Elizabeth came out of her own revery at the sound of Peace's gusty sigh of longing, and readily gave her consent, as this was Sat.u.r.day morning and school did not keep. So, like a bird trying its wings after a long imprisonment, the brown-eyed maid with arms flapping and curls bobbing, skipped happily across the road to the field where she had helped the minister plant a little vegetable garden, and which already was lined with irregular rows of pale green shoots where beans and potatoes, turnips and cabbages, had pushed their way up through the black earth.

Peace was even prouder of the small truck patch than the preacher himself, if such a thing were possible, and it was a favorite pastime of both these gardeners to walk back and forth between the rows each day and count the tender sprouts which had appeared during the night. So this morning from force of habit, Peace strolled up and down the length of the garden, counting in a sing-song fashion as she greedily filled nostrils and lungs with the sweet scent of the lilac bushes just beyond, drawing nearer and nearer the hedge with its delicate, dainty sprays.

Unconsciously her counting changed into the humming refrain of the Gleaner's motto song, and she danced lightly down the last row of crisp cornblades, joyously chanting words which fitted into the happy music: "Oh, you pretty lilacs, growing by the wall! How I'd like to have you for my very own. I would pick your blossoms, lavender and white, and give them all to sick folks, shut in from the light.--Why, that rhymed all of its own self!"

She paused abruptly beside the lilac bushes, her arms still uplifted and fingers outstretched as if beckoning to the plumy sprays above her Head.

"Isn't it queer how such things will happen when if I'd been trying to make poetry in my dairy I couldn't have thought of those words for an hour? I guess it was the lilacs that did it. Oh, you are so beautiful!

You'd make anything rhyme, wouldn't you? What is it that gives you your sweetness? I wish you could tell me the secret. Oh, you lovely lilacs, growing up so high; swinging in the sunshine--" Again her made-up words came to a sudden end, and she stood motionless, her head c.o.c.ked to one side, listening intently to a brilliant trill of melody from the other side of the hedge.

"There goes my bird again! Saint John says it must be a canary which b'longs to the stone house that owns these lilacs, but I don't b'lieve it would sing like that if it was shut up in a cage."

She held her breath again to harken to the music, then puckered her lips and mocked its song. The feathered musician broke off in the midst of his rhapsody, surprised at the strange echo of his own notes. There was a moment of silence; then he began again, and once more Peace mimicked the warbler. This time there was a stir on the other side of the bushes, and the purple-ta.s.seled branches were cautiously parted where the foliage was thinnest, but Peace was too much absorbed in watching the topmost boughs--for the music seemed to come from overhead somewhere--to see the startled eyes looking at her through the tangle of leaves and blossoms. All unconscious of her hidden audience, she joyously trilled the canary bird's chorus.

Then miracle of miracles--or so it seemed to Peace--there was a whir of wings, and a bright-eyed, yellow-coated, saucy, little bird perched on a twig just above her head. Peace gasped and was silent.

The bird chirped a note of defiance and hopped to the branch below.

Peace advanced a cautious step; the canary did not retreat, but tipped its dainty head sidewise and eyed the child curiously. A small brown hand shot out unexpectedly, dexterously, and the yellow songster found itself a helpless prisoner in the child's tight grasp.

Peace was almost as surprised as the bird. She had not really thought to capture the creature so easily, and to find it in her hand sent a thrill of delight through her whole being. She snuggled it close in her neck and crooned:

"You little darling! Saint John was right, you _are_ a canary! But I was right, too. You ain't caged. I'm mighty glad I've caught you. I always did like pets. I wonder what you will think of m.u.f.fet, grandma's canary?

If I just had these lovely lilacs now, little birdie, I'd be perfectly happy. But a bird in the hand is worth--a whole bushel of blossoms. I guess I'll take you home to Elspeth--"

"Oh, you mustn't!" cried a distressed voice behind the purple ta.s.sels.

"That is my bird, Gypsy. I just let him loose to see if it was really you mocking him. Bring him home, won't you? And I'll give you all the lilacs you want."

Startled at the sound of a human voice almost at her elbow when she could see no sign of the speaker, Peace let go her hold on the frightened captive, and with a relieved chirp, it flew out of sight among the thick branches. But she made no attempt to follow its flight, she was too scared. "Are--are--was it a real woman which did that talking?" chattered Peace, wetting her lips with her tongue.

"Yes," answered the voice, with just the tinge of a laugh in it. "I live in the stone house this side of the lilac bushes. I saw you through the leaves and heard what you said, but won't you please bring my little Gypsy home? I'll give you all the flowers you want. Go down to the road and come in through the front gate. I am here in my chair."

"Your bird has gone home already," Peace answered, rea.s.sured by this explanation. "But I'll come and get those lilacs you spoke about."

She ran nimbly down the length of the lilac hedge, dodged out of sight around the corner, and appeared the next moment at the iron gate which shut out the street from the grand stone house with its wide lawns, great oaks, smooth, flower-bordered walks, and splashing fountain.

