She slackened her gait, dropping back beside him.
“Well, then, if you think you could keep up
with me if you didn’t have it, why’n’t
you leave it somewhere, and come back and get it after
the fire’s over?”
“No place to leave it.”
She laughed, and pointed. “Why’n’t
you leave it at grandpa’s?”
“Will you wait for me and start fair?”
“Come on!” They obliqued across the street,
still running forward, and at their grandfather’s
gate Herbert turned in and sped toward the house.
“Take it around to the kitchen and give it to
Kitty Silver,” Florence called. “Tell
Kitty Silver to take care of it for you.”
But Herbert was in no mind to follow her advice; a
glance over his shoulder showed that Florence was
taking another unfair advantage of him. “You
wait!” he shouted. “You stand still
till I get back there! You got half a mile start
a’ready! You wait till we can start even!”
But Florence was skipping lightly away and she caroled
over her shoulder, waving her hand in mocking farewell
as she began to run:
“Ole Mister Slowpoke
can’t catch me!
Ole Mister Slowpoke couldn’t
catch a flea!”
“I’ll show you!” he bellowed, and,
not to lose more time, he dashed up the steps of the
deserted veranda, thrust his basket deep underneath
a wicker settee, and ran violently after his elusive
cousin.
She kept a tantalizing distance between them, but
when they reached the fire it was such a grand one
they forgot all their differences—and also
all about the basket.
Noble Dill came from his father’s house, after
dinner that evening, a youth in blossom, like the
shrubberies and garden beds in the dim yards up and
down Julia’s Street. All cooled and bathed
and in new clothes of white, he took his thrilled
walk through the deep summer twilight, on his way
to that ineffable Front Porch where sat Julia, misty
in the dusk. The girlish little new moon had
perished naively out of the sky; the final pinkness
of the west was gone; blue evening held the quiet
world; and overhead, between the branches of the maple
trees, were powdered all those bright pin points of
light that were to twinkle on generations of young
lovers after Noble Dill, each one, like Noble, walking
the same fragrant path in summer twilights to see the
Prettiest Girl of All.
Now and then there came to the faintly throbbing ears
of the pedestrian a murmur of voices from lawns where
citizens sat cooling after the day’s labour,
or a tinkle of laughter from where maidens dull (not
being Julia) sat on verandas vacant of beauty and
glamour. For these poor things, Noble felt a
wondering and disdainful pity; he pitied everything
in the world that was not on the way to starry Julia.
Eight nights had passed since he, himself, had seen
her, but to-day she had replied (over the telephone)
that Mr. Atwater seemed to have settled down again,
and she believed it might be no breach of tact for
Noble to call that evening—especially as
she would be on the veranda, and he needn’t
ring the bell. Would she be alone—for
once? It was improbable, yet it could be hoped.
