doctor hugh snapped on the porch lamp, carefully turning the shade to shield rosemary's eyes from the sudden light. he was fully dressed and had evidently been dozing in the swing.
"hush—don't wake mother!" he said warningly. "what frightened you, dear?"
rosemary's face was quite white and her wide, startled eyes gave eloquent testimony that she had been alarmed.
"something wet touched me—wet and cold," she whispered. "and there was something else moving around, too. i ran as fast as i could."
"some of the farm animals out for a stroll," said doctor hugh with a quiet assurance that his sister found most comforting. "what do you say to going to bed now, dear, and investigating in the morning?"
"oh, yes," agreed rosemary. "is it nearly morning, hugh?"
the doctor consulted his watch.
"it is just eleven o'clock," he said quietly. "try not to make a noise as you go upstairs for i hope mother is asleep. i'll turn the lamp so that it will light you as far as the landing."
so she had been out there only two hours, thought rosemary as she tumbled into her own bed. two hours!
"it seemed like two years!" she murmured, drifting off into a peaceful sleep almost instantly.
she woke in the morning to find the others downstairs, breakfast over and all traces of her couch under the maple tree removed.
"i know hugh did that," she said to herself gratefully as she dressed. her first act had been to run to the window to see if the quilt was spread out on the grass. "he'll never give me away, either. and i know, too, he would have stayed out on the porch all night, if i hadn't come in, just so he would be on hand to help me when i needed him. hugh is so dear to me!"
she said something of this to him late that afternoon, following him out to the barn when he went to get the car, preparatory to making the trip back to eastshore. sarah and shirley had remained in ignorance of the brief experiment and winnie had proved extremely tactful, asking no questions at all. rosemary had learned, from the conversation of warren and richard, that a cow had strayed from the pasture and a blind old sheep had cropped the grass all night. it had been the wet nose of the cow that touched her hand and she had clumsily dodged the sheep.
"you're so good, hugh," said rosemary, pretending to polish the foredoor handle. "but i won't want to sleep outdoors ever again—did you know i wouldn't?"
doctor hugh smiled a little.
"we'll all go camping some day and you'll 'love' sleeping outdoors, as you say," he declared. "my dear little sister, i would be the last person to try to discourage you in that effort. but mother knew and winnie knew and i knew that, for a number of reasons, it isn't practical for you to try to sleep outdoors here; neither practical nor necessary. it wasn't a matter of sleeping outdoors, rosemary—it was just the same old question, 'why can't i have my own way?' now wasn't it?"
rosemary blushed, but her eyes met his honestly.
"yes, i guess it was," she admitted. "but i'm sorry i was so obstinate—truly i am, hugh."
doctor hugh leaned forward from behind the wheel and kissed her.
"you'll make the willis will an aid and not a hindrance yet," he declared. "all i want to do, dear, is to save you from learning these lessons the most painful way. hop in and i'll drive you around to the house," he added cheerfully.
the next morning was naturally a most busy one at rainbow hill. monday morning is apt to be a busy time anywhere, but mrs. hildreth, who would sooner have dreamed of starting the day without breakfast than starting the week without washing, saw to it that not one idle moment was unaccounted for as far as her jurisdiction extended. she rose at four, instead of the customary five, and warren and richard, alternating, helped her with filling and emptying the tubs and lifting the heavy boiler. mrs. hildreth scorned the modern washing machine and did her clothes in the old-fashioned laborious way.
winnie had a woman to help her wash—a mrs. pritchard who cheerfully walked two miles each way—but the temptation to bleach the household linens on the lawn in the hot sunshine appealed powerfully to the housewifely instincts of winnie, and mrs. willis declared that she washed everything she came to, regardless of its state of cleanliness. certainly one would have thought that her normal wash of light summer dresses for three girls and two women would have contented winnie, but the combination of soft water, soap, floods of sunshine and the washing machine left by mrs. hammond proved well nigh irresistible to winnie. she may have been said to fairly revel in wash.
"let's go wading, rosemary," coaxed shirley this monday morning, soon after breakfast.
"i can't—not now," said rosemary. "i want to help mother first and then i must practise. ask sarah."
"sarah's cross," complained shirley. "she brought the cat in from the barn and put her to sleep in the clothes basket and winnie tipped her out."
"yes, that would make sarah cross," agreed rosemary. "where is she now?"
"i don't know," said shirley and her tone indicated that she didn't particularly care. "come on and let's go wading, rosemary."
"rosemary is going to make the beds for mother," interposed mrs. willis. "winnie is so busy this morning she hasn't time. don't you want to pick up the papers on the porch, shirley and put the cushions straight in the swing and bring in some fresh flowers for the glass jar? then, when you have it all in order, i'll come out there and sit and make a new dress for your doll."
