as richard had foreseen, the willis girls formed the habit of wandering over to the gay farm nearly every day. rosemary liked louisa and the taciturn alec, and the younger children were companionable in age and tastes for sarah and shirley.
it was warren who explained something of the conditions under which the gay children worked and lived, one evening when the girls were in bed and winnie was busy setting bread in the kitchen. warren treasured these rare half hours on the porch with mrs. willis and he had once declared to richard that ten minutes' uninterrupted conversation with "rosemary's mother" could make him forget the hardest and longest day.
"the way i figure it out," said warren, his lean, brown face showing earnest lines even in the shaded light from the porch lamp, "the way i figure it, mrs. willis, the gays will help rosemary and sarah and shirley and they will certainly help them. alec is fifteen and louisa is just rosemary's age—and yet they have the burden of supporting and bringing up four younger children."
"and my girls have such a happy, sheltered life," struck in mrs. willis. "yes, warren, i can see what you mean; it won't hurt them to learn of the existence of poverty and hard work. but what happened to the parents of these children?"
"they died a couple of years ago—within three months of each other, i believe," said warren. "all they left was these few acres—sixty, i think alec told me. there's a mortgage and most of the stock has been sold off—alec does wonders for his age, but he can't get the work done alone. i helped him some last year and i'd help him more, but he is too proud to take much."
"but they can't go on like this," mrs. willis protested. "it is unthinkable—to allow six children to struggle alone for a living on a barren little farm. doesn't anyone take an interest in them—the hildreths or any of the people who live near and who knew their father and mother?"
warren settled deeper into his comfortable chair.
"if the house burned down, i suppose they'd be taken in by some of the neighbors," he said a trifle bitterly. "or if they all came down with the plague, someone might drop in to offer advice. but either of these calamities would have to happen in winter at that, to attract attention; the farmers of this community can't be disturbed in summer when they're up to their elbows in work."
"you don't mean that, warren," the little lady opposite him smiled confidently.
"i mean at least half of it," asserted warren doggedly. "of course when mr. and mrs. gay died, everyone pitched in and helped the children; i suppose they did, though i wasn't here to see. but i do know that now when they need advice and practical help, they're apparently forgotten. their attendance at school last winter was a farce and yet the authorities let an investigation slide; mr. hildreth promises vaguely to 'look after them' in the fall—and there they are, six fine american children left to bring themselves up."
"someone must be responsible," said mrs. willis firmly. "i'll speak to hugh—he will know what to do."
warren shook his head.
"i wouldn't—that is not yet," he declared. "it is rather difficult to explain and—well, i suppose i haven't been quite fair in my statements, either. alec and louisa do not invite friendship—they are extremely proud and shy and so reserved as to be almost repellant to strangers. i think every allowance should be made, under the circumstances, for them, but the neighbors who tried to do for them at first were miffed, i suppose, and take the attitude that if they want to keep to themselves, they may.
"alec is close-mouthed, too, and i fancy he has resented attempts to publicly discuss their financial affairs. there is a mortgage on the farm, of course—what would a farm be without a mortgage?" warren digressed for a moment but was instantly serious—"and i suppose the interest keeps alec awake nights figuring. both he and louisa have given up going anywhere—they send one of the children to the center for the few things they have to buy. it's simmered right down to this—they're avoiding everyone and if they don't look out they'll be as queer as—as the dickens!"
"like some of those mountaineers i saw when hugh took me over the back road to that little settlement at the foot of the hills," said mrs. willis. "the women peep out of the windows furtively and the children run if they see a stranger—all because they have lost the habit of meeting folk."
"that's it," agreed warren eagerly. "that's what i mean. and i think it is a shame, for the gays are nice kids—clean and honest and wholesome. you know i would never have taken the girls over there if there was the slightest possibility of the gays setting them a bad example in any way. i have a cousin who is a teacher and she is always preaching that children pick up the bad traits they see in others quicker than they do the good ones."
"i'm not so sure of that," smiled mrs. willis. "but i am glad you are so thoughtful, warren. they are very precious to me—my three daughters."
"if i had three sisters like them—" warren's voice faltered.
he began again, hurriedly.
