After all, though Dorothy had hated to leave the other young folks on such an errand, through such weather, and in some fear of further “lectures,” the ride to Heartsease had proved delightful. She wouldn’t have missed the rapture on lonely Dorcas Sands’s pale face for the wildest frolic going and, after all, it was a relief to know the “twinses” could do no more mischief for which she might be blamed; and it remained now only to appease the wrath of Molly Breckenridge when she was told that her adopted “son” had been removed from her authority without so much as “By your leave.”
Naturally, Molly said nothing in Mrs. Calvert’s presence, but vented her displeasure on Dorothy in private; until the latter exclaimed:
“You would have been glad, just glad, Molly dear, to hear the way the poor old lady said over and over again: ‘Rose’s children! Rose’s children!’ Just that way she said it and she was a picture. I wish I was a Quaker and wore gray gowns and little, teeny-tiny white caps and white something folded around my shoulders. Oh! she was just too sweet for words! Besides—to come right to the bottom of things—neither of us could adopt a child, yet. We haven’t any money.”
“Pshaw! We could get it!”
“I couldn’t. Maybe you could; but—I’m glad they’re gone. It’s better for them and we shouldn’t have been let anyway, and—where’s Helena?”
“Up garret, yet. They’re all up there. Let’s hurry. They’ll have all the nicest things picked out, if we don’t.”
They “hurried” and before they knew it the summons came for luncheon. After that was over Danny Smith and Alfaretta Babcock mysteriously disappeared for a time; returning to their mates with an I-know-something-you-don’t sort of an air, which was tantalizing yet somehow suggested delighted possibilities. The afternoon passed with equal swiftness, and then came the costume parade in the barn; the charades; and, at last, that merry Roger de Coverly, with Mrs. Betty, herself, and Cousin Seth leading off, and doing their utmost to teach the mountain lads and lassies the figures.
All the servants came out to sit around and enjoy the merry spectacle while old Ephraim, perched upon a hay-cutter plied his violin—his fiddle he called it—and another workman plunked away on his banjo till the rafters rang.
“Oh, such a tangle! And it seems so easy!” cried Jane Potter, for once aroused to enthusiasm for something beside study. “Come on, Martin! Come half-way down and go round behind me—Oh! Pshaw! You stupid!”
Yet uttered in that tone the reproof meant no offense and Jane was as awkward as her partner, but the dance proved a jolly ending for a very jolly day. Only, the day was not ended yet; for with a crisp command: