"Let's take the bones out of these green wicket-things, and lay the vines straight across the table. They'll get into the eats, likely, but we can't stop for that. Can't you do anything with that gridiron ajar? I should think the stuff on it would look all right around a low bowl of roses."

"Maybe it would," said Winona with renewed courage, and set to work stripping it while Billy took the supports from the smilax arches, and laid it flat, with an occasional rose at intervals. They found a low, wide bowl that, filled with roses, and wound with smilax, made an excellent centerpiece.

Winona stepped back to view the general effect with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Billy! I'll remember this afternoon of you to the longest day I live!"

she said.

"Billy! We want you!" called Louise from the kitchen in a smothered voice. Winona would have gone, too, for she was sure she heard giggles, but just at this moment Clay came in, and his inability to understand why he shouldn't add a wide red cheese-cloth sash to his white ap.r.o.n drove everything else out of her head. By the time she had argued him out of it the others were back, suspiciously grave.

"Not here yet!" sighed Louise. "I feel as if I couldn't wait to have them taste my stuffing! Let's go into the living-room and sing, or go out back and play tag, or something."

"Dar dey is!" shouted Clay, running to the window.

The rest rushed, too, and looked over his woolly head.

"A big one and a little one and a middle-sized wife, like the Three Bears," commented Winona. "They're coming in by the front way. Oh--"

That was because the fritter-sauce boiled over just as the guests were ushered in. Both the girls forgot their manners, and ran to the kitchen to rescue it. So only Tom and Billy were in the living-room to be introduced.

"My wife and daughter will be here presently," said Mr. Merriam, who had evidently forgotten that Mrs. Merriam was expected to stay away till about nine. "Tom, will you run up and tell your mother and Winona that our friends are here?"

But even as he spoke Winona, a little breathless, but trained, psyche-knotted and eye-gla.s.sed, appeared in the doorway with Louise behind her. She came in with an air of dignity which her mother could not have bettered, and greeted her guests regally, in her excitement forgetting to wait for an introduction.

Not so Tom.

"My step-mother, and my sister," he whispered in the ear of Mr. Driggs, the tall minister, who promptly addressed Winona as "Mrs. Merriam."

Winona thought he said "Miss," and went on talking excitedly about everything she could think of. Her father was deep in conversation with Mr. Donne, the other guest, who was a cla.s.smate of his. Tom's murmured "Mother isn't home yet-Winona's managing things--" scarcely stopped the flood of reminiscences.

"I never heard that your father had a second wife," remarked Mrs. Driggs to Louise, who had selected her to talk to.

"It's quite recent," said Louise sadly; and Mrs. Driggs did not ask any more questions.

Before things got more complicated Clay announced dinner in an awestruck voice, and fled instead of holding aside the portieres for the guests, as he had been instructed. He had a good deal on his mind, for he could not read very well yet, so they had had to sketch each particular thing with a pencil, and pin the series of pictures against the wall in their order as they were to come. The pictures of the oysters and the sweet potatoes were very much alike, and, as Clay confided to Winona afterward, they worried him considerably.

Winona seated her guests with the same dignity which had been hers ever since the train had; and led the conversation in the ways it should go, n.o.bly a.s.sisted by Billy. It appeared Billy could talk like a grown-up person of forty when he wanted to-which wasn't often, for Billy was a rather silent person ordinarily. Tom and Louise were never, either of them, troubled by shyness, and except that they seemed to laugh a little more than the facts warranted they were just as usual.

Every course, from old Mrs. Johnson's stolen bouillon to the black coffee, came on in its proper place and was eaten with enthusiasm. As the third course came on without mishap, Winona began to relax, and by the end of the dinner was quite at ease. Mr. Donne, beside her, was liking his dinner so much that for quite awhile Winona did not have to do any talking. When he did talk it was about Ladies' Aid Societies. Now Mrs. Merriam was the President of the Ladies' Aid of her church, not to speak of various things that she held minor offices in, and she was quite an authority. Mr. Donne had been told this, and he thought he was talking to Winona about something she was an authority on. Winona was rather bewildered, for she had never attended a Ladies' Aid meeting in her life, and like the inventor of the Purple Cow, till she was grown up "never hoped to see one." Nevertheless she struck out valiantly, and was getting on fairly well when Mrs. Driggs's voice struck across the general tide of talk.

"Mrs. Merriam," she said, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but I never can eat fish without a sprinkle of nutmeg. Could you have a little grated on this delicious bit for me?"

"Why, yes!" said Winona cordially. "Clay--!"

"Hit ain' none, Miss Winnie," interrupted the small servant in a distressed whisper.

