Early in September they had a peach party at the Ames farm. Willowby's young folks were there, and having a good time. When the sun sank behind the hills on the other side of the valley, and the cool air came from the eastern mountains, Chinese lanterns were hung on the trees, and chairs and tables were placed on the lawn. There were cake and ice-cream and peaches—peaches of all kinds, large and small, white and yellow, juicy and dry; for this was a peach party, and everybody was supposed to eat, at least, half a dozen.
The band, with Volmer Holm as leader, furnished the music; and beautiful it was, as it echoed from the porch out over the assembly on the lawn. When the strains of a waltz floated out, a dozen couples glided softly over the velvety grass.
"That's fine music, Volmer," Rupert was saying to the bandmaster, as the music ceased.
"Do you think so? We've practiced very much since our new organization was effected. Will it do for a concert?"
"You know I'm no judge of music. I like yours, though, Volmer. What do you say about it, Miss Wilton? Mr. Holm wishes to know if his music is fit for a concert?"
"Most certainly it is," answered the young lady addressed, as she stepped up with an empty peach basket. "Mr. Holm, I understand that last piece is your own composition? If so, I must congratulate you; it is most beautiful."
"Thank you," and he bowed as he gave the signal to begin again.
"Mr. Ames, more peaches are wanted—the big yellow ones. Where shall I find them?"
"I'll get some—or, I'll go with you." He was getting quite bold. Perhaps the music had something to do with that.
He did not take the basket, but led the way out into the orchard. It was quite a distance to the right tree.