The June morning was growing very warm and Roxy was glad to reach the shade of the wide-spreading branches of the sycamore, and taking off her hat she tucked the butterfly-weed blossoms under its ribbon band and gazed at them admiringly. “I wish Amy Fletcher could see them, and the blue mountains, and the bridges,” she thought a little wistfully. For Amy Fletcher had lived next door to the Delfields in Newburyport, and the two little girls were fast friends, and Roxy often wrote to Amy telling her of all the adventures that befell her among the hills of Maryland. “I guess Amy will think it is almost like a story when I write her about what happened yesterday,” she thought, well pleased at having so real an adventure to describe; and at the sound of Polly’s well-known call: “To-who-to-whoo!” she called back: “Who-to-whoo.” Roxy smiled happily, thinking that no one except Polly and herself knew the real meaning of these calls. To any chance listener it would, the girls thought, mean the note of a bewildered young owl, but the first call: “To-who-to-whoo,” really meant: “I’m on the way,” while “Who-to-whoo” meant: “I am waiting.”
Polly now came in sight, her red hair shining as the light flickered upon it.
“Oh, Polly! How can you go bareheaded when the sun is so hot?” was Roxy’s greeting.
“I like it,” replied Polly as she flung herself down on the soft moss beside her friend.
“Polly, you always look just right,” declared the admiring Roxy as she touched the loose sleeve of Polly’s tan-colored linen dress.
“If I look just right you talk just right, little Yank—I mean Roxy-poxy,” responded Polly.
“You needn’t have stopped at ‘Yank,’” laughed Roxy. “I like it, since the soldier told me my father would be proud to be called Yankee. And I liked the tall soldier too, even if he did run after me. Oh, Polly! It was I who carried the basket of food to the runaway man!”
Polly’s smile vanished, and her blue eyes regarded Roxy sternly. “And you let Dulcie call him a thief! And you let your grandmother think that he crept into her house and stole! I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said.
In a second Roxy was on her feet and had grabbed up her hat and basket.
“You are hateful, Polly Lawrence! Yes, you are! I don’t care if you are handsome. I couldn’t tell because I’d promised not to; but then I did tell because I knew I must! So there now!” exclaimed the angry girl, and without giving Polly a chance to speak she dashed off toward home.