The Major [31]
and they laughed and laughed. I think they were laughing at me. Tom laughed loudest of all, and he's not so smart himself, and anyway Larry passed the entrance a year ago and I just told him so."
"Oh, did you," said her father, "and how did Master Tom take that?"
"He didn't laugh quite as much. I don't think I like him very much."
"Ah?"
"But Hazel, she was just lovely to Larry. I think she's nice, Papa, and such lovely cheeks and hair." Here Jane sighed.
"Oh, has she? She is quite a grown-up young lady, is she not?"
"She has her hair up, Papa. She's sixteen, you know."
"I remember you told me that she had reached that mature age."
"And I think Larry liked her, too."
"Ah? And why do you think so?"
"He just looked at her, and looked, and looked."
"Well, that seems fairly good evidence."
"And he is coming up here to-night when we bring him his good clothes."
"Oh, you are to bring him his good clothes, are you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Gwynne and I are taking them down in the carriage."
"Oh, in the carriage--Mrs. Gwynne--"
"Yes, you know-- Oh, here's Nora at the door. Excuse me, Papa. I am sure it is important."
She ran to the door and in a moment or two returned with a note. "It's for you, Papa, and I know it's about the carriage." She watched her father somewhat anxiously as he read the note.
"Umm-um. Very good, very nice and proper. Certainly. Just say to Mrs. Gwynne that we are very pleased to be able to serve her with the carriage, and that we hope Larry will do us the honour of coming to us."
Jane nodded delightedly. "I know, Papa. I told her that already. But I'll tell her this is the answer to the note."
Under Jane's direction and care they made their visit to the car, but on their return no Larry was with them. He would come after the picnic and baseball game tomorrow, perhaps, but not to-night. His mother was plainly disappointed, and indeed a little hurt. She could not understand her son. It was not his clothes after all as she had thought. She pondered over his last words spoken as he bade her farewell at the car door, and was even more mystified.
"I'll be glad when we get to our own place again," he said. "I hate to be beholden to anybody. We're as good as any of them anyway." The bitterness in his tone mystified her still more.
It was little Jane who supplied the key to the mystery. "I don't think he likes Tom very much," said the little girl. "He likes Hazel, though. But he might have come to our house; I did not laugh." And then the mother thought she understood.
That sudden intensity of bitterness in her boy's voice startled her a little, but deep down in her heart she was conscious of a queer feeling of satisfaction, almost of pride. "He's just like his father," she said to herself. "He likes to be independent." Strict honesty in thought made her add, "And like me, too, I fear."
The picnic day was one of those intensely hot June days when the whole world seems to stand quivering and breathlessly attent while Nature works out one of her miracles over fields of grain, over prairie flowers, over umbrageous trees and all things borne upon the bosom of Mother Earth, checking the succulence of precocious overgrowths, hardening fibre, turning plant energy away from selfish exuberance in mere stalk building into the altruistic sacrament of ripening fruit and hardening grain. A wise old alchemist is Mother Earth, working in time but ever for eternity.
The picnickers who went out to the park early in the day were driven for refuge from the blazing sun to the trees and bushes, where prostrated by the heat they lay limp and flaccid upon the grass. Miss Hazel Sleighter, who for some reason which she could not explain to herself had joined the first contingent of picnickers, was cross, distinctly and obviously cross. The heat was trying to her nerves, but worse, it made her face red--red all over. Her pink parasol intensified the glow upon her face.
"What a fool I was to come, in this awful heat," she said to herself. "They
"Oh, did you," said her father, "and how did Master Tom take that?"
"He didn't laugh quite as much. I don't think I like him very much."
"Ah?"
"But Hazel, she was just lovely to Larry. I think she's nice, Papa, and such lovely cheeks and hair." Here Jane sighed.
"Oh, has she? She is quite a grown-up young lady, is she not?"
"She has her hair up, Papa. She's sixteen, you know."
"I remember you told me that she had reached that mature age."
"And I think Larry liked her, too."
"Ah? And why do you think so?"
"He just looked at her, and looked, and looked."
"Well, that seems fairly good evidence."
"And he is coming up here to-night when we bring him his good clothes."
"Oh, you are to bring him his good clothes, are you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Gwynne and I are taking them down in the carriage."
"Oh, in the carriage--Mrs. Gwynne--"
"Yes, you know-- Oh, here's Nora at the door. Excuse me, Papa. I am sure it is important."
She ran to the door and in a moment or two returned with a note. "It's for you, Papa, and I know it's about the carriage." She watched her father somewhat anxiously as he read the note.
"Umm-um. Very good, very nice and proper. Certainly. Just say to Mrs. Gwynne that we are very pleased to be able to serve her with the carriage, and that we hope Larry will do us the honour of coming to us."
Jane nodded delightedly. "I know, Papa. I told her that already. But I'll tell her this is the answer to the note."
Under Jane's direction and care they made their visit to the car, but on their return no Larry was with them. He would come after the picnic and baseball game tomorrow, perhaps, but not to-night. His mother was plainly disappointed, and indeed a little hurt. She could not understand her son. It was not his clothes after all as she had thought. She pondered over his last words spoken as he bade her farewell at the car door, and was even more mystified.
"I'll be glad when we get to our own place again," he said. "I hate to be beholden to anybody. We're as good as any of them anyway." The bitterness in his tone mystified her still more.
It was little Jane who supplied the key to the mystery. "I don't think he likes Tom very much," said the little girl. "He likes Hazel, though. But he might have come to our house; I did not laugh." And then the mother thought she understood.
That sudden intensity of bitterness in her boy's voice startled her a little, but deep down in her heart she was conscious of a queer feeling of satisfaction, almost of pride. "He's just like his father," she said to herself. "He likes to be independent." Strict honesty in thought made her add, "And like me, too, I fear."
The picnic day was one of those intensely hot June days when the whole world seems to stand quivering and breathlessly attent while Nature works out one of her miracles over fields of grain, over prairie flowers, over umbrageous trees and all things borne upon the bosom of Mother Earth, checking the succulence of precocious overgrowths, hardening fibre, turning plant energy away from selfish exuberance in mere stalk building into the altruistic sacrament of ripening fruit and hardening grain. A wise old alchemist is Mother Earth, working in time but ever for eternity.
The picnickers who went out to the park early in the day were driven for refuge from the blazing sun to the trees and bushