The bell in St. Luke's steeple rang out the stroke for three-quarters after nine in the morning. Nan lay in the hammock, gazing up through the woodbine of the before-mentioned side veranda. The leaves were beginning to turn maroon and russet; but evidently she was not looking at these, for her pretty eyes were taking in a wider angle of light. In truth, there was a deep little wrinkle between her eyebrows, which implied deep thought.
However, as the bell began on its ten strokes, she withdrew her stare from the far, unseen horizon, rolled out of the hammock, came down hard on her two trim boots, stood up straight, and gazed the landscape o'er.
"Not a girl in sight," she said to herself, with an amused laugh; "I believe the silly things are afraid of me; maybe they think I have become one of those reformers—oh me, how shy girls are of a cause! Well, anyhow, I have one, or rather a because, and they must give me a fair hearing, though I must be wiser than a whole collection of serpents." She had reflected thus far, when she espied a blue eye peeping around the corner of the bay-window.
"Oh, Cathy!" she shouted; "oh, you perfidious foe! Come here! Where are the girls?"
Cathy brought the companion eye into view, and finally two other pairs appeared, accompanied by their respective owners, Evelyn carrying a basket of grapes. How merry they were, and how they laughed in that contagious girl-fashion as they encamped about Nan! They made a group charming to behold, and they seemed capable of tossing anybody's blues away as easily as they now threw grape-skins into the sunny air. But they were not remarkable in any respect; they had their full share of graces and defects, of assorted sizes, both of feature and character. No one of them was in the least a heroine; but the group was very like any other group that might have been found in many neighborhoods, on that pleasant September morning.
Bert Mitchell, who was the only addition to the party of the night before, ensconced herself in the hammock with Cathy Drake. The two girls differed from each other in many respects, but were great friends, as is often the case.
Bert, who was never called Bertha, as she declared in extravagant phrase that she "perfectly loathed the name," was tall and cheery, with fine eyes, a mass of brown hair, and a voice a trifle loud. But the girls forgave her that; and whenever she began to speak, they would always listen, assured of hearing something bright. But her most characteristic feature was her hands. They were white and shapely, but she had a curious way of carrying them—as though she had just put them on for the first time, and was trying different effects with them. The girls laughingly cried, "Long may they wave!" and liked her all the same. She had an abundance of settled convictions on every possible subject,—"positive opinions hot at all hours," Cathy's brother Fred said of her,—and she was therefore always in a definite mood, and very good company.
If, as some say, beauty is tested by the ability to wear one's hair combed straight back without being a scarecrow, Cathy, of all the girls, came nearest to being pretty, for she, and she alone, enjoyed the luxury of an even temper during high winds, damp days, and a vacation at the seashore. Her forehead was broad and calm, her eyes were blue and calm, and her mouth was sweet and calm. She was not positive about anything, which greatly irritated her friend Bert, who, indeed, flew into a comical passion one day, over her failure to arouse Cathy. Shaking her, she exclaimed, "Will nothing on earth move you! Do get angry—at something or some one!—at me!—at anything! Haven't you any depths in you? If you have, stir them up!"
Cathy raised her crescent brows, and a faint color crept into her smooth cheek as she quietly said: "Depths don't stir, my dear; and if stirred from the top, they are apt only to get muddy, you know. However, I'd like to accommodate you by getting furiously angry—at you, for instance; this is an inviting opportunity, and I don't know that I ought to miss it—but somehow it doesn't seem worth while." And even the obstreperous Bert was silenced by this covert thrust.
When they all had settled themselves into various cozy attitudes, Bert demanded to know the object of the caucus. "I hope it is something interesting, for nothing but a command from you would have induced me to crawl out this morning," she yawned, as she adjusted a sofa-pillow for her comfort.