Bess’s coming launched the procession. People in the vicinity who had not before known of the presence of a circus, knew it now. Everybody talked at once, and every living thing made its own kind of a noise. Billy as Master of Ceremonies had his hands full, his voice full too, one might say.,
“Miss Gordon done it, I know,” whispered Betty, clasping and unclasping her hands, “she’s not a school-teacher at orl, she’s jist a fairy growed up, an’ Mar’s a fairy godmother!”,
Which last order was the signal for a giddy frolic. Finally, “Everybody promenade, you know where,” and the dancers joined the spectators on the benches.,
May Nell looked at him a minute before speaking. “You like doing things, but you don’t like work. Isn’t work doing things?”
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Vina was no exception. Ball games, church collections, children’s mite societies, girls sewing, boys running errands, each and all helped with the relief work.,
“It came to me feet foremost, I guess, and soaked the quilt in instalments. I had a tough dream, too; couldn’t wake up in the middle. I dreamed I was on a ship in a bang-up storm, and the vessel lunged like a bucking horse.”,
“Oh, no; she must be Jean.”,
With a boy’s cunning and swiftness Billy made a running creep through the underbrush up the steep mountain side. From a peephole higher up he stopped, breathless, and watched them beat the chaparral round about where he had stood; saw them go down into the road, look each way, turn and scan the mountain; and at last slink off, one to the house, the other to the vineyard.
He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—
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“He was a real little cat Moses, wasn’t he? And you—you must be Pharaoh’s son instead of daughter.” The child laughed and clapped her hands.
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It was evident that great care had been exercised over Betty’s gift. She exclaimed joyously over a Cyclamen, whose pale pink blooms brought the flush of delight to her cheeks; a bag of peppermint bulls’ eyes elicited a like degree of appreciation.
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“It certainly is wonderful,” agreed Nell with perfect truth.
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Halin-Chen Response,
>“It was all splendid; and, Billy, I never dreamed it was in you! Sister’s operetta would have been a failure if it hadn’t been for you.”
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