The threat was effectual. Never did we mention
that unholy pudding. But the Story Girl could
not so impose silence on the grown-ups, especially
Uncle Roger. He tormented her for the rest of
the summer. Never a breakfast did he sit down
to, without gravely inquiring if they were sure there
was no sawdust in the porridge. Not a tweak
of rheumatism did he feel but he vowed it was due
to a needle, travelling about his body. And Aunt
Olivia was warned to label all the pincushions in
the house. “Contents, sawdust; not intended
for puddings.”
An August evening, calm, golden, dewless, can be very
lovely. At sunset, Felicity, Cecily, and Sara
Ray, Dan, Felix, and I were in the orchard, sitting
on the cool grasses at the base of the Pulpit Stone.
In the west was a field of crocus sky over which
pale cloud blossoms were scattered.
Uncle Roger had gone to the station to meet the travellers,
and the dining-room table was spread with a feast
of fat things.
“It’s been a jolly week, take it all round,”
said Felix, “but I’m glad the grown-ups
are coming back to-night, especially Uncle Alec.”
“I wonder if they’ll bring us anything,”
said Dan.
“I’m thinking long to hear all about the
wedding,” said Felicity, who was braiding timothy
stalks into a collar for Pat.
“You girls are always thinking about weddings
and getting married,” said Dan contemptuously.
“We ain’t,” said Felicity indignantly.
“I am never going to get married.
I think it is just horrid, so there!”
“I guess you think it would be a good deal horrider
not to be,” said Dan.
“It depends on who you’re married to,”
said Cecily gravely, seeing that Felicity disdained
reply. “If you got a man like father it
would be all right. But s’posen you
got one like Andrew Ward? He’s so mean
and cross to his wife that she tells him every day
she wishes she’d never set eyes on him.”
“Perhaps that’s why he’s mean
and cross,” said Felix.
“I tell you it isn’t always the man’s
fault,” said Dan darkly. “When I
get married I’ll be good to my wife, but I mean
to be boss. When I open my mouth my word will
be law.”
“If your word is as big as your mouth I guess
it will be,” said Felicity cruelly.
“I pity the man who gets you, Felicity King,
that’s all” retorted Dan.
“Now, don’t fight,” implored Cecily.
“Who’s fighting?” demanded Dan.
“Felicity thinks she can say anything she likes
to me, but I’ll show her different.”
Probably, in spite of Cecily’s efforts, a bitter
spat would have resulted between Dan and Felicity,
had not a diversion been effected at that moment by
the Story Girl, who came slowly down Uncle Stephen’s
Walk.
“Just look how the Story Girl has got herself
up!” said Felicity. “Why, she’s
no more than decent!”
