"Homesick, poor child!" she murmured. "Charlie," she said aloud, "I am going downtown in the carriage, to do some errands. Don't you want to go? You and Sally?"

Charlie thereupon brightened perceptibly. "I'll go if you want me to."

Cousin Martha smiled and turned to Sally, who accepted. "Although,"

she said, "I want to write a letter. But I suppose there'll be plenty of time after we get back. We've just been talking with the funniest pair of twins. They stutter."

Miss Hazen sighed. "I know. I heard them banging on the fence. They are the Carling twins. Their names are Henry and Horace."

"Harry and Horry," cried Sally. "But which is older?"

"Mercy! I don't know," Cousin Martha answered. "I can't tell them apart. One is just as bad as the other."

"I've an idea," Sally remarked, "that they aren't going to be so bad."

Cousin Martha looked curiously at Sally, but she said nothing and just then the carriage came.

Miss Hazen seemed to find especial delight in Charlie's society on that drive. She talked to him more and more while she went to do her errands. Charlie, on the whole, was not an especially attractive child. He was a handsome boy, but he was apt to be dissatisfied and discontented, which gave his face the kind of expression which such a disposition always gives. He seemed to be developing some of the characteristics of his father. Not that Sally was aware of the characteristics Charlie was developing. Charlie was Charlie, that was all. She saw too much of him--had had the care of him too continuously--to realize the little resemblances which might be evident to one who had less to do with him. It is not unlikely that Miss Hazen realized those resemblances, although she may not have been conscious of it, and that it was just that which was endearing him to her.

Whatever the reason, Cousin Martha got to taking him with her at every opportunity. Charlie was in school every morning, for one of Miss Hazen's errands, on that first day, had been to arrange for school for both Sally and Charlie. Charlie, being at school every morning except Sat.u.r.day, could not accompany Cousin Martha on her drives in the mornings. Consequently, Cousin Martha changed her habit of more than twenty years' standing and drove in the afternoon. Her father smiled when he heard of it and looked from Charlie to Sally.

"I know of no reason, Patty," he observed quietly, "why the afternoon is not as good a time for driving as the morning. Doesn't this little girl go?"

"Not very often, Uncle John," Sally replied, smiling up at him.

"I'm--I'm very busy, and--and I'd rather go anywhere on my own feet."

He patted her head and smiled. He liked to go anywhere on his own feet, too.

CHAPTER II

It was a bl.u.s.tery Sat.u.r.day toward the last of March. Sally had written her letter to Fox and one to Doctor Galen, more to take up time than because she had anything to say that she thought was worth saying; but the kind doctor seemed to like to get her rather infrequent letters, and he always answered them, although his answers were rather short.

But what could she expect of a doctor who was as busy as Doctor Galen?

Not much, truly. Cousin Martha had told her so. Perhaps I had better call her Patty. Everybody called her Patty or Miss Patty. Even Sally had fallen into that habit. Miss Patty may have preferred it or she may not have; her preference did not seem to matter. As I was saying, Cousin Patty had told her so, and had intended the telling, it seemed to Sally, rather as a rebuke. Now, Sally did not know why she should be rebuked,--for her conscience was clear. But the fame of Doctor Galen had gone forth in the land and Cousin Patty considered it a great honor that any one of her family connections was under his care.

Hence her seeming rebuke.

Sally had finished her letter to the doctor and it was only half-past eight. She sighed as the hall clock--which, by the way, was in the back parlor--struck the half-hour, solemnly, as if it were aware of the importance of its office. That tall clock did its whole duty conscientiously--with Uncle John's help. Sally sat gazing at the clock and meditating. It was no less than astonishing, when you came to think of it, what a lot of things in that house depended upon Uncle John's help. He never made a show of giving it, but a quiet word here and a calm smile there did wonders. He was a regulator, that was what he was; a sort of a pendulum, to make things go right. Sally had become very fond of Uncle John. Cousin Patty--well--she seemed to need a regulator, not to put it any more strongly. Sally smiled as the idea crossed her mind, and she took the end of the pen-holder from its place between her teeth and returned to the perusal of her letter.

