The immediate effect of this outburst was a surprise. Lucy Haines sat down on the chopping-block and began to cry. She cried as if the pent-up sorrows of her life were at last finding outlet, cried as if she never meant to stop. Peggy in her dismay tried coaxing, scolding, petting, each in turn, and at last gave up the vain endeavor, and took her old place on the woodpile, to wait till Lucy should have come to the end of her tears.
At last the figure in the soiled calico was no longer shaken by convulsive sobs. Lucy turned toward the patient watcher on the woodpile, and in spite of her swollen lids and blood-shot eyes, Peggy knew it was the old Lucy looking up at her. “Well?” she demanded cheerfully. “It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Lucy agreed hesitatingly. “I’m going to try again, if that’s what you mean.”
“And you’ll come to-morrow?”
“Yes, I’ll come to-morrow, if you’re not too disgusted to bother with me any longer,” said Lucy humbly.
“Well, it’s time for Hobo and me to be going home.” Peggy jumped to her feet, crossed briskly to the unkempt figure, and stooping, kissed a tear-stained cheek. And then Lucy’s arms went about her, and clasped her close in passionate gratitude.
“Peggy Raymond,” said a stifled voice, “I can’t do anything to pay you back, but this. I promise you I’ll make you proud of me yet. You were ashamed of me to-day, but if I live, I’ll make you proud of me.” And Peggy had one more bewildering impression to add to the varied catalogue of characteristics which made up the Lucy Haines, whom she was beginning to think she had never known till that day.
In spite of this triumphant conclusion to her enterprise, Peggy returned to the cottage heavy of heart. There is always a danger that the sensitive and sympathetic will find the revelation of the misery in the world overwhelming, bringing the temptation to shut one’s eyes to suffering, or else in its contemplation, to lose the joy out of life. And as it only takes an added drop to cause a full cup to brim over, Peggy’s dejection reached the overflowing point, through no other agency than the yellow hen.
The girls all noticed that Peggy was silent, as well as uncommunicative. She fenced skilfully to evade direct answers to their questions, but she did not seem inclined to introduce new topics of conversation. And when Amy called her from the kitchen, where she and Ruth were getting supper, Peggy sat staring abstractedly ahead of her till the call was repeated.
Priscilla glanced up from her magazine. “Say, Peggy, the girls are calling you. Probably they are having trouble with the muffins.”