“Do you really think so still, Dorothea?” Miss Imogene asked, looking up with a smile.
“Yes, I do,” Dorothea answered. “I’m sure of it. At first I thought it was April, then I guessed it was Val Tracy, then I suspected even Lucy,—but now that the war’s over and it won’t make any difference I think you’d better confess.”
“I, child! What do you mean?” demanded Miss Imogene.
“Why, aren’t you a Red String?” Dorothea questioned.
“No, my dear, of course I’m not,” Miss Imogene replied positively and Dorothea looked blankly at her for a moment or two, hardly able to believe her ears. “How could I be? I am a Southern gentlewoman.”
“Well!” the girl exclaimed finally, “if it wasn’t you, who could it have been?”
At that instant Harriot came out of the house and stopped a moment beside them.
“I’m so hungry. Field peas and hominy and bacon may fill you, but they aren’t food!” she sighed, pushing back her hair, and Miss Imogene’s sharp eyes saw a thin red string tied around one of her young niece’s fingers.
“What’s that for, honey?” she asked, and Dorothea, seeing the string, waited eagerly for the answer.
“Oh, that’s just a string,” Harriot answered. “Aunt Decent wears one to keep the misery out of her hands, and I thought I would see if it worked. I never had any misery and I don’t want any. But don’t you mention it to Aunt Decent. She’s mighty touchy about it and doesn’t like any one to notice it.” With that Harriot ran off again and left the two gazing at each in surprised perplexity.