"what the gays need," he said earnestly, "is human contacts—i think that's the phrase i want. they need to know normal, happy children their own age. it isn't the poverty that will hurt them—rich and i have been as poor as church mice and are still; but we have battled our way through school and mixed with fellows and met people. in some ways louisa and alec are ten years beyond their time—they run the farm and train and punish those four youngsters and figure out expenses like a couple of old stagers. give 'em one more year and they'll forget how to laugh and be hopelessly mixed on the true values."
"i think i know what you are trying to bring about," observed mrs. willis sagely. "you think they'll trust the girls and make friends with them and, later, an older person will be able to gain their confidence. an older head will be needed soon, if that farm is the only source of income. well, warren, i believe you are right and it will work out nicely in the end. i'm glad to have the girls see something of lives that are different from theirs and i know they will all three learn a great deal that will be helpful to them. i did plan to go over and see the gays but now i'll wait, for a time at least."
"she's a wonder!" said warren to himself, walking back to the bungalow a few minutes later. "she can see just what is in a fellow's mind and sort it out for him. funny how rich and i puzzled over what made those three girls so different from any girls we ever knew—they do just as many crazy things and winnie says they have tempers and wills of their own, but they have something that sets them apart—rich said it was ideals and i called it fine standards and, in a measure, i suppose we're both right. but just two words will explain everything—their mother!"
it must be confessed that bony, the pig, claimed a large share of sarah's time and attention. she let rosemary and shirley go over to see the gays very often without her. there were the pig's meals to be served, his toilet to be made and his manners and training carefully considered.
"my conscience, sarah willis, you're not going to wash that pig, are you?" demanded winnie the first morning sarah made known her ideas on the question of cleanliness in connection with bony.
"i certainly am," announced sarah with appalling firmness. "hugh says you can't be well, 'less you are clean. i don't suppose i can wash bony in the bathtub?"
"now sarah, if i didn't love you, you would have driven me crazy years ago," said winnie, who was a famous general when she minded to be. "you know washing a pig in the bathtub is out of the question. i wouldn't wash him in the laundry tubs, either; we have to be nice to mrs. pritchard for if she deserts us like as not there'll be no more clean clothes this summer; you can't pick and choose your washwoman in the country."
"where'll i wash him then?" asked sarah.
"take him out to the barns—there must be tubs there," directed winnie. "i'll give you a piece of soap and an old towel. don't bring the towel back, either."
"i'll hang it on a bush to dry," promised sarah amiably. "but i have to have some hot water, winnie; bony is delicate and i can't give him a cold bath."
"then he'll have to wait till to-morrow for his bath," said the wily winnie. "the tea kettle is empty and i can't be lighting the stove to heat water just now."
"well, i'll try the cold water," sarah decided reluctantly, "but if bony catches cold, you'll be sorry—that's all."
the pig under one arm and the towel and soap under the other, sarah made for the barn and reached the big tub where the horses were watered, when warren saw her.
"what are you going to do with that pig, sarah?" he asked suspiciously.
"wash him," said sarah, beginning to weary of being questioned.
"not in that horse tub," declared warren. "i've just filled it for the team. that's a drinking trough, not a bathtub."
brief experience had already taught sarah, as it had rosemary and shirley, that while richard might be cajoled or persuaded, warren was firmness itself. if he said that pigs could not be washed in the watering tub, that settled the matter.
"the brook is the best place to wash a pig, anyway, sarah," suggested warren helpfully. "you take this stiff brush and put bony in the middle of the brook and scrub his back and he'll be the happiest little pig you ever saw. but if that is a good dress you have on, take my advice and stay away from water," he added.
"i won't get wet," said sarah indifferently. "well, i guess i'll have to wash bony in the brook. i never saw such a fussy bunch of people."
she scrubbed the pig thoroughly, soaking herself to the skin in the process, and dried him neatly with the towel. then she took him back to his box, fed him a nursing bottle of warm milk—he had readily learned to take the bottle—covered him up and hung the soiled wet towel on the rose bush by the front door. leaving the scrubbing brush in the porch swing and the jellied remains of the soap on a gingham pillow, sarah retired to put on a dry frock, feeling that she had accomplished one task successfully.
"that pig," said winnie, when she came upon the soapy trail of his bath, "that pig will drive us crazy yet. you mark my words!"
