She brought the mop and wiped up the milk, then went soberly to change her dress, wondering how the mistress would make her breakfast without the milk-toast which was usually all she could fancy in the morning.

Sue had already forgotten the milk. She ran on across the yard, where the dew lay thick and bright, to a small building that stood under a spreading apple-tree. It had been a shed once, and its general effect was still, Sue admitted, "a little sheddy"; but the door was very fine, being painted a light pea-green, the panels picked out with scarlet, and having a really splendid door-plate of bright tin, with "S. PENROSE" in black letters. Some white pigeons sat on the roof sunning themselves, and they fluttered down about the girl's head as she tried the door.

"Dear me!" said Sue. "How stupid of me to lock the door last night! I might have known I should forget the key this morning. Never mind; I can get in at the window."

She could, and did; but, catching her dress on a nail, tore a long, jagged rent in the skirt.

"Dear me!" said Sue, again. "And I don't believe there is another clean one, since I spilt the ink last night. Never mind!"

Sue ran up the narrow stairs, and, crossing a landing, entered a tiny room, papered with gay posters. There was plenty of room for the little table and two chairs, and if a third person should come in she could sit on the table. A narrow shelf ran all round the room. This was the Museum, and held specimens of every bird's nest in the neighboring country (all old nests; if Sue had caught any one robbing a nest, or stealing a new one, it would have gone hard with that person), and sh.e.l.ls and fossils from the clay bank near the river. The boys played "Prehistoric Man" there a good deal, and sometimes they let Sue and Mary join them, which was great glory. Then there was smoked gla.s.s for eclipses (Sue smoked them after the last eclipse, a year ago, so as to be ready for the next one; but the next one was only the moon, which was tiresome, because you didn't need smoked gla.s.s), and a dried rattlesnake, and a portrait of Raphael framed in lobster-claws. Sue did not look at these treasures now, because she knew they were all there; but if any "picknickle or bucknickle" had been missing, she would have known it in an instant. Flinging herself into a chair, she hunted for a piece of paper; found one, but rejected it in favor of a smooth, thin sheet of birch bark, on which she wrote as follows:

"DEAREST JULIET: It is the east, and thou art the sun, and it's time to get up. I pray thee, wake, sweet maid! This white bird, less snowy than thy neck, bears thee my morning greeting. Do hurry up and dress! Isn't this day perfectly fine? Sha'n't we have a glorious picnic? What are you going to wear? My cake is just lovely! I burned the first one, so this isn't angel, it's b.u.t.tercup, because I had to take the yolks. Star of my night, send back a message by the bird of love to thy adored

"ROMEO."

Hastily folding the note into a rather tipsy c.o.c.ked hat, Sue opened a little door upon a ladder-like staircase, and called: "Coo! coo!

coo!"

Down fluttered the pigeons, a dozen or more, and taking one in her hands, she fastened a note to a bit of ribbon that hung round its neck.

"There!" she said. "Oh, you dear darlings! I must give you your corn before I do another thing."

The corn was in a little covered bin on the landing at the head of the stairs. This landing was called the anteroom, and was fully as large as a small table-cloth. Sue scattered the corn with a free hand, and the pigeons cooed, and scrambled for it as only pigeons can. She kept one good handful to feed the messenger bird, and several others perched on her shoulders and thrust their soft heads into her hand.

"Dear things!" said Sue, again. "Zuleika, do you love me? Do you, Leila and Ha.s.san? Oh, I wonder if I look like Lili, in the Goethe book! If I were only tall, and had a big white hat and a long white gown with ruffles, I think perhaps--"

She stopped short, for a voice was calling from below: "Sue, Sue, where are you?"

Sue's face, which had been as bright as Lili's own, fell.

"Oh, Mary Hart!" she cried. "How could you?"

"How could I what?" and Mary's rosy face looked up from the foot of the staircase.

"Why, I supposed you were still sound asleep, and I was just going to send a pigeon over. See! The note is all fastened on; and it's a Romeo note, too; and now you have spoiled it all!"

