"I guess you're right, Jotham," Old Tilly said.
"But what in the world did they go and lock up for, when we got in just
as easy as pie last night?" exclaimed Kent, disgustedly.
"Oh, ask something easy!" Jot cried. "What I want to know is, how we're
going to get on the other side o' that door."
The care-taker, if one could call him that, of the old meeting-house,
had taken it into his head to take care of it!--or it may have been that
the key chanced to be in his pocket, convenient. At all events, the
door was securely fastened. The three boys reluctantly gave up the
attempt to force it.
"Windows!" Kent suddenly exclaimed, and they all laughed foolishly.
They had not thought of the windows.
"That's a good joke on the Eddy boys!" Old Tilly said. "We sha'n't hear
the last of it if anybody lets on to father."
"Better wait till we're on the other side of the windows!" advised Kent.
"Maybe it isn't a joke."
There were windows enough. They were ranged in monotonous rows on all
sides of the church, above and below. They all had tiny old-fashioned
panes of glass and were fastened with wooden buttons. It was the work
of a minute to "unbutton" one of them and jump out.
"There!" breathed Jot in relief, as his toes touched sod again, "I feel
as if I'd been in prison and just got out."
"Broken out--that's the way I feel. I wish we could fasten the window
again," Old Tilly said thoughtfully.
Kent was rubbing his ankle ruefully.
"It was a joke on us, our mooning round that door all that time, and
thinking we were trapped!"
"Oh, well, come on; it doesn't matter, now we're free again."
"Come along--here are our wheels all right," Old Tilly said briskly.
"Let's go down to that little bunch of white houses there under the
hill, and pick out the one we want to stay over night in."
"The one that wants us to stay in it, you mean! Come on, then."
It was already mid-afternoon. The beautiful Sunday peace that broods
over New England's country places rested softly on new-mown fields and
bits of pasture and woods. The boys' hearts were made tender by the
service they had so unexpectedly attended, and as the beauty of the
scene recalled again the home fields, they fell into silence. A tiny,
brown-coated bird tilted on a twig and sang to them as they passed. The
little throat throbbed and pulsated with eager melody.
Old Tilly listened to the song to its close, then swung round suddenly.
His face was like father's when he got up from his knees at family
prayers.
"That bird seems singing, 'Holy, holy, holy,'" Old Tilly said softly.
"Can't you hear?"
"Yes, I hear," murmured Jot.
The little white house they picked out sat back from the highway in a
nest of lilac bushes. It reminded the boys a very little of home.
"Stop over night? Away from home, be ye? Why, yes, I guess me an' pa
can take you in. One, two--dear land! there's three of ye, ain't there?
Yes, yes, come right in! I couldn't turn three boys away--not three!"
The sweet-faced old woman in the doorway held out both hands
welcomingly. She seemed to get at the history of the three young
knights by some instinctive mind-reading of her own--the boys themselves
said so little. It was the little old lady's sweet voice that ran on
without periods, piecing Old Tilly's brief explanatory words together
skillfully.
"Havin' a holiday, be you? I see. Well, young folks has to have their
outin's. When they git as old as me an' pa, they'll be all innin's!"
she ran on. Suddenly she stooped and surveyed them with a placid
attempt at sternness. "I hope you've all be'n to meetin'?" she cried.
Jot's face twisted oddly.
"Yes," Old Tilly answered, subduedly, "we've been to church."
"I thought so--I thought so. Now come in an' see pa--poor pa' He was
took again yesterday. He's frettin' dretfully about the hay. Pa--"
Her voice went on ahead and heralded their coming. "Here's three boys
come to stop over night with us--three, pa. You're glad there's three
of 'em, ain't you? I knew you'd be. When I'd counted 'em up, I didn't
hesitate any longer! The littlest one looks a little mite like our Joey,
pa--only Joey was handsome," she added innocently.
Kent nudged Jot delightedly. They were entering a quaint, old-fashioned
room, and at the further end on a hair-cloth settle lay a withered
morsel of an old man. His sun-browned face made a shriveled spot of
color against the pillows.
