance's cheerful speculations one

time when they had all been sitting there. It returned to haunt Carl now. He didn't believe those things; he

didn't even really believe in Henry Warren's ghost. As for Mr. Pollock, he had been dead sixty years, so it

wasn't likely he cared who sat on his tombstone now. But there is something very strange and terrible in

being awake when all the rest of the world is asleep. You are alone then with nothing but your own feeble

personality to pit against the mighty principalities and powers of darkness. Carl was only ten and the dead

were all around him-and he wished, oh, he wished that the clock would strike twelve. Would it never strike

And then it struck eleven-only eleven! He must stay yet another hour in that grim place. If only there were a

few friendly stars to be seen! The darkness was so thick it seemed to press against his face. There was a

sound as of stealthy passing footsteps all over the graveyard. Carl shivered, partly with prickling terror, partly

Then it began to rain-a chill, penetrating drizzle. Carl's thin little cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet

through. He felt chilled to the bone. He forgot mental terrors in his physical discomfort. But he must stay

there till twelve-he was punishing himself and he was on his honour. Nothing had been said about rain-but it

did not make any difference. When the study clock finally struck twelve a drenched little figure crept stiffly

down off Mr. Pollock's tombstone, made its way into the manse and upstairs to bed. Carl's teeth were

He was warm enough when morning came. Jerry gave one startled look at his crimson face and then rushed

to call his father. Mr. Meredith came hurriedly, his own face ivory white from the pallor of his long night

vigil by a death bed. He had not got home until daylight. He bent over his little lad anxiously.

"That-tombstone-over here," said Carl, "it's-moving-about-it's coming-at-me-keep it-away-please."

Mr. Meredith rushed to the telephone. In ten minutes Dr. Blythe was at the manse. Half an hour later a wire

was sent to town for a trained nurse, and all the Glen knew that Carl Meredith was very ill with pneumonia

Gilbert shook his head more than once in the fortnight that followed. Carl developed double pneumonia.

There was one night when Mr. Meredith paced his study floor, and Faith and Una huddled in their bedroom

and cried, and Jerry, wild with remorse, refused to budge from the floor of the hall outside Carl's door. Dr.

Blythe and the nurse never left the bedside. They fought death gallantly until the red dawn and they won the

victory. Carl rallied and passed the crisis in safety. The news was phoned about the waiting Glen and people

"I haven't had one decent night's sleep since I heard the child was sick," Miss Cornelia told Anne, "and Mary

Vance has cried until those queer eyes of hers looked like burnt holes in a blanket. Is it true that Carl got

"No. He was staying there to punish himself for cowardice in that affair of the Warren ghost. It seems they

have a club for bringing themselves up, and they punish themselves when they do wrong. Jerry told Mr.

Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took enough nourishing things to the manse to furnish forth a

hospital. Norman Douglas drove up every evening with a dozen fresh eggs and a jar of Jersey cream.

Sometimes he stayed an hour and bellowed arguments on predestination with Mr. Meredith in the study;

When Carl was able to go again to Rainbow Valley they had a special feast in his honour and the doctor came

down and helped them with the fireworks. Mary Vance was there, too, but she did not tell any ghost stories.

Miss Cornelia had given her a talking on that subject which Mary would not forget in a hurry.

ROSEMARY WEST, on her way home from a music lesson at Ingleside, turned aside to the hidden spring in

Rainbow Valley. She had not been there all summer; the beautiful little spot had no longer any allurement for

her. The spirit of her young lover never came to the tryst now; and the memories connected with John

Meredith were too painful and poignant. But she had happened to glance backward up the valley and had

seen Norman Douglas vaulting as airily as a stripling over the old stone dyke of the Bailey garden and

thought he was on his way up the hill. If he overtook her she would have to walk home with him and she was

not going to do that. So she slipped at once behind the maples of the spring, hoping he had not seen her and

But Norman had seen her and, what was more, was in pursuit of her. He had been wanting for some time to

have talk with Rosemary, but she had always, so it seemed, avoided him. Rosemary had never, at any time,

liked Norman Douglas very well. His bluster, his temper, his noisy hilarity, had always antagonized her.

