“No, it’s matrimony.” In her haste to explain, Ruth forgot to wait for the guesses that might come nearer the mark. “But I can’t see that it’s particularly patriotic, though it is about our native land, and I’m dreadfully afraid it’s not so very original.”
“Original enough. Even in Solomon’s time there was nothing new under the sun,” Peggy consoled her. “Now, Priscilla.” But Priscilla had colored fiercely on unfolding her paper and crumpled it in her hand. Even if she had not instantly recognized the handwriting she would have had no difficulty in ascribing the sentiment to its rightful source.
“Who is it that I love better than my native land? Can my dearest Priscilla guess?”
“Read yours, Claire,” Peggy said hastily, interrupting Amy who was about to protest against the suppression of a single conundrum, and Claire read obediently, “Why was Martha Washington like the captain of a ship?” It was Peggy who distinguished herself by suggesting, “Because Washington was her second mate,” and Priscilla, whose flushed cheeks were rapidly regaining their natural hue, pronounced the answer correct. “Rather suspicious,” Amy declared. “Priscilla guesses Peggy’s, and Peggy, Priscilla’s. Looks as if it was all fixed up beforehand. Well, Ruth, yours is the last.”
The last conundrum proved to be the most puzzling. “What battle of the Revolution is like a weather-cock?” Various explanations of the mysterious affinity were offered, and each in turn rejected. Aunt Abigail, the author, was finally appealed to.
“Why, dear me!” Aunt Abigail smiled upon the circle of interested faces. “I haven’t the slightest idea, but I was sure that if any battle of the Revolution was the least bit like a weather-cock, one of you smart young folks would find it out.”
After this auspicious beginning, the cheeriness of the midday meal was in pleasing contrast to the gloom of breakfast. Even Amy forgot to mourn over missing the three-legged race, and Ruth, who, under Graham’s tutelage, had become an ardent devotee of baseball, was reconciled to her failure to witness the unique contest between the Fats and the Leans. The morning had passed so rapidly, and so pleasantly on the whole, that every one was inclined to be hopeful regarding the remainder of the day, and to wait with tranquillity the further unfoldment of Peggy’s plans.
When dinner was over, the dining-room in order, and the last shining dish replaced on the cupboard shelves, expectant eyes turned in Peggy’s direction, as if to ask “What next?” And Peggy, as was her custom, promptly rose to the occasion.
“Now for this afternoon–”
A reverberating rap immediately behind her, caused Peggy to turn with a start and throw open the door, whereupon the figure on the step entered without waiting for an invitation. It was Jerry Morton, but a Jerry startlingly unlike his every-day self. Even the fact that he was dripping with rain could not obscure the magnificence of his toilet, including very pointed tan shoes, and a hand-painted necktie. Under his coat was partially concealed some bulging object which gave him an appearance singularly unsymmetrical.