Sally always read over her letters, and, having read this one over, she added a postscript telling the doctor--a very private joke between him and her--of Cousin Patty's rebuke. She knew that he would be amused. When she had the doctor's letter sealed, she looked up again at the clock.

"Oh, dear!" she murmured; "it must have stopped." She knew very well that the clock would not be guilty of such misbehavior as long as it had Uncle John's help. "I'll write to Henrietta."

To tell the truth, Sally had not missed Henrietta one half as much as she had missed Fox, but if she did not write her very often it was simply because she forgot it. When she remembered, she was always very sorry and wrote frequently, until she forgot again. Sally's letters to Henrietta came in bunches, with intervals of a month or more between the bunches.

She had not got very far on this one when Uncle John came in. He was very late that morning.

"Sally," he said, "they are flying kites in the Lot. You may like to see them."

For, as I said at the beginning, before I was led off into this digression, it was a bl.u.s.tery Sat.u.r.day in March.

"Oh!" Sally cried, pushing back her chair. "Are they? Do you mind, Uncle John, if I climb a tree on that side? You can't see over the wall, you know."

Mr. Hazen smiled quietly. "Climb any tree you like," he replied. "You will be careful, Sally, I know; careful of yourself and of the trees.

But where is Charlie?"

"Cousin Patty is getting him ready to go out with her." Sally was pretty well relieved of the care of Charlie by this time. "I'll finish this letter when I come in."

She jumped up, s.n.a.t.c.hed up her hood and her coat and slipped her hand into Uncle John's and they went out together. They parted at the foot of the steps and Mr. Hazen walked slowly downtown, smiling to himself in a satisfied way.

Just across Box Elder Street was a high wall. It seemed to Sally to be at least twenty feet high; and the builder of that wall had added insult to injury by cementing it smoothly on the outside--Sally had never seen the inside of it--and by capping it with a smooth and projecting wooden roof. The wooden roof was no longer smooth, but warped with the sun and the rains of many years, and the mouldings on the under edges were coming away in places. But the wall was still absolutely unclimbable, although it was possible to see over it from the upper windows of the house or from the evergreens which surrounded it. Sally preferred the evergreens. To be sure, their heavy branches somewhat interfered with the view, but, at least, they were trees and they were out of doors.

When Sally had found a comfortable perch in a spruce, she looked over into the Lot. The Lot was a relic of the past; of twenty-five or thirty years past. Its latest useful service had been, according to internal evidence, as a cornfield. The boys, running across it with their kites, were sure of this, for the hills were still there and made running on it a work of art, especially if there was a kite at the end of a string to need their attention. Indeed, perhaps I was wrong in putting the flying of kites in the cla.s.s of useless service.

At any rate, that was the only use to which Morton's lot had been put for many years. It was called "The Lot." There was no danger of ambiguity in so speaking of it, any more than there was in speaking of Hazen's Lane as "The Lane." No one would have any doubt at all--no one in Sally's set, at least--as to what was referred to, in either case.

Sally looked out as she best could between the branches of her spruce.

She couldn't see much, only a little piece of the field at each opening. It was very unsatisfactory. She saw five or six boys, two of them large boys, bending over something which lay upon the ground.

Presently the group divided and the boys stood up; and she saw that what they had been working on was a huge kite of the old-fashioned six-sided kind. She saw, too, that the big boys were Everett Morton and d.i.c.k Torrington. At that moment the familiar figures of the Carling twins slipped through a break in the high picket fence from the other street. Immediately, Sally scrambled out of the spruce and ran up Box Elder Street. She had a heightened color, but that might have been due to the exertion of scrambling. It might not have been due to the exertion of scrambling. Scrambling was no unusual exertion for Sally.

Sally's rapid change of base was not because of the restricted view from the tree, although her view was restricted. And it was not because of the Carlings. The Carlings were her devoted slaves; but that fact was an annoyance to her rather than a gratification, and it is conceivable that the presence of the Carlings might have had weight in inducing her to put up with the inconveniences of a restricted view. The object of interest must therefore have been either Everett or d.i.c.k or the kite.