Long ago she had often wondered how Ellen could possibly be attracted to him. Norman Douglas was

perfectly aware of her dislike and he chuckled over it. It never worried Norman if people did not like him. It

did not even make him dislike them in return, for he took it as a kind of extorted compliment. He thought

Rosemary a fine girl, and he meant to be an excellent, generous brotherinlaw to her. But before he could

be her brotherinlaw he had to have a talk with her, so, having seen her leaving Ingleside as he stood in the

doorway of a Glen store, he had straightway plunged into the valley to overtake her.

Rosemary was sitting pensively on the maple seat where John Meredith had been sitting on that evening

nearly a year ago. The tiny spring shimmered and dimpled under its fringe of ferns. Rubyred gleams of

sunset fell through the arching boughs. A tall clump of perfect asters grew at her side. The little spot was as

dreamy and witching and evasive as any retreat of fairies and dryads in ancient forests. Into it Norman

Douglas bounced, scattering and annihilating its charm in a moment. His personality seemed to swallow the

place up. There was simply nothing there but Norman Douglas, big, redbearded, complacent.

"'Evening, girl. Sit down again-sit down again. I want to have a talk with you. Bless the girl, what's she

looking at me like that for? I don't want to eat you-I've had my supper. Sit down and be civil."

"So you can, girl, if you use your ears. I only wanted you to be comfortable. You look so durned

Norman accordingly sat down in the very place John Meredith had once sat. The contrast was so ludicrous

that Rosemary was afraid she would go off into a peal of hysterical laughter over it. Norman cast his hat

aside, placed his huge, red hands on his knees, and looked up at her with his eyes atwinkle.

"Come, girl, don't be so stiff," he said, ingratiatingly. When he liked he could be very ingratiating. "Let's have

a reasonable, sensible, friendly chat. There's something I want to ask you. Ellen says she won't, so it's up to

Rosemary looked down at the spring, which seemed to have shrunk to the size of a dewdrop. Norman gazed

"You know as well as I do, girl. Don't be putting on your tragedy airs. No wonder Ellen was scared to ask

you. Look here, girl, Ellen and I want to marry each other. That's plain English, isn't it? Got that? And Ellen

says she can't unless you give her back some tomfool promise she made. Come now, will you do it? Will

"Good! I knew you would-I told Ellen you would. I knew it would only take a minute. Now, girl, you go

home and tell Ellen, and we'll have a wedding in a fortnight and you'll come and live with us. We shan't leave

you to roost on that hilltop like a lonely crow-don't you worry. I know you hate me, but, Lord, it'll be great

fun living with some one that hates me. Life'll have some spice in it after this. Ellen will roast me and you'll

Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that nothing would ever induce her to live in his house. She let him

go striding back to the Glen, oozing delight and complacency, and she walked slowly up the hill home. She

had known this was coming ever since she had returned from Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas

established as a frequent evening caller. His name was never mentioned between her and Ellen, but the very

avoidance of it was significant. It was not in Rosemary's nature to feel bitter, or she would have felt very

bitter. She was coldly civil to Norman, and she made no difference in any way with Ellen. But Ellen had not

She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary came home. The two sisters met in the dahlia

walk. St. George sat down on the gravel walk between them and folded his glossy black tail gracefully

around his white paws, with all the indifference of a wellfed, wellbred, wellgroomed cat.

"Did you ever see such dahlias?" demanded Ellen proudly. "They are just the finest we've ever had."

Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their presence in the garden was her concession to Ellen's taste. She

noticed one huge mottled one of crimson and yellow that lorded it over all the others.

"That dahlia," she said, pointing to it, "is exactly like Norman Douglas. It might easily be his twin brother."

Ellen's darkbrowed face flushed. She admired the dahlia in question, but she knew Rosemary did not, and

that no compliment was intended. But she dared not resent Rosemary's speech-poor Ellen dared not resent

anything just then. And it was the first time Rosemary had ever mentioned Norman's name to her. She felt

"I met Norman Douglas in the valley," said Rosemary, looking straight at her sister, "and he told me you and

"Yes? What did you say?" asked Ellen, trying to speak naturally and offhandedly, and failing completely.

She could not meet Rosemary's eyes. She looked down at St. George's sleek back and felt horribly afraid.