"oh, yes, that will be nice!" beamed shirley, trotting off busily.
in all that hive of industry, represented by the farm, sarah was the one idle figure. she sat on the fence commanding a view of the pig pen—not the pleasantest prospect rainbow hill afforded, it must be confessed—and dangled her feet moodily. she was still resentful at the summary ejection of the barn cat from the clothes basket and, in addition, had been worsted in an argument with warren whose turn it was to cultivate the corn. sarah had wished to ride on the cultivator, preferably in the driver's seat or, failing that, on the horse's back. warren had endeavored to dissuade her as tactfully as possible but finding that tact made small impression on sarah, had been obliged to come out with a flat refusal.
"what a funny chicken!" said sarah aloud, turning her attention from the grunting pigs before her to a solitary chicken behind her, a feat which nearly cost her her balance.
"i do b'lieve it's sick!" she declared, jumping down and walking over to the limp-looking fowl which stared at her coldly from a glassy eye.
sarah, in the few weeks she had spent on the farm, had really learned a good deal about the care of the stock. to her natural love for animals and aptitude for handling them, she had added a store of knowledge gleaned by asking questions of the boys and mr. hildreth and observing them as they went about the barns. she had faithfully tagged mrs. hildreth, who took care of the poultry too, and had often seen her pick up a chicken and examine it.
so now she picked up the apathetic bird and felt of his crop with exploring little brown fingers.
"you're hungry, i'll bet," she informed him. "you probably didn't feel well this morning and the other hens knocked you away from the corn. don't you care, i'll get you some breakfast, all for yourself."
sarah knew where the grain bins were in the barn and she went in and opened them all. using her dress as an apron she selected a handful of wheat, another of cracked corn, some buckwheat, a generous scoop of "middlings" and a double handful of the meat scraps bought especially for the ducks. then out she dashed and spread the feast before the hen who really did brighten up and eat a good deal of the grain. no one hen could have eaten it all—and survived—and of course the other chickens spied the feast in time, but not before the invalid had been revived somewhat.
"now i'll put you in a coop till you feel better," said sarah, "so nothing can pick on you."
she stuffed her patient into one of the feeding coops in the poultry yard, gave her a pan of water and then, feeling more cheerful herself, decided to go wading.
she glanced toward the house, reflected that if she went back to get shirley her mother might object to the wading plan or, worse yet, winnie set her at some useful task, and made up her mind to amuse herself alone.
"going wading?" called warren cheerfully, as she skirted the cornfield where he sat on the swaying cultivator pulled by the plodding solomon, both horse and boy protected from the blazing sun by straw hats.
sarah refused to reply. she had no intention of resuming friendly intercourse so soon after the painful episode of the morning.
"he needn't think he can boss me," she scolded, sitting down by the brook to take off her shoes and stockings. "ow, the water's cold!"
like a great many older people, sarah preferred to think a long time before she committed herself to an icy flood. she tucked her feet under her comfortably and gave herself up to thought.
in the grass beside her a hundred busy little ants ran to and fro and sarah's speculations led her to wonder whether they had ever made a trip by water.
"i'll build them a little boat," she planned, "and give them a little ride."
actuated by the kindest of motives, she fashioned a rude sort of ferry boat from a leaf and then spent twenty minutes catching passengers for it. in her energy and haste she squashed several of the little creatures and alas, when she finally sent a dizzy half dozen on their voyage the leaf capsized and the passengers were drowned. this effectually discouraged sarah and she turned again to the prospect of wading.
the water was so cold that the soft green grass seemed more inviting and sarah began to walk along the brook's edge, wincing a little now and then as her foot struck a sharp stone. then, without warning, she stepped into a hole and sharp, darting tongues of fire attacked her ankles.
"yellow jackets! wasps! bees!" shrieked the unfortunate child, flinging her shoes into the brook and her stockings clear on the other side as she started to run. "get away—leave me alone!"
she had stepped into a nest of yellow jackets and stirred up great wrath. her feet and ankles suffered the most stings, though one furious insect lighted on her elbow and another on her wrist while a third punctured her cheek. running madly and crying with pain, sarah finally succeeded in distancing the yellow jackets, but her shoes and stockings, as far as she was concerned, were a total loss. nothing, she was positive, would induce her to go back and get them.
she limped sadly to the orchard and climbed her favorite wide-branching apple tree, to take count of her injuries. angry, white puffy swellings showed where each sting had exacted toll.
"there must be a million," said the suffering sarah.
but it was cold comfort, counting the wounds, and she longed for sympathy. glancing through her leafy screen she saw richard skirting the orchard fence on his way to the barn. she turned to scramble down and in the descent struck her elbow on the bark, the poor elbow already tender from a vicious sting. sarah cried out in pain, let go hastily and tumbled to the ground.
richard had heard her cry and he came running to pick her up.
"good grief, you are a wreck!" he ejaculated when he saw her. "there, there, sarah! you haven't broken any bones—i'll brush you off and you'll be as good as new. don't cry like that—please don't!"