At her school Sally was in the fifth cla.s.s. They did not have forms or grades at that school. Grades are mysterious things which seem to run the wrong way, with no particular point of beginning and no particular ending. A man might be in the fiftieth grade if there were any teachers for it. There seems to be nothing to prevent. But when a boy graduates from the first cla.s.s, there is a point that brings you up short. Something vital must happen then; and the thing that happens is that the boy either goes to college or goes to work, for it is out of the question to go any farther in that school. You know it without being told.

The boys in Sally's school usually went to college when they graduated from the first cla.s.s. They were well prepared for it. Everett and d.i.c.k were in the first cla.s.s and they would go away to college in the fall, or, at least, they hoped that they would. There was some doubt about it, for d.i.c.k was rather dull and plodding and Everett was neither dull nor plodding. They were four years ahead of Sally. I cannot tell why she had chosen those two to look up to. It is doubtful whether she could have shown adequate cause either, always supposing that she would have been willing to acknowledge the fact.

d.i.c.k was the type of the nice English boy. Sally had never seen an English boy or an English man in her whole life; but that did not prevent her from forming an ideal of the type, to which d.i.c.k measured up in every particular. He had light hair and that curious brunette coloring that sometimes goes with it; he was invariably pleasant and polite and deliberate in his speech; and he was generally well dressed. Sally was particular about that, almost finicky. If d.i.c.k had shown a tendency to overdressing--but he didn't. He had an air of distinction. He also had a sister, Emily, who was in the second cla.s.s at school. Sally thought that Emily Torrington was the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. She could not imagine any girl more beautiful.

Everett was a great contrast to d.i.c.k in every respect. He had no sister. Everett was an only child and his family was very rich, so that he was in great danger of being spoiled. Not that it made any difference to Sally whether he was rich or not. And Everett was handsome, in quite a different way from d.i.c.k, and brilliant and dashing. In short, he was fascinating. Many others than Sally had found him so. It was quite likely that a woman would be more permanently happy and contented with d.i.c.k than with Everett. I do not mean to imply that Sally had ever indulged in any such reflection. She may have and she may not have; but he fascinated her, as he had fascinated those others of whom I spoke. He didn't know it. Everett Morton had never spoken to Sally. He had never even noticed her. d.i.c.k had in his good-natured, pleasant way, but d.i.c.k was always polite.

Everett was not--always.

So Sally's heart was beating a little rapidly when she pushed through the break in the fence. But she had been running, you remember, for a square and a half.

The big kite was up on end, with one of the smaller boys holding it.

It was a huge kite, nearly twice the height of the boy that held it and the top of it was a good foot above Everett's head as he stood in front of it; so big that they had a rope to fly it with, and the end of the rope was tied around Everett's waist. The smaller boys, of course, were cl.u.s.tered about the kite, the Carlings among them. Then d.i.c.k and Everett took the rope in their hands, called to the boy to let go, and began to run; and the kite rose, evenly at first, then twitching viciously from side to side. Then it hesitated for an instant, as the tail, dragging on the ground, caught around the legs of one of the Carlings. Sally had not yet become able to tell them apart, at any distance. She saw him struggle, go down with his feet in the air and with the tail of the kite still wrapped around them. She saw the other twin precipitate himself upon the fallen one, try vainly to undo the tail, then busy himself with one of his brother's shoes.

The kite suddenly soared, bearing aloft, tied firmly into its tail, a shoe.

The twins remained upon the ground, one pounding the other. Sally thought that the pounded one had already had punishment enough and she ran toward them.

"You j--jay!" cried the upper twin to the under twin, as she came near. "You b--b--b.u.m, you! D--don't you kn--know any b--b--better 'n t--to g--get c--c--caught th--that way? You--"

"Sh--sh--shut up," yelled the under twin, struggling wildly, "y--y--you r--r--rotten old b--beat! L--l--lemmeup!"

"Here," said Sally, imperatively, "let him up. Stop pounding him."

Harry stopped his pounding of Horry and both of the twins looked up, Harry with a sheepish grin and Horry with an expression of the most profound relief.

"S--S--Sally!" they began, in unison. "Oh, I ain't h--h--hurtin' 'im,"