Rosemary had either said she would or she wouldn't. If she would Ellen would feel so ashamed and

remorseful that she would be a very uncomfortable brideelect; and if she wouldn't-well, Ellen had once

learned to live without Norman Douglas, but she had forgotten the lesson and felt that she could never learn it

"I said that as far as I was concerned you were at full liberty to marry each other as soon as you liked," said

"Oh, Rosemary," Ellen looked up in distress, "I'm so ashamed-I don't deserve it-after all I said to you-"

"But-but," persisted Ellen, "you are free now, too-and it's not too late-John Meredith-"

"Ellen West!" Rosemary had a little spark of temper under all her sweetness and it flashed forth now in her

blue eyes. "Have you quite lost your senses in every respect? Do you suppose for an instant that I am going to

go to John Meredith and say meekly, 'Please, sir, I've changed my mind and please, sir, I hope you haven't

"Never. He despises me-and rightly. No more of this, Ellen. I bear you no grudge-marry whom you like. But

"Then you must come and live with me," said Ellen. "I shall not leave you here alone."

"I don't see why you wouldn't. His house is big enough-you'd have your share of it to yourself-he wouldn't

"Then," said Ellen coldly, and determinedly, "I shall not marry him. I shall not leave you here alone. That is

"It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision. It would be absurd for you to think of living here by yourself-a

mile from any other house. If you won't come with me I'll stay with you. Now, we won't argue the matter, so

"I 'll deal with Norman. I can manage him. I would never have asked you to give me back my

promise-never-but I had to tell Norman why I couldn't marry him and he said he would ask you. I couldn't

prevent him. You need not suppose you are the only person in the world who possesses selfrespect. I never

dreamed of marrying and leaving you here alone. And you'll find I can be as determined as yourself."

Rosemary turned away and went into the house, with a shrug of her shoulders. Ellen looked down at St.

George, who had never blinked an eyelash or stirred a whisker during the whole interview

"St. George, this world would be a dull place without the men, I'll admit, but I'm almost tempted to wish there

wasn't one of 'em in it. Look at the trouble and bother they've made right here, George-torn our happy old life

completely up by the roots, Saint. John Meredith began it and Norman Douglas has finished it. And now both

of them have to go into limbo. Norman is the only man I ever met who agrees with me that the Kaiser of

Germany is the most dangerous creature alive on this earth-and I can't marry this sensible person because my

sister is stubborn and I'm stubborner. Mark my words, St. George, the minister would come back if she raised

her little finger. But she won't George-she'll never do it-she won't even crook it-and I don't dare meddle,

Saint. I won't sulk, George; Rosemary didn't sulk, so I'm determined I won't either, Saint; Norman will tear

up the turf, but the long and short of it is, St. George, that all of us old fools must just stop thinking of

marrying. Well, well, 'despair is a free man, hope is a slave,' Saint. So now come into the house, George, and

I'll solace you with a saucerful of cream. Then there will be one happy and contented creature on this hill at

She and Faith and Una were walking arm in arm through the village, having foregathered at Mr. Flagg's store.

Una and Faith exchanged looks which said, "Now something disagreeable is coming." When Mary Vance

thought she ought to tell them things there was seldom much pleasure in the hearing. They often wondered

why they kept on liking Mary Vance-for like her they did, in spite of everything. To be sure, she was

generally a stimulating and agreeable companion. If only she would not have those convictions that it was her

"Do you know that Rosemary West won't marry your pa because she thinks you are such a wild lot? She's

Una's heart thrilled with secret exultation. She was very glad to hear that Miss West would not marry her

"Oh, everybody's saying it. I heard Mrs. Elliott talking it over with Mrs. Doctor. They thought I was too far

away to hear, but I've got ears like a cat's. Mrs. Elliott said she hadn't a doubt that Rosemary was afraid to try

stepmothering you because you'd got such a reputation. Your pa never goes up the hill now. Neither does

Norman Douglas. Folks say Ellen has jilted him just to get square with him for jilting her ages ago. But

Norman is going about declaring he'll get her yet. And I think you ought to know you've spoiled your pa's

match and I think it's a pity, for he's bound to marry somebody before long, and Rosemary West would have

"Oh-well," said Mary rather confusedly "they're mostly awful cranky, I know. But Rosemary West couldn't

be very mean to any one. I tell you if your pa turns round and marries Emmeline Drew you'll wish you'd

behaved yourselves better and not frightened Rosemary out of it. It's awful that you've got such a reputation

that no decent woman'll marry your pa on account of you. Of course, I know that half the yarns that are told

about you ain't true. But give a dog a bad name. Why, some folks are saying that it was Jerry and Carl that

threw the stones through Mrs. Stimson's window the other night when it was really them two Boyd boys. But

I'm afraid it was Carl that put the eel in old Mrs. Carr's buggy, though I said at first I wouldn't believe it until

I'd better proof than old Kitty Alec's word. I told Mrs. Elliott so right to her face."

