A fine sarcasm curled Jean’s lips, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Talk to earls and princes and things about fishing worms, baby?” she queried with studied politeness.
And promptly Frieda, flushing quite up to her ears, hurled a sofa cushion at Jean, which Olive caught, saying gently:
“Please don’t let’s quarrel, children, we never used to at the Lodge. What would Ruth think of us?” And picking up a second letter that Jean had brought to her, she began to read it.
Jean sat penitently down on the sofa trying to kiss Frieda, who resolutely covered up her head. “Come on and get dressed, infant; no, your cold isn’t too bad for you to come. Olive is reading a note of invitation from Mrs. Harmon for us to come over to ‘The Towers’ to have tea and Miss Winthrop and Jessica Hunt are to go with us.”
But the rôle of invalid was too precious a one and too seldom enjoyed by the youngest Miss Ralston for her to surrender it easily.
“I am too sick, please tell Mrs. Harmon,” she protested resolutely; “only if they have any candy or cake and happen to mention sending me some you might bring it along. And I do wish both you girls would go out for a while, for Mollie is coming to spend the afternoon with me after she finishes her music lesson and we would love to have the sitting room to ourselves.”
“I hope, Olive, that you know when you are not wanted without being actually knocked over by the broadness of the hint,” Jean said, seeing that Olive was hesitating about what she should do. “Come along, it will do us both good to get away and not to sit here thinking about what we can’t help,” she ended.
While both girls were putting on their best afternoon frocks preparatory to starting forth on their visit, in the silence of her own room Olive was trying to persuade herself that her hesitation in going for the call upon the Harmons was because she dreaded to be reminded by the sight of Elizabeth of the old tragedy to Jack. But there was something more than this in her mind, for actually she dreaded entering the big white house which had given her such an uncomfortable sensation the moment her eyes had rested upon it. Yet what connection could she have ever had with an old place like “The Towers,” or any house resembling it? Her impression that she must have seen the house somewhere before was sheer madness, for was it not an old Dutch mansion, perhaps built hundreds of years ago, and certainly wholly unlike any of the ranch houses out West?
Olive resolutely put all the ridiculous ideas that had annoyed her out of her mind and with Jessica Hunt, Miss Winthrop and Jean started gayly forth on their walk. It was about four o’clock in the late November afternoon and instead of following the path through the woods, the little party set out along the lane that led through an exquisite part of the Sleepy Hollow neighborhood. Crossing a little brook they climbed a short hill and from the top of it could see at some distance off the spire of the old Sleepy Hollow church and on the other side the Hudson River with the autumn mists rising above it like breath from its deep hidden lungs.
Jessica and Olive were together, Jean and Miss Winthrop. As Olive was particularly silent, Jessica drew her arm through hers. “This is a land of legends and of dreams about here, dear, and some day I must take you western girls about the country and show you the historic places nearby. Do you know anything about them?” she asked.