The oak-leaf decorations were now quite finished. The remainder of the day, until dark, was spent in festooning them about Pet’s room, over the doorways, and even in the chamber to be occupied by poor little Bridget Flanagan, the unrecognized heroine of the Summer Street fire.
Ruel, coming in to supper, reported bright streaks in the west, and predicted fair cool weather on the morrow.
CHAPTER VIII.
POOR TOM!
THAT Ruel was a good weather-prophet, there could be no doubt. Long before blue eyes and brown were opened at The Pines, the sun was shining over hill and valley, and birds singing in every thicket, to welcome the bright day.
Plans were eagerly discussed at breakfast, and by eight o’clock the great wagon was before the door, ready for a start. Tom alone hung back and refused to go, saying he wanted to walk over to the Pond; so they drove off without him, toward the Pineville Station.
The horses, who had just enjoyed a rainy day’s rest in their stalls, stepped off merrily. How sweet the air was! The girls and Randolph drew in long breaths, and shouted and sang till they were tired. Mr. Percival listened, and watched them with kindly eyes, now and then engaging in the conversation himself.
“Aren’t there any boys and girls around here except ourselves?” asked Randolph as they whirled along over the road, here carpeted with pine needles.
“O there are plenty in Readville and Jamestown,” replied his uncle, touching the glossy flank of the off horse with his whip. “There’s a good-sized school in each town, and they draw the young folks together, from all parts.”
“What do they do for fun, I wonder?”