"Well, they say-now, mind, I'm only telling you what people say-so there's no use in your blaming me for

it-that Carl and a lot of other boys were fishing eels over the bridge one evening last week. Mrs. Carr drove

past in that old rattletrap buggy of hers with the open back. And Carl he just up and threw a big eel into the

back. When poor old Mrs. Carr was driving up the hill by Ingleside that eel came squirming out between her

feet. She thought it was a snake and she just give one awful screech and stood up and jumped clean over the

wheels. The horse bolted, but it went home and no damage was done. But Mrs. Carr jarred her legs most

terrible, and has had nervous spasms ever since whenever she thinks of the eel. Say, it was a rotten trick to

play on the poor old soul. She's a decent body, if she is as queer as Dick's hat band."

Faith and Una looked at each other again. This was a matter for the GoodConduct Club. They would not

"There goes your pa," said Mary as Mr. Meredith passed them, "and never seeing us no more'n if we weren't

Mr. Meredith had not seen them, but he was not walking along in his usual dreamy and abstracted fashion.

He strode up the hill in agitation and distress. Mrs. Alec Davis had just told him the story of Carl and the eel.

She had been very indignant about it. Old Mrs. Carr was her third cousin. Mr. Meredith was more than

indignant. He was hurt and shocked. He had not thought Carl would do anything like this. He was not

inclined to be hard on pranks of heedlessness or forgetfulness, but this was different. This had a nasty tang in

it. When he reached home he found Carl on the lawn, patiently studying the habits and customs of a colony of

wasps. Calling him into the study Mr. Meredith confronted him, with a sterner face than any of his children

"The boys were fishing for eels over the bridge," said Carl. "Link Drew had caught a whopper-I mean an

awful big one-the biggest eel I ever saw. He caught it right at the start and it had been lying in his basket a

long time, still as still. I thought it was dead, honest I did. Then old Mrs. Carr drove over the bridge and she

called us all young varmints and told us to go home. And we hadn't said a word to her, father, truly. So when

she drove back again, after going to the store, the boys dared me to put Link's eel in her buggy. I thought it

was so dead it couldn't hurt her and I threw it in. Then the eel came to life on the hill and we heard her scream

It was not quite as bad as Mr. Meredith had feared, but it was quite bad enough. "I must punish you, Carl," he

Carl winced. He had never been whipped. Then, seeing how badly his father felt, he said cheerfully,

Mr. Meredith misunderstood his cheerfulness and thought him insensible. He told Carl to come to the study

after supper, and when the boy had gone out he flung himself into his chair and groaned again. He dreaded

the evening sevenfold more than Carl did. The poor minister did not even know what he should whip his boy

with. What was used to whip boys? Rods? Canes? No, that would be too brutal. A timber switch, then? And

he, John Meredith, must hie him to the woods and cut one. It was an abominable thought. Then a picture

presented itself unbidden to his mind. He saw Mrs. Carr's wizened, nutcracker little face at the appearance

of that reviving eel-he saw her sailing witchlike over the buggy wheels. Before he could prevent himself the

minister laughed. Then he was angry with himself and angrier still with Carl. He would get that switch at

Carl was talking the matter over in the graveyard with Faith and Una, who had just come home. They were

horrified at the idea of his being whipped-and by father, who had never done such a thing! But they agreed

"You know it was a dreadful thing to do," sighed Faith. "And you never owned up in the club."

"I forgot," said Carl. "Besides, I didn't think any harm came of it. I didn't know she jarred her legs. But I'm to

"Oh, not so much, I guess," said Carl gamely. "Anyhow, I'm not going to cry, no matter how much it hurts. It

would make father feel so bad, if I did. He's all cut up now. I wish I could whip myself hard enough and save

After supper, at which Carl had eaten little and Mr. Meredith nothing at all, both went silently into the study.