"Then go borrow one at Mrs. Lee's, and hurry!" whispered Winona.

"Anything, so you only get it and have it for Mrs. Driggs's fish."

Clay looked black for a moment. Then a comprehensive grin dawned on his face. He trotted out with Mrs. Driggs's fish, and brought it back again a few moments later, liberally nutmegged and very much to the lady's taste. She ate it all and was happy.

"You seem to have no difficulty in keeping discipline in your family and among your step-children, Mrs. Merriam," said Mr. Donne, almost directly after the nutmeg episode. "You must seem more like a sister than a mother to these tall young people."

Winona was struck dumb with astonishment for a moment. She looked across at Tom, who looked back at her imploringly. She could see what had happened out in the kitchen, that time that the three others had been there alone and giggling. But this was no time to have a scene. She braced herself and settled her gla.s.ses more firmly, after one reproachful look at the three culprits, whose faces were tense with apprehension.

"Yes," she replied quietly, talking, as Tom afterwards said, like a seraph, "They do seem like that. They are charming children, really."

Mr. Donne went on talking about it. Winona went on replying with serene dignity. Even when he praised the cook she took it serenely, and when the Ladies' Aid came in sight again she called to mind a visit from the secretary at which she had been present, and quite overwhelmed Mr. Donne with particulars.

Mrs. Driggs had been a little quiet and hard to talk to at the beginning of the meal, but Billy-Billy the quiet, Billy the shy among his own kind-proved to have the art of talking to grown people down to a fine point. He not only kept his end up, but he steered n.o.bly away from risky questions of relationship, and other such perilous topics.

"It certainly gives you confidence to be a married woman!" thought Winona, as she excused herself and went to see about unpacking the ice-cream. Clay's performance so far had been perfect, but she did not trust anybody but herself to get the cream successfully out of the freezer, without getting salt into it.

"Where did you find that nutmeg, Clay?" she asked curiously, as they arranged the cakes and ice-cream, and put melted chocolate in a pitcher.

"Law, Miss Winnie," said Clay, his smile nearly coiling itself around his ears, "I done tole you hit wasn't none. I des took dis yere ole wooden b.u.t.ton-hook what hangs on a nail here, an' grate a li'l bit of it off. De minister's wife she never know de diffunce."

Winona caught her breath, but this was no time to be overcome. The dessert had to be served. They were all laughing at something Louise was saying, when she came back. "I wonder if they would look so happy if I told them about the nutmeg!" she couldn't help thinking, but it did not seem a very good thing to tell anyone, just then-although it was too good to keep always. The Camp Fire heard about it afterward.

Coffee, cheese, nuts and raisins, all appeared and disappeared, and then Winona led her sated guests out on the porch. She felt triumphantly virtuous. The dinner had been good straight through, the talk had gone smoothly, and the company seemed very happy and pleased. She sat down by Mrs. Driggs and went on talking. She was going on prosperously when Mr.

Donne's voice, from the other end of the porch, stopped Mrs. Driggs's account of her last maid.

"How long did you say you had been married, Mrs. Merriam?" he inquired.

"Married?" echoed Winona desperately, trying to think of a way out.

She was spared giving her answer. There was a sound of footsteps and wheels within the house, and Mrs. Merriam's wheel-chair, propelled by Florence, appeared in the doorway.

"I got back sooner than I thought I should, Frances," said the real Mrs.

Merriam's cheerful voice. "Florence came over and told me that our friends were here, so I had her wheel me back as soon as I'd had my supper. We didn't get home from the ride till a little while ago, and I couldn't get here for the meal."

Winona did not wait to hear more. There was a long open window at her back. One spring-and all that remained to tell the tale of "young Mrs.

Merriam" was an overturned porch-chair and the distant sound of a tearing garment. Up in her room, pulling down her hair and slipping on her fresh middy-blouse and white skirt, Winona heard the laughter, and knew the others were being forgiven, and the whole tale told.

"Anyway!" she said to herself as she took off her gla.s.ses, shook down her hair, washed her hot face and prepared to walk downstairs and meet the family. "Anyway, that couldn't have been a better dinner if I'd been married sixteen times!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"This paying for deceased poultry," said Tom, "is getting monotonous.

First there were those pedigreed geese up on the river, and now Henry. I know Henry never cost as much as the Janeways say he did."

"I think we're paying for all it cost to send him to prep school and college," suggested Louise, who was staying over a day. "You forget that Henry was intellectual."

"He was tough," agreed Tom, "if that's any sign! So was paying for him."

"Oh, Tommy dear!" said Winona penitently. "Henry was really my fault. I oughtn't to let you join in with me. I can pay for Henry very well alone."