"Not a bit!" said Mary, cheerfully. "I'll run right back, Sue. I am only walking in my sleep. Look! see me walk!"

She stretched her arms out stiffly, and stalked away, holding her head high and staring straight in front of her. Sue observed her critically.

"You're doing it more like Lady Macbeth than Juliet!" she called after her. "But still it's fine, Mary, only you ought to glare harder, I think. Mind you stay asleep till the pigeon comes. It's Abou Ha.s.san the wag" (the pigeons were named out of the "Arabian Nights"), "so you might give him a piece of apple, if you like, Juliet."

"No apples in Verona at this season!" said Juliet, in a sleep-walking voice (which is a loud, sepulchral monotone, calculated to freeze the blood of the listener). "I don't suppose hard-boiled egg would hurt him!" Then she snored gently, and disappeared round the corner.

"That was clever of Mary," said Sue. "I wish I walked in my sleep really and truly, like that funny book Mr. Hart has about Sylvester Sound. It would be splendid to be able to walk over the housetops and never fall, and never know anything about it till you woke up and found yourself somewhere else. And then, in that opera Mamma told me about, she walked right out of the window, and all kinds of things happened. It must be dreadfully exciting. But if I did walk in my sleep, I would always go to bed with my best dress on, only I'd have my feet bare and my hair down. Dear me! There's that gray cat, and I know she is after my pigeons! Just wait a minute, you cat!"

Sue dismissed the pigeons gently, and they fluttered obediently up to their cote, while she ran downstairs. Sure enough, a wicked-looking gray cat was crouching on a branch of the apple-tree, watching with hungry eyes the few birds that had remained on the roof. The cat did not see Sue, or, at all events, took no notice of her. Sue slipped round to the farther side of the tree and began to climb up silently.

It was an easy tree to climb, and she knew every k.n.o.b and knot that was comfortable for the foot to rest on. Soon she was on a level with the roof of the pigeon-house, and, peeping round the bole, saw the lithe gray body flattened along the bough, and the graceful, wicked-looking tail curling and vibrating to and fro. The pretty, stupid pigeons cooed and preened their feathers, all unconscious of the danger; another minute, and the fatal spring would come. Sue saw the cat draw back a little and stiffen herself. She sprang forward with a shout, caught the branch, missed it--and next moment Sue and cat were rolling on the ground together in a confused heap. Poor p.u.s.s.y (who could not understand why she might not have pigeons raw, when other people had them potted) fled, yowling with terror, and never stopped till she was under the kitchen stove, safe from bright-eyed, shouting avalanches. Sue picked herself up more slowly, and rubbed her head and felt for broken bones.

"I _won_'t have broken anything," she said, "and spoil the picnic. Ow!

that hurts; but I can wiggle it all right. I'll put some witch-hazel on it. My head seems to be a little queer!" Indeed, a large lump was already "swellin' wisibly" on her forehead. "Never mind!" said Sue.

"I'll put arnica on that, and vinegar and brown paper and things; perhaps it'll be all right by breakfast-time; and anyhow, I drove off the cat!" And she shook herself, and went cheerfully into the house.

Punctually at nine o'clock the three girls met on the door-step of the Penrose house, each carrying her basket. They were a curious contrast as they stood side by side. Clarice Packard was gaily dressed in a gown of figured challis, trimmed with rows on rows of ribbon, and a profusion of yellow lace. Her vast hat was tilted on one side, and her light hair was tormented into little flat curls that looked as if they were pinned on, though this was not the case. She had on a brooch, a gold chain, a locket, seven charms, five "stick-pins," four hat-pins, three bracelets, and eight rings; and, as Mary said to herself, she was "a sight to behold." If Clarice, on the other hand, had been asked to describe Mary, she would probably have called her a red-faced dowdy. As a rule, people did not think Mary Hart pretty; but every one said, "What a _nice_-looking girl!" And, indeed, Mary was as pleasant to look at as clear red and white--and freckles!--could make her, with the addition of a very sweet smile, and a pair of clear, honest, sensible blue eyes. Her brown holland frock was made in one piece, like a child's pinafore, and, worn with a belt of russet leather, made a costume of such perfect comfort that she and Sue had vowed to keep to it till they were sixteen, if their mothers would let them. Sue was not in brown holland to-day, because she had torn her last clean pinafore dress, as we have seen; but the blue gingham sailor-suit did well enough, and the blouse was very convenient to put apples in, or anything else from a tame squirrel to a bird's nest. Just now it held a cocoanut and some bananas that would not go into the basket, and that gave the light, fly-away figure a singular look indeed.