The switch lay on the table. Mr. Meredith had had a bad time getting a switch to suit him. He cut one, then

felt it was too slender. Carl had done a really indefensible thing. Then he cut another-it was far too thick.

After all, Carl had thought the eel was dead. The third one suited him better; but as he picked it up from the

Carl threw back his head and held out his hand unflinchingly. But he was not very old and he could not quite

keep a little fear out of his eyes. Mr. Meredith looked down into those eyes-why, they were Cecilia's eyes-her

very eyes-and in them was the selfsame expression he had once seen in Cecilia's eyes when she had come to

him to tell him something she had been a little afraid to tell him. Here were her eyes in Carl's little, white

face-and six weeks ago he had thought, through one endless, terrible night, that his little lad was dying.

Carl fled to the graveyard, feeling that the look on his father's face was worse than any whipping.

"Is it over so soon?" asked Faith. She and Una had been holding hands and setting teeth on the Pollock

"He-he didn't whip me at all," said Carl with a sob, "and-I wish he had-and he's in there, feeling just awful."

Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort her father As noiselessly as a little gray mouse she opened

the study door and crept in. The room was dark with twilight. Her father was sitting at his desk. His back was

towards her-his head was in his hands. He was talking to himself-broken, anguished words-but Una

heard-heard and understood, with the sudden illumination that comes to sensitive, unmothered children. As

silently as she had come in she slipped out and closed the door. John Meredith went on talking out his pain in

UNA went upstairs. Carl and Faith were already on their way through the early moonlight to Rainbow

Valley, having heard therefrom the elfin lilt of Jerry's jew'sharp and having guessed that the Blythes were

there and fun afoot. Una had no wish to go. She sought her own room first where she sat down on her bed and

had a little cry. She did not want anybody to come in her dear mother's place. She did not want a stepmother

who would hate her and make her father hate her. But father was so desperately unhappy-and if she could do

any anything to make him happier she must do it. There was only one thing she could do-and she had known

the moment she had left the study that she must do it. But it was a very hard thing to do.

After Una cried her heart out she wiped her eyes and went to the spare room. It was dark and rather musty,

for the blind had not been drawn up nor the window opened for a long time. Aunt Martha was no freshair

fiend. But as nobody ever thought of shutting a door in the manse this did not matter so much, save when

some unfortunate minister came to stay all night and was compelled to breathe the spare room atmosphere.

There was a closet in the spare room and far back in the closet a gray silk dress was hanging. Una went into

the closet and shut the door, went down on her knees and pressed her face against the soft silken folds. It had

been her mother's weddingdress. It was still full of a sweet, faint, haunting perfume, like lingering love. Una

always felt very close to her mother there-as if she were kneeling at her feet with head in her lap. She went

"Mother," she whispered to the gray silk gown, "I will never forget you, mother, and I'll always love you best.

But I have to do it, mother, because father is so very unhappy. I know you wouldn't want him to be unhappy.

And I will be very good to her, mother, and try to love her, even if she is like Mary Vance said stepmothers

Una carried some fine, spiritual strength away from her secret shrine. She slept peacefully that night with the

The next afternoon she put on her best dress and hat. They were shabby enough. Every other little girl in the

Glen had new clothes that summer except Faith and Una. Mary Vance had a lovely dress of white

embroidered lawn, with scarlet silk sash and shoulder bows. But today Una did not mind her shabbiness.

She only wanted to be very neat. She washed her face carefully. She brushed her black hair until it was as

smooth as satin. She tied her shoelaces carefully, having first sewed up two runs in her one pair of good

stockings. She would have liked to black her shoes, but she could not find any blacking. Finally, she slipped

away from the manse, down through Rainbow Valley, up through the whispering woods, and out to the road

that ran past the house on the hill. It was quite a long walk and Una was tired and warm when she got there.

She saw Rosemary West sitting under a tree in the garden and stole past the dahlia beds to her. Rosemary had

a book in her lap, but she was gazing afar across the harbour and her thoughts were sorrowful enough. Life

had not been pleasant lately in the house on the hill. Ellen had not sulked-Ellen had been a brick. But things

can be felt that are never said and at times the silence between the two women was intolerably eloquent. All

the many familiar things that had once made life sweet had a flavour of bitterness now. Norman Douglas

made periodical irruptions also, bullying and coaxing Ellen by turns. It would end, Rosemary believed, by his

dragging Ellen off with him some day, and Rosemary felt that she would be almost glad when it happened.

