The weeks went by, one as like another as the blue-clad children. A
September Saturday afternoon found Anne, with Honey-Sweet clasped in her
arms, in a secluded corner near the boundary hedge. She had told
Honey-Sweet all the happenings of the week--that she was head in
reading, that she would have cut Lucy down in spelling-class if the girl
next above her had not spelt 'scissors' on her fingers--that Miss 'Liza
had not found a wrinkle in her bed-clothes all the week. She cuddled and
kissed Honey-Sweet to her heart's content, crooning over and over her
old lullaby:--
"Honey, honey! Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Honey, honey! Honey-Sweet!"
Then she wandered into her world of 'make believe.' Once upon a time,
there was a fair, forlorn princess on a milk-white steed. She was lost
in a forest. It was, though the princess did not know it, an enchanted
forest. And there was a cruel giant who had seized twenty-seven fair,
forlorn princesses whom he had made his serving-maids. They could be
freed only by a magic ring worn by a gallant knight who did not know
about their danger. Anne stopped in the middle of her story, keeping
mouse-still so as not to frighten a robin beside the hedge.
She gave a start when a voice near her piped out, "Tell on, little girl,
tell on; I like that story."
Anne looked around. No one was in sight.
"If you don't tell on, I'll cry. Then mother will punish you," said the
shrill little voice.
Anne stood up and looked all about. At last she discovered the speaker.
He was a small boy who had climbed a low-branching apple-tree on the
other side of the hedge. A smaller boy was walking beside a
white-capped, white-aproned nurse at a little distance. Anne had made
believe that the brown-stone house was the castle of the wandering
knight who was to return and rescue the enchanted princesses. It had
been closed all the summer and Anne was surprised and grieved to see now
that it was open and occupied by everyday people.
As his command was not obeyed, the small boy made good his threat and
wailed aloud. The white-capped nurse came running to him.
"What is the matter, Master Dunlop? Have you hurt yourself on that
naughty tree? I'll beat it for you. Don't you cry."
Dunlop paused in his wailing to say: "It's that girl over there. She
stopped telling a story. And I told her to keep on. And she didn't."
"Oh, Master Dunlop! A-talking to them charity chillen!" exclaimed the
nurse. "You're in mischief soon as my back's turned. Come away, Master
Dunlop, come along with me and Master Arthur. You'll catch--no telling
what."
"I've had fever," announced Dunlop, proudly. "And I'm not to be fretted.
Mamma told you so. I won't go, Martha. I'll cry if you try to make me. I
want to hear that story.--Tell it, girl," he commanded.
"We don't answer people that speak to us like that, do we, Honey-Sweet?"
said Anne, turning away. "We'll go under the elm-tree in the far
corner.--And the fair, forlorn princess got off her milk-white steed to
pick some berries--and whizz! gallop! off he went and left her. So the
princess walked on alone through the forest--" as Anne spoke she was
walking away from the hedge.
Dunlop began to scream again.
Martha spoke hastily. "If you'll hush, I'll ask her to tell you the
story. If you scream, Master Dunlop, your mother'll call you in and
she'll make you take a spoonful of that bitter stuff."
"You call that girl, then," he commanded.
Martha raised her voice. "Little girl, oh, little girl!--I don't know
your name. Please come back."
Anne paused, but did not turn her head.
"This little boy has been ill," Martha continued. "He's just getting
over fever. And he's notiony. Won't you please tell that story to him?"
Anne walked slowly back. "I do not mind telling him the story," she
answered with grave dignity. "I'm always telling stories to the girls.
But he must ask me proper. I don't 'low for to be spoken to that way."
"Martha said 'please' to you," mumbled Dunlop, digging his toe in the
turf.
"You want me to tell the story," said Anne.
There was a brief silence.
"I'll cry," he threatened.
"I don't have to keep you from crying," said Anne, with spirit. "Come
on, Honey-Sweet."
"Please, you little girl," said Dunlop, hastily.
"And the princess walked on and on," continued Anne, as if the story had
not been interrupted. "The low briers tore her dress, the tall briers
scratched her hands and pulled her hair. It was getting da-a-rk so she
could hardly see the path. Then all at once she saw a bright light ahead
of her. It got brighter and brighter and it came from a little cabin in
the woods."
And in the happy land of 'make believe' Anne roamed until the tea-bell
called her back to the real world.
Where, meanwhile, were Anne's old friends, Miss Drayton and Pat? Let me
hasten to assure you that Pat was not so unmindful of his little adopted
sister as he seemed. He hated to write letters and never wrote any
except the briefest of duty letters to his father and his Aunt Sarah. He
took it for granted that the separation from Anne was only for a time.
She could not come to a boys' camp and she would have to attend a girls'
school. Later, she would be with them--father, Aunt Sarah, and himself.
Of course she would, always. Mother had said she was his adopted sister.
And she was a jolly dear little thing.
Miss Drayton knew better. She was disturbed at learning from one of Mr.
Patterson's brief, matter-of-course letters that Anne had been sent to
an orphanage. If she had known the plan beforehand, she would have had
Anne sent to her. But as the step was taken, she accepted it and Anne
slipped out of her life.
Pat had a jolly summer. Camp Riverview was on New River, where, a clear
mountain stream, it begins its journey to the ocean. The boys' tent was
pitched on a level, grassy glade with rolling hills, cleared or wooded,
behind it. Across the river rose rocky bluffs where dwarfed oaks
struggled for a foothold. There were seven boys in the camp and the
wholesome young man who had them in charge was like a big brother. There
were two or three hours of daily study in which the boys were coached
for their autumn examinations. The remainder of the day was free for
sport--boating, fishing, swimming, tramps, and rides. One good time trod
on the heels of another.
The boys took walking tours through the picturesque country, following
the narrow, roundabout mountain roads, or scrambling up steep paths, or
making trails of their own. They visited Mountain Lake, set like a
clear, shining jewel on the mountain-top. They climbed Bald Knob and
gazed down on lovely valleys and outstretched mountains, range rising
beyond range. Time fails to describe the varied pleasures and interests
of the holiday, the close of which sent Pat, brown and sturdy, to
Woodlawn Academy. There he remained until the passing days and weeks and
months brought again vacation time. In June his father would return from
Panama, and after a few weeks at home Pat was to go with his Aunt Sarah
to the Adirondacks.