With slim, lazy fingers, she began to braid her long, fair hair. It seemed to her that folks were always peering and prying, to make sure that every one else was like themselves. "You're doing different than what I did," they said.

Anna wanted to "do different." Yet she was without courage or wisdom.

And because she was sulky and heedless, Mrs. Ploughman called her Sara Barly's rebellious daughter. As Mrs. Ploughman belonged to the Methodist side of the town, Mrs. Tomkins was usually ready to disagree with her. But on this occasion, all Mrs. Tomkins could think to say, was: "Well, that's queer."

"But what's she got to be rebellious over?" she asked, peering brightly at Mrs. Ploughman.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Ploughman, "she's sorry she wasn't born a boy."

"Well," cried Mrs. Tomkins, "I never heard of such a thing."

"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins," said Mrs. Ploughman.

"And plenty I never hope to hear," said Mrs. Tomkins promptly. "My life!"

After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework. She took a hand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumbling everything into the closet and shutting the door. Then she went into the kitchen to help with the lunch. When Mrs. Barly saw her dreaming over the carrots, she asked:

"What are you gaping at now?"

"Nothing."

Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed. "You're not feeble-minded, I hope," she said.

"No, I'm not," said Anna.

"I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Barly.

When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that she was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinking of Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although she said to herself: "I am not in love with any one." Sometimes she thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman.

However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over his death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour feelings.

In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again after breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp and searching. From the trees overhead as she pa.s.sed, icy drops rained down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing above the woods, now light, now dark.

She was disappointed because life was no different than it was. She had hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before the war, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths in her hair. But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she was sad because she was no longer able to be gay. As she pa.s.sed the little cottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself: "Yes, you've seen something of life. But not what I want to see, exactly. Look at you." Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothing more to live for. "There you are," she said, "and there you'll be.

Life doesn't mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you're concerned.

"You, G.o.d," she cried, "put something in my way, just once."

At that moment Juliet, who had been peeking out from behind the house, came skipping down the path to the road. As she drew near, her progress became slower; finally she stood still, and balanced herself on one leg, like a stork.

"h.e.l.lo," she said. Then she looked up and down the road, to see what there was to talk about.

"I have a little house Mr. Jeminy made me out of boxes," she said at last.

"No," said Anna.

"Well, that's a fact," said Juliet, who had once heard Mr. Frye say, "Well, that's a fact," to Mr. Crabbe.

"My goodness," said Anna, "isn't that elegant?" And she looked down at Juliet, who was staring solemnly up at her.

"Yes, it is," said Juliet.

"What were you doing," asked Anna, "when I came along?"

"I was playing going to Milford," said Juliet. "Do you want to play with me?"

It seemed to Juliet that playing was something for any one to do.

Anna began to laugh. She had a mind to say, "Do you think I'm as little as you are?" But instead, she found herself thinking, "Oh, my, wouldn't it be fun."

"Why," she cried, "I declare, I do want to play with you."

"All right," said Juliet. And she turned soberly back to the barn, behind the house. But Anna sat down in the gra.s.s. "Just you wait,"

she said, "till I get my shoes and stockings off. I'm going to play proper."

Presently their happy voices, linked in laughter, rose from behind the house, where Juliet was showing Anna how to play store. She tied her ap.r.o.n around her little belly, and came forward rubbing her hands.

"Would you like some nice licorice?" she asked. "Everything's very dear."

When she was tired of playing store, she began to imitate old Mrs.

Tomkins, the carpenter's wife. "This is the way to have the rheumatism," she said. And she hopped around on one foot.

After they were through playing, they sat quietly together in the hay, in the barn, without anything more to say. Anna was warm and happy; she wanted to hug Juliet, to hold her tight, to rock up and down with her. "There," she thought, "if I only had one like her."

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, to tease her.

"I was just thinking," said Juliet, "it's fun to play with people."

Anna felt her heart give a sudden twist. "Why, you dear, odd little thing," she cried. And taking the child in her arms, she covered the tiny head with kisses. But Juliet drew away.

"I'm not little," she said. "I'm old."

"So am I old," said Anna. She felt the joy run out of her; it left her empty. "I expect everybody in the world is old," she said. She watched her hands move about in the hay like great spiders.

"Is it fun to be old, do you think?" asked Juliet.

"I don't know," said Anna. "I don't expect it is, much."

"Mother is old," said Juliet. "What do old people do?"

Anna looked out through the barn door across the wet fields, the drenched hillsides, shrouded in mist. "I don't know," she said. And she got up to go home.

"Well, good-by," said Juliet.

Just then Mrs. Wicket came in from the road, with a basket on her arm.

When she saw Anna standing in front of the barn she grew pink and confused. For she thought that Anna had come to call on her. "Good afternoon," she said. "I was out. I'm real sorry. Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no," said Anna. "I was going on . . . I only stopped for a minute. . . ."

And without another word she ran down the path, and out of the gate.

Mrs. Wicket stood looking after her in silence. Then, with a sigh, she turned, and went indoors. But Anna ran and ran until she was tired.