Existence would be horribly lonely then, but it would be no longer charged with dynamite.

She was roused from her unpleasant reverie by a timid little touch on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Una

But she found it very hard to say what she had come to do. Her voice failed-her eyes filled with tears.

Rosemary put her arm around the thin little form and drew the child close to her. Her eyes were very

Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer dumbfounderment. She stared at Una blankly.

"Oh, don't be angry, please, dear Miss West," said Una, pleadingly. "You see, everybody is saying that you

wouldn't marry father because we are so bad. He is very unhappy about it. So I thought I would come and tell

you that we are never bad on purpose. And if you will only marry father we will all try to be good and do just

what you tell us. I'm sure you won't have any trouble with us. Please, Miss West."

Rosemary had been thinking rapidly. Gossiping surmise, she saw, had put this mistaken idea into Una's mind.

"Una, dear," she said softly. "It isn't because of you poor little souls that I cannot be your father's wife. I

never thought of such a thing. You are not bad-I never supposed you were. There-there was another reason

"Don't you like father?" asked Una, lifting reproachful eyes. "Oh, Miss West, you don't know how nice he is.

Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress Rosemary couldn't help a twisted, little smile.

"Oh, don't laugh, Miss West," Una cried passionately. "Father feels dreadful about it."

"I'm not. I'm sure I'm not. Oh, Miss West, father was going to whip Carl yesterday-Carl had been

naughty-and father couldn't do it because you see he had no practice in whipping. So when Carl came out and

told us father felt so bad, I slipped into the study to see if I could help him-he likes me to comfort him, Miss

West-and he didn't hear me come in and I heard what he was saying. I'll tell you, Miss West, if you'll let me

Una whispered earnestly. Rosemary's face turned crimson. So John Meredith still cared. He hadn't changed

his mind. And he must care intensely if he had said that-care more than she had ever supposed he did. She sat

"I'm glad-I'm glad," said Una bravely. Then she looked up, with quivering lips. "Oh, Miss West, you won't

turn father against us-you won't make him hate us, will you?" she said beseechingly.

"Una Meredith! Do you think I would do such a thing? Whatever put such an idea into your head?"

"Mary Vance said stepmothers were all like that-and that they all hated their stepchildren and made their

father hate them-she said they just couldn't help it-just being stepmothers made them like that"-

"You poor child! And yet you came up here and asked me to marry your father because you wanted to make

him happy? You're a darling-a heroine-as Ellen would say, you're a brick. Now listen to me, very closely,

dearest. Mary Vance is a silly little girl who doesn't know very much and she is dreadfully mistaken about

some things. I would never dream of trying to turn your father against you. I would love you all dearly. I

don't want to take your own mother's place-she must always have that in your hearts. But neither have I any

intention of being a stepmother. I want to be your friend and helper and chum. Don't you think that would be

nice, Una-if you and Faith and Carl and Jerry could just think of me as a good jolly chum-a big older sister?"

"Oh, it would be lovely," cried Una, with a transfigured face. She flung her arms impulsively round

"Do the others-do Faith and the boys have the same idea you had about stepmothers?"

"No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I was dreadfully foolish to believe her, either. Faith loves you

already-she has loved you ever since poor Adam was eaten. And Jerry and Carl will think it is jolly. Oh, Miss

West, when you come to live with us, will you-could you-teach me to cook-a little-and sew-and-and-and do

"Darling, I'll teach you and help you all I can. Now, you won't say a word to anybody about this, will you-not

even to Faith, until your father himself tells you you may? And you'll stay and have tea with me?"

"Oh, thank you-but-but-I think I'd rather go right back and take the letter to father," faltered Una. "You see,

"I see," said Rosemary. She went to the house, wrote a note and gave it to Una. When that small damsel had

run off, a palpitating bundle of happiness, Rosemary went to Ellen, who was shelling peas on the back porch.

"Ellen," she said, "Una Meredith has just been here to ask me to marry her father."

