Mrs. Chrisenberry followed her glance.

"Land, I don't ever touch it," she said, with a dry little nut-cracker chuckle. "My oldest boy he gave it to me, for he knows I'm that hungry for music, and whenever my daughter-in-law comes to visit she plays for me by the hour, and it's something grand. And now and then a neighbor will pick out a tune for me. My, don't I wish I could keep it goin' all the time! You girls don't play, I suppose?"

Sally Lou's eyes met Marian's with a quick question. Marian's cheeks grew hot.

"I--I play a little. But I'm sure that Mrs. Burford----"

"Mrs. Burford will play some other time," interrupted Sally Lou, hastily. "Go on, that's a good girl!"

Now, it bored Marian dismally to play for strangers. She refused so habitually that few of her friends knew what a delightful pianist she really was. But dimly she realized that Sally Lou's eyes were flashing with anxious command. She opened the piano.

She ran through the airs from the "Tales from Hoffmann," then played a romping folk-dance, and, at last, the lovely magic of the "Spring Song."

Mrs. Chrisenberry hardly breathed. She sat rigidly in her chair, her knotted little hands shut tight, her beady eyes unwinking.

"My, but that goes to the place," she sighed, as the last airy harmony died away. "Now I'll bring your cookies and milk, you lambs, and then you'd better be starting home. It looks like rain."

Marian and Sally Lou fell behind in the procession to the carriage.

Edward Junior toddled down the board walk, clinging to his hostess's skirt. Thomas Tucker laughed and gurgled in her arms. Mrs.

Chrisenberry put Thomas on Mammy's lap, then picked up Edward, who, loath to depart, squeezed her neck with warm, crumby little hands and snuggled his fat cheek to her own. Mrs. Chrisenberry looked down at him. Her grim little nut-cracker face quivered oddly. A dim pink warmed her brown, withered cheek.

"It's nice while they're little, isn't it?" she said, with a queer, wistful smile. "Though I da.s.sent complain. My boys are the best sons anybody ever had, and they treat me like a queen. Here, son, stop pulling my ears so hard; it hurts. Now, I'll send you a whole bowlful of mutton taller to-morrow; and a jar of goose-grease the very next rendering I make. Didn't you say you're living on the drainage job?

Well"--the dim pink grew bright in her cheek--"well, you tell your man that he kin go right ahead and cut his ditch through my land. I'll not stand in the way no longer. Though tell him that I'll expect him to see that his men don't tramp through my garden nor steal my watermelons. Mind that."

"I know I can promise that, always." Sally Lou's eyes were brown stars. "And thank you more than tongue can tell, Mrs. Chrisenberry.

You don't know what this will mean to my husband, and I never can tell you how much we shall appreciate your kindness. Packed in all right, Mammy? Come, Edward, son. Good-by!"

They drove away in the silence of utter, astonished joy.

"Your goose-grease worked that miracle, Sally Lou!"

"Nonsense! It was your music that carried the day. But oh, I was so afraid you were going to say no!"

Again Marian's cheeks flushed hot, with queer, vexed shame.

"Well, I did all but refuse. I do hate to play for anybody, especially for strangers."

"Why?" Sally Lou looked hopelessly puzzled. "But when it gives them so much pleasure! And besides, if you want a selfish reason, think how you have helped the boys. There they come now."

With a joyful call Sally Lou waved her scarf to the two figures plodding up the ca.n.a.l road. Then as the flimsy silk could not do justice to her feelings, she caught up little Thomas Tucker and flourished him, a somewhat ponderous banner. The boys hurried to meet them. They listened to the girls' excited tale, at first unbelieving, then with faces of amazement and relief.

"Well, you two girls deserve a diamond medal," declared Burford, heartily. His flushed, perturbed face brightened. "You don't know what a load you have taken off our shoulders." He looked at Roderick. "This is a real sterling-silver lining to our cloud, isn't it, Hallowell? So big that it fairly bulges out around the edges."