"That's pa," the little old lady said, by way of introduction. "He was
took yesterday, out in the field. It was dretful hot--an' the hay 'most
in, too. He's frettin' because he couldn't 've waited a little mite
longer, ain't you, pa? I tell him if the boys was here--" She broke
off with a quiver in her thin, clear voice. Pa, on the couch, put out
his hand feebly and smoothed her skirt.
"We had three boys--ma an' me," he explained quietly. "That's why ma was
so quick to take you in, I guess. They was all little shavers like you
be."
"Yes, jest little shavers," said ma, softly. "They hadn't got where I
couldn't make over 'em an' tuck 'em in nights, when they was took away--
all in one week. You wouldn't have thought 'twould have be'n all in one
week--three boys--would you? Not three! I tell pa the Lord didn't give
us time enough to bid 'em all good-by. It takes so long to give up
three!"
Old Tilly and the others stood by in odd embarrassment. Jot was bothered
with a strange sensation in his throat.
But the old lady's sorrowing face brightened presently. She bustled
about the room busily, getting out chairs and setting straight things
crooked in her zeal.
"I guess you're hungry, ain't you? Boys always is--an' three boys!
Dear! how hungry three boys can be! I'm goin' out to get supper. Pa,
you must do the entertainin'."
The bread was "just like mother's"--white with a delicious crust--and
the butter yellow as gold, and Jot helped himself plentifully. "Ma,"
behind the tea urn, watched him with a beaming face.
"That's right!--I love to see boys eat! I tell pa sometimes I can just
see our three boys settin' at this table eatin' one of ma's good meals
o' victuals. You must have some of this custard, Joey." A faint
essence of added tenderness crept into the wistful old voice at that
name. The boys knew that Joey had been the little old lady's baby.
"Joey was a great hand for custard. Joey was a master hearty boy."
After supper, the boys wandered out around the tiny farm. It was at best
a rocky, uneven place, but there were evidences of "pa's" hard work on
it. Most of the grass had been mowed and carried into the barn, but
there was one small field still dotted over with cocks of overripe hay.
Old Tilly strode over and examined it with an air of wisdom.
"Too ripe," he commented. "I guess it won't be worth getting in, if it
stays out here much longer."
"He meant to have it all in yesterday--she said he did. I mean that
little old lady said so," Jot remarked.
"Well, if it isn't all in to-morrow, it's a goner," Old Tilly said
decisively.
"Now, boys, there's lots o' good water out in the cistern," the old lady
said, when they came back. "I've put the towels handy in the shed. It
may be you'll sleep sounder if you have a nice sponge off."
Only too glad, the boys took to the shed, and then followed their guide
to the airy room waiting. How the pillows fitted a fellow's head! as
Jot said luxuriously. And the beds, how good they felt after those hard
church pews! They were sound asleep in a moment.
The little old lady stole in to look at them. She held the lamp high in
one hand and gazed down with wistful eyes into the three healthy brown
faces. When she went back to pa, her face was wet with a rain of tears.
"They look so good, pa, lyin' there!" she said brokenly. "An' you'd
ought to see how much like Joey the littlest one throws up his arm!"
The old man could not sleep. He kept asking if it looked like rain and
kept fretting because he could not move his legs about freely.
"I've got to move 'em, ma," he groaned.-"I've got to practice before
to-morrer, so's to get the hay in. I've got to get the hay in, ma!"
It was Jot, for a wonder, who slept the longest. He woke with a start
of surprise at his strange surroundings. Then he sat up in bed, blinking
his eyes open wider. The room was a large one with two beds in it. He
and Kent had slept in one, and Old Tilly in the other. It was just
before sunrise, and in the east a wide swathe of pink was banding the
sky. Outside the window, a crowd of little birds were tuning up for a
concert.
Jot rubbed his eyes again. There was no one else in the room. The
other boys had vanished completely. He leaped out of bed with a queer
sense of fright. Then he made a discovery.