"Oh, how beau-ti-ful!" cried the child in delight, as the gate swung shut behind her. "I've always wanted to know what this place looked like, but the tall hedge all along the fence is too thick to see through and one can get only a teenty peek through the gate. There is your bird on top of its cage now. See, I didn't keep him, though I'd like to. He is a splendid singer. I sh'd think you'd be the happiest lady in the whole world with all these lovely flowers and--are you a lady?"

For the first time since entering the great gate, Peace turned her big, brown eyes full upon the occupant of the reclining chair in the shade of the lilac bushes, and her lively chatter faltered, for the face pillowed among the silken cushions seemed neither a child's nor yet a woman's. The eyes, intensely blue and clear, the broad, high forehead, the thin cheeks and colorless lips, even the heavy braids of brown hair with their auburn lights, did not seem to belong to a mere mortal. And yet she could not be an angel, for even Peace's youthful, untrained mind swiftly read the bitterness and rebellion which lurked in those deep, wonderful eyes. It was as if some doomed soul were looking out through the bars of a prison fortress, without a single ray of hope to break the gloom, without a single thought to cheer or comfort. And so Peace, in her childish ignorance, asked, "Are you a lady?"

"A woman grown," the sweet voice answered, and a faint smile of amus.e.m.e.nt flitted across the marble-white face.

"Your--your hair is in braids," stammered Peace, unable to put her subtle feelings into words.

"It is more restful that way," the speaker sighed; then again that fleeting smile lighted up the beautiful features, and holding out her hand to the puzzled child, she said coaxingly, "Tell me about yourself.

Is it really you who whistles so divinely in the garden each morning? I have heard it so often but never could locate it before. Aunt Pen thought it must be another canary at the parsonage. It always seemed to come from that direction."

"That's 'cause Saint John and I live there. He whistles, too, though I do it the best."

"Saint John?" The flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt became a genuine smile.

"That's the new preacher of Hill Street Church. He used to be our minister in Parker and he lets me call him by his front name when we are alone, but it was so easy to forget and do it when we weren't alone that I named him _Saint_ John, 'cause Faith says he is my pattern--no patron saint. I call Elizabeth Saint Elspeth, too, for the same reason. She is his wife."

"But I thought you were their little girl."

"Mercy, no! They ain't old enough to have a little girl my age yet. Glen is their only children. I'm just visiting."

"You have been with them ever since they came here, haven't you?"

"Almost. They were a week ahead of me. They moved in from Parker last March, the very week before our spring vacation from school, and they begged grandpa so hard to let me come and help them settle that he said I might. Then Allee got the scarlet fever, so I had to stay for a time.

Just as she was getting well so they 'xpected to _fumergate_ 'most any day, Cherry went to work and caught it, and now Hope is in bed. There are two more yet to have it, 'nless you count me, and I ain't going to get it. I don't think Gail and Faith will, either, 'cause they have been staying with Frances Sherrar ever since the doctor decided he knew what ailed Allee. Anyway, they had it when they were little."

"What quaint names!" murmured the lady, softly repeating them one by one.

"Yes, they are, but as it ain't our fault, we've quit fretting about 'em. Our grandfather was a minister, and he named us--all but Gail and Allee. Papa named the oldest, and mamma named the youngest. Grandpa fixed up all the rest."

The ludicrous look of resignation in the small round face was too much for the questioner, and she burst into a rippling peal of laughter, so hearty that a much older woman popped a surprised face out of the door to see what was the matter. Peace caught a glimpse of her as she vanished within doors once more, and demanded, "Who is that?"

"Aunt Pen."

"That's a quaint name, too. I'd as soon be called 'pencil'," she retaliated.

"It isn't very common these days," smiled the woman. "The real name is Penelope, but I shortened it to 'Pen.' Poor Aunt Pen, she has a hard time of it."

"Why? I sh'd think it would be easy work living in such a beautiful place as this."

"A beautiful place isn't everything in life," came the bitter retort, and the rebellious look clouded the lovely eyes once more.

"No, it ain't," Peace acknowledged; "but it's a whole lot. Just s'posing you had to live in a mite of an ugly house without nice things to eat or wear and with no father or mother to take care of you, and a mortgage you couldn't pay, and an old skinflint of a man ready to slam you outdoors and gobble up the farm, furniture and everything, the minute the mortgage was due. How'd you like that?"

"Have you no father or mother?" The voice was very soft and sweet again, and the blue eyes glowed tenderly.

Peace shook her head. "They are both inside the gates."

"Then who takes care of you?"

"Grandpa Campbell, what was adopted by my own grandpa when he was a boy."

"Tell me about it, won't you, dear?"

So Peace related the pathetic story of the two souls who had gone into the Great Beyond, leaving the helpless orphan band to battle by themselves; of the struggle the little brown house had witnessed; of the tramp who came begging his breakfast, and afterwards proved to be the beloved President of the University; and of the beautiful change which had come in their fortunes when he had adopted the whole flock.

When she had finished her recital there were tears in the blue eyes, and the white-faced lady murmured compa.s.sionately, "Poor little sisters!

There are so many orphans in this big world."

Something in her tone and the far-away expression of her eyes impelled Peace to say with conviction, "You are an orphan, too."

"Yes, child."

"Since you were a little girl?"