LITMIR.BIZ

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Betty had a little supervision in her reading.”

      Mary Ballard came to the door from the tea table where she had been arranging her little set of delicate china, her one rare treasure and inheritance. “Yes, I knew she was reading–whatever she fancied, but I thought I wouldn’t interfere–not yet. I have so little time, for one thing, and, anyway, I thought she might browse a bit. She’s like a calf in rare pastures, and I don’t think she understands enough to do her harm–or much good, either. Those things slide off from her like water off a duck’s back.”

      Betty looked anxiously up at her mother. What things was she missing? She must read them all over again.

      “What else have you out there, Betty?” asked her father.

      Betty dropped her head shamefacedly. She never knew when she was in the right and when wrong. Sometimes the very things which seemed most right to her were most wrong. “That’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ It was an old book, father. There was a tear in the back when I took it down. I like to read about Satan. I like to read about the mighty hosts and the angels and the burning lake. Is that hell? I was pretending if the bees swarmed that they would be the mighty host of bad angels falling out of heaven.”

      Again Peter flung back his head and laughed. He looked at the child with new interest, but Betty did not smile back at him. She did not like being laughed at.

      “It’s true,” she said; “they did fall out of heaven in a swarm, and it was like over at High Knob on the river bank, only a million times higher, because they were so long falling. ‘From morn till noon they fell, from noon till dewy eve.’” Betty looked off into space with half-closed eyes. She was seeing them fall. “It was a long time to be in suspense, wasn’t it, father?” Then every one laughed. Even mother joined in. She was putting the last touches to the tea table.

      “Mary, my dear, I think we’d better take a little supervision of the child’s reading–I do, really.”

      The gate at the end of the long path to the house clicked, and another lad came swinging up the walk, slightly taller than Peter Junior, but otherwise enough like him in appearance to be his own brother. He was not as grave as Peter, but smiled as he hailed them, waving his cap above his head. He also wore the blue uniform, and it was new.

      “Hallo, Peter! You here?”

      “Of course I’m here. I thought you were never coming.”

      “You did?”

      Betty sprang from her father’s lap and ran to meet him. She slipped her hand in his and hopped along at his side. “Oh, Rich! Are you going, too? I wish I were you.”

      He lifted the child to a level with his face and kissed her, then set her on her feet again. “Never wish that, Betty. It would spoil a nice little girl.”

      “I’m not such a nice little girl. I–I–love Satan–and they’re going to–to–supervise my reading.” She clung to his hand and nodded her head with finality. He swung her along, making her take long leaps as they walked.

      “You love Satan? I thought you loved me!”

      “It’s the same thing, Rich,” said Peter Junior, with a grin.

      Bertrand had gone to the kitchen door. “Mary, my love, here’s Richard Kildene.” She entered the living room, carrying a plate of light, hot biscuit, and hurried out to Richard, greeting him warmly–even lovingly.

      “Bertrand, won’t you and the boys carry the table out to the garden?” she suggested. “Open both doors and take it carefully. It will be pleasanter here in the shade.”

      The young men sprang to do her bidding, and the small table was borne out under the trees, the lads enumerating with joy the articles of Mary Ballard’s simple menu.

      “Hot biscuits and honey! My golly! Won’t we wish for this in about two months from now?” said Richard.

      “Cream and caraway cookies!” shouted Peter Junior, turning back to the porch to help Bertrand carry the chairs. “Of course we’ll be wishing for this before long, but that’s part of soldiering.”

      “We’re not looking forward to a well-fed, easy time of it, so we’ll just make the best of this to-night, and eat everything in sight,” said Richard.

      Bertrand preferred to change the subject. “This is some of our new white clover honey,” he said. “I took it from that hive over there last evening, and they’ve been working all day as if they had had new life given them. All bees want is a lot of empty space for storing honey.”

      Richard followed Mrs. Ballard into the kitchen for the tea. “Where are the other children?” he asked.

      “Martha and Jamie are spending a week with my mother and father. They love to go there, and mother–and father, also, seem never to have enough of them. Baby is still asleep, and I must waken him, too, or he won’t sleep to-night. I hung a pail of milk over the spring to keep it cool, and the butter is there also–and the Dutch cheese in a tin box. Can you–wait, I’d better go with you. We’ll leave the tea to steep a minute.”

      They passed through the house and down toward the spring house under the maple and basswood trees at the back, walking between rows of currant bushes where the fruit hung red.

      “I hate to leave all this–maybe forever,” said the boy. The corners of his mouth drooped a little, and he looked down at Mary Ballard with a tender glint in his deep blue eyes. His eyes were as blue as the lake on a summer’s evening, and they were shaded by heavy dark brown lashes, almost black. His brows and hair were the same deep brown. Peter Junior’s were a shade lighter, and his hair more curling. It was often a matter of discussion in the village as to which of the boys was the handsomer. That they were both fine-looking lads was always conceded.

      Mary Ballard turned toward him impulsively. “Why did you do this, Richard? Why? I can’t feel that this fever for war is right. It is terrible. We are losing the best blood in the land in a wicked war.” She took his two hands in hers, and her eyes filled. “When we first came here, your mother was my dearest friend. You never knew her, but I loved her–and her loss was much to me. Richard, why didn’t you consult us?”

      “I hadn’t any one but you and your husband to care. Oh, Aunt Hester loves me, of course, and is awfully good to me–but the Elder–I always feel somehow as if he expects me to go to the bad. He never had any use for my father, I guess. Was my father–was–he no good? Don’t mind telling me the truth: I ought to know.”

      “Your father was not so well known here, but he was, in Bertrand’s estimation, a royal Irish gentleman. We both liked him; no one could help it. Never think hardly of him.”

      “Why has he never cared for me? Why have I never known him?”

      “There was a quarrel–or–some unpleasantness between your uncle and him; it’s an old thing.”

      Richard’s lip quivered an instant, then he drew himself up and smiled on her, then he stooped and kissed her. “Some of us must go; we can’t let this nation be broken up. Some men must give their lives for it; and I’m one of those who ought to go, for I have no one to mourn for me. Half the class has enlisted.”

      “I venture to say you suggested it, too?”

      “Well–yes.”

      “And Peter Junior was the first to follow you?”

      “Well, yes! I’m sorry–because of Aunt Hester–but we always do pull together, you know. See here, let’s not think of it in this way. There are other ways. Perhaps I’ll come back with straps on my shoulders and marry Betty some day.”

      “God grant you may; that is, if you come back as you left us. You understand me? The same boy?”

      “I do and I will,” he said gravely.

      That was a happy hour they spent at the evening meal, and many an evening afterwards, when hardship and weariness had made the lads seem more rugged and years older, they spoke of it and lived it over.

      CHAPTER

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