“But I do not understand,” I parried.
He said nothing more, meeting my eyes gravely and extending his hand. And so we parted. And I went home and smiled to myself over his last words as I reviewed them. No one so well as I knew what an incorrigible child Wanza was. I thought of the wax doll on the pink silk cushion and was convinced.
Father O’Shan was the first person to whom I had confided my ambition concerning the novel I was engaged on. I had labored at it many months. It was progressing satisfactorily to me. By autumn I hoped to complete it. I had a fond hope that Christmas would find it sold to the publishing firm in the East to whom I proposed to send it. If it sold—if it sold!—my plan was to support myself and Joey by the sale of my cedar chests and wood carvings until I could make good in the world of literature.
CHAPTER VII
WANZA BAKES A CAKE
ONE sunny afternoon in the following week I again took my canoe and slipped down the river to the small aperture in the willows. This time I did not hesitate, but entered the lead boldly. And I was no sooner afloat upon the green-fringed waterway than my temerity was rewarded. A canoe appeared around a bend ahead of me, and in the craft sat Haidee plying the paddle. She was almost a dazzling vision as she approached me. She was in white, and the shadows were green all about her, and the ribband snood on her head was blue, and blue flowers were heaped around her feet. When she saw me she called out: “Have you forgotten that you were to send me Wanza Lyttle?” and there was an amused light in her brilliant eyes.
In my confusion I stammered and was unable to make a coherent reply, and after a quick glance at my face, she exclaimed:
“Never mind! I have seen her for myself.”
“You have seen her?”
“Yes. I rode into Roselake village this morning and enquired right and left for Miss Lyttle. Every one smiled and said: ‘Who? Wanza?’ Then I met her in her cart on the river road. I knew her by the green umbrella.” Haidee paused and ruminated, wrinkling her brows. “I know why she lined her umbrella with pink.”
“Well,” I cried, disregarding the seeming irrelevance, “is she coming to stay with you? That’s the main thing.”