Ellen went on shelling peas for a few minutes. Then she suddenly put her hands up to her own face. There

Down at the manse Una Meredith, warm, rosy, triumphant, marched boldly into her father's study and laid a

letter on the desk before him. His pale face flushed as he saw the clear, fine handwriting he knew so well. He

opened the letter. It was very short-but he shed twenty years as he read it. Rosemary asked him if he could

"AND so," said Miss Cornelia, "the double wedding is to be sometime about the middle of this month."

There was a faint chill in the air of the early September evening, so Anne had lighted her ever ready fire of

driftwood in the big living room, and she and Miss Cornelia basked in its fairy flicker.

"It is so delightful-especially in regard to Mr. Meredith and Rosemary," said Anne. "I'm as happy in the

thought of it, as I was when I was getting married myself. I felt exactly like a bride again last evening when I

"They tell me her things are fine enough for a princess," said Susan from a shadowy corner where she was

cuddling her brown boy. "I have been invited up to see them also and I intend to go some evening. I

understand that Rosemary is to wear white silk and a veil, but Ellen is to be married in navy blue. I have no

doubt, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that is very sensible of her, but for my own part I have always felt that if I were

A vision of Susan in "white and a veil" presented itself before Anne's inner vision and was almost too much

"As for Mr. Meredith," said Miss Cornelia, "even his engagement has made a different man of him. He isn't

half so dreamy and absentminded, believe me. I was so relieved when I heard that he had decided to close

the manse and let the children visit round while he was away on his honeymoon. If he had left them and old

Aunt Martha there alone for a month I should have expected to wake every morning and see the place burned

"Aunt Martha and Jerry are coming here," said Anne. "Carl is going to Elder Clow's. I haven't heard where

"Oh, I'm going to take them," said Miss Cornelia. "Of course, I was glad to, but Mary would have given me

no peace till I asked them any way. The Ladies' Aid is going to clean the manse from top to bottom before the

bride and groom come back, and Norman Douglas has arranged to fill the cellar with vegetables. Nobody

ever saw or heard anything quite like Norman Douglas these days, believe me. He's so tickled that he's going

to marry Ellen West after wanting her all his life. If I was Ellen-but then, I'm not, and if she is satisfied I can

very well be. I heard her say years ago when she was a schoolgirl that she didn't want a tame puppy for a

The sun was setting over Rainbow Valley. The pond was wearing a wonderful tissue of purple and gold and

green and crimson. A faint blue haze rested on the eastern hill, over which a great, pale, round moon was just

They were all there, squatted in the little open glade-Faith and Una, Jerry and Carl, Jem and Walter, Nan and

Di, and Mary Vance. They had been having a special celebration, for it would be Jem's last evening in

Rainbow Valley. On the morrow he would leave for Charlottetown to attend Queen's Academy. Their

charmed circle would be broken; and, in spite of the jollity of their little festival, there was a hint of sorrow in

"See-there is a great golden palace over there in the sunset," said Walter, pointing. "Look at the shining

tower-and the crimson banners streaming from them. Perhaps a conqueror is riding home from battle-and

"Oh, I wish we had the old days back again," exclaimed Jem. "I'd love to be a soldier-a great, triumphant

Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater battle than had ever been fought in the world; but that was as

yet far in the future; and the mother, whose firstborn son he was, was wont to look on her boys and thank

God that the "brave days of old," which Jem longed for, were gone for ever, and that never would it be

necessary for the sons of Canada to ride forth to battle "for the ashes of their fathers and the temples of their

The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt any forerunner of its chill. The lads who were to

fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish

schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little

Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their crimson and gold; slowly the conqueror's pageant faded

out. Twilight crept over the valley and the little group grew silent. Walter had been reading again that day in

his beloved book of myths and he remembered how he had once fancied the Pied Piper coming down the

He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrill his companions a little, partly because

"The Piper is coming nearer," he said, "he is nearer than he was that evening I saw him before. His long,

shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes-he pipes-and we must follow-Jem and Carl and Jerry and

"You know you're only pretending," protested Mary Vance, "and I wish you wouldn't. You make it too real. I

But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood up on a little hillock, tall and splendid, with his open brow and

his fearless eyes. There were thousands like him all over the land of the maple.

"Let the Piper come and welcome," he cried, waving his hand. "I'll follow him gladly round and round the