"The Happy-Go-Luckys? Who are they?" he exclaimed.
"A sort of a club," returned Laura demurely, glancing mirthfully at Alene ere they turned away to climb the hilly homeward path.
CHAPTER XXII
VEXATIONS AND CONSOLATIONS
Ivy turned disconsolately from the window. She had waved good-by to Laura and Alene when they had looked round at the corner ere passing from view on their way to the glass-boat.
The trip had been postponed from day to day in the hope of her being able to go along, and even at the last moment her friends had wished to give it up and devote the afternoon to an indoor meeting of the Happy-Go-Luckys; but Ivy would not have it so; she insisted on their going, she vetoed every argument to the contrary, but now that they were beyond recall and she faced the empty room she almost regretted her persistence.
And yet it was a pleasant room enough, with nothing of luxury to recommend it but having an air of quiet comfort. An unobtrusive wall paper, a green-and-oak carpet, a bright rug before the fire-place, which was filled with tall ferns; a picture of the "Mammoth Trees of California," above the mantel, a lamp with a green globe hanging over the center-table, a few chairs, and Ivy's couch drawn close to the two windows with their snowy curtains—all beautifully neat and clean, but alas, so tiresomely familiar to the little prisoner. Even the sight of her books piled at the foot of the lounge wearied her!
She threw aside the beloved Sunset Book after vainly trying to get interested in it. How flat and unprofitable it seemed! Why could she never write anything but the trite and useless things that almost anyone who was able to hold a pen could say as well or better? The verses about the four o'clocks, which the other day had seemed a pretty conceit, to-day sounded silly, fit only for the little waste-basket at her side, where she threw them with disdain.
Life was unprofitable, friends noticeable only by their absence; even the faithful Hugh had deserted her. He had made no motion toward "making up" since the day they went blackberrying—it would have served him right if the bull had put an end to her! If that boy Mark Griffin hadn't interfered—and why he had she didn't know, what business was it of his?—Hugh, instead of wearing his air of indifference, would be crying his eyes out beside her dead body—or rather her grave, for she would be buried and done with by this time. But no; here she herself, instead of Hugh, was crying over it! For the last week he had been even less attentive than ever; he was up and out long before she awoke in the mornings, came home at noon to snatch a hasty lunch and was off again after supper until bedtime, with only a careless nod to her, Ivy, whom he had hitherto allowed to claim all his attention and the little leisure time he could spare from his work as office-boy and assistant clerk in a real-estate firm down street.