But Sue's bright face was clouded just now. She stood irresolute, swinging her basket, and looking from one to the other of her companions.

"Mother says we must take Lily!" she announced in a discontented tone.

"I don't see how we can be bothered with having her. She'll want to know everything we are talking about, and we sha'n't have half so much fun."

Clarice looked sympathetic. "Children are such a nuisance!" she said, and shrugged her shoulders. "Seems to me they ought to know when they are not wanted."

"Nonsense, Sue!" said Mary, ignoring the last speech. "Of course we will take Lily; she'll be no trouble at all, and she will help a good deal with the wreaths and baskets. I'll see to her," she added, a little pang of bitterness mingling with one of self-reproach. She had not always wanted to take Lily when she and Sue were together. They always had so much to say to each other that was extremely important, and that no one else could possibly understand, that a third in the party, and that third a child of nine, seemed sadly in the way. Now, however, all was changed. Somehow, it was herself who was the third.

Perhaps Lily's presence would be a relief to-day.

Presently the little girl came running out, all beaming with delight at being allowed to go on the big girls' picnic.

"Mother has given me a whole bottle of raspberry shrub!" she announced joyfully.

"Hurrah!" cried Sue, her face brightening again. "We can have toasts, and that will be splendid. Now let's start, girls! Come, Clarice. Let me carry your basket; it's heavy, and I can carry two just as well as one."

"Start!" echoed Clarice. "We are not going to walk, are we?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC.]

"Why, yes," said Sue, looking a little blank. "Don't you--aren't you fond of walking, Clarice? We always walk, Mary and I."

"Oh, certainly; I adore walking. Only, if I had known, Puppa would have sent the team for us. Is it far?" And Clarice glanced down at her shoes, with their paper soles and high heels.

"No," said Sue, cheerily. "Only a little bit of a way, not more than a mile. Oh, Clarice, what a lovely brooch that is! Won't you tell me about it as we go along? I am sure there is a story about it; there's something so exciting about all your things. Do tell me."

Clarice simpered and cast down her eyes, then cast a significant glance at the others. She took Sue's arm, and they walked on together, one listening eagerly, the other evidently pouring out some romantic story. Mary took Lily's hand in hers.

"Come, Lily," she said; "we will go together, and I'll tell you a story as we go. What one would you like? 'Goosey, Gobble, and Ganderee'? Very well!" But to herself Mary was saying: "I don't believe that girl ever walked a mile in her life. We shall have to carry her before we get to the Glen!"

CHAPTER V

THE PICNIC

Clarice Packard was indeed in rather a sad plight before they reached the Glen. Part of the road was sandy, and her high heels sank into the sand and made it hard walking for her, while her companions, in their broad-soled "sneakers," trod lightly and st.u.r.dily. Then, too, she had from time to time a st.i.tch in her side, which forced her to sit down and rest for some minutes. Mary, looking at her tiny, wasp-like waist, thought it was no wonder. "Her belt is too tight," she whispered to Sue. "Of course she can't walk. Tell her to let it out two or three holes, and she will be all right."

"Oh, hush, Mary," whispered Sue. "It isn't that at all; it's only that she is so delicate. I ought never to have brought her all this way.

She has been telling me about the fainting-fits she has sometimes. Oh, what should we do if she had one now!"

"Pour some water over her," said downright Mary. "But don't worry, Sue; we are nearly there, and it really _cannot_ hurt her to walk one short mile, you know."