"A silver lining to what cloud, Ned?" demanded Sally Lou, promptly curious. "Has something gone wrong with the work? Another break in the machinery? Or trouble among the laborers, or what?"

The two boys looked at each other. Marian studied their faces. Burford was flushed and excited. Rod's stolid, dark face was frowning and intent.

"Own up!" commanded Sally Lou, sternly. "Don't you dare try to keep your dark and dreadful secrets from us!"

The boys laughed. But a quick warning glance flashed from one to the other. Then Burford spoke.

"Don't conjure up so many bogies, Sally Lou. We--we've had bad news from Mr. Carlisle. His doctor told me, over the long-distance, that he would not be able to leave the hospital for a fortnight. And he must not come back on the work for two months at the best."

Sally Lou sobered.

"That is bad news. Poor Mr. Carlisle! But is that all that you have to tell me, Ned?"

Burford jumped. He reddened a little.

"Y-yes, I reckon that's all. You girls will have to excuse us now.

Hallowell and I are going back to our boat-house to fix up our March reports."

"Anything we two can help about?"

"You two have put in a mighty good day's work in securing that right of way. Though if you're hunting for a job you might verify the yardage report I left on your desk. Run along now, we're going to be busy."

"Such is grat.i.tude," remarked Sally Lou, with ironic philosophy, as she drove away. "'Run along, we're busy.' Just like a boy!"

Roderick and Ned looked after the buckboard, a little shame-faced at Sally Lou's parting shot.

"Just the same, it does no good to tell them all our ill-luck," said Burford.

"And Marvin's threatening to quit is even worse luck than Carlisle's illness. For his quarrel with the foreman has started half a dozen quarrels among the workmen. Queer, isn't it? A grouch like that will spread like wild-fire through a whole camp."

"Marvin is waiting on the house-boat for us this minute." Ned peered through a telescope of his hands. "Now we'll listen to a tale of woe!"

Marvin did not wait till they could reach the boat. His angry voice rang out across the ca.n.a.l.

"Well, _Mister_ Hallowell! I just got the note that you so kindly sent me. So you and Mr. Burford here think that I ought to stand by the job, hey, 'and not let my private quarrels influence me into deserting the contract?' Thank you, _Mister_ Hallowell, for your kind advice. But I rather guess I can get along without any orders from either of you two swells. No, nor criticisms, either."

"We're not giving orders, and you know that, Marvin." Rod spoke sharply. "But you're never going to throw down your billet just because of a two-cent fuss with the foreman. Think what a hole you'd leave the company in! Carlisle sick, high water holding back our freight, coal shipments stalled, everything tied up----"

"And you're directly responsible to the company for that berm construction," broke in Burford hotly. "You know well enough that we can't watch that work and oversee the ditch-cutting at one and the same time. You're not going to sneak out and play quitter----"

"I'm going to play quitter, as you call it, whenever I choose. That happens to be right now. You two silk-stockings can like it, or lump it. Mulcahy!" he yelled to the camp commissary man, who was just starting down the ca.n.a.l in his launch on his way to Grafton for supplies. "Wait, I'm going with you. Here, take this."

He bolted into his cabin, then dashed back, carrying a heavy suit-case. He heaved it into the launch, then sprang in beside the open-mouthed steward.

"Now, I'm off!" He blazed the words at the two boys staring from the bank. "You can run this contract to suit yourselves, gentlemen. I'll send my resignation direct to the company. I don't have to take orders from you two swells another hour. Good-morning, gentlemen!"

The steward grinned sheepishly at sight of his superior officer behaving himself like a s.p.u.n.ky small boy. With a rueful nod toward Roderick he headed the launch down the ca.n.a.l.

Burford expressed himself with some vim.

"Well, he's gone. Good riddance, I call it. The surly hound!"

"I don't know about that," muttered Rod. "It was my fault, maybe, writing him that letter. I was too high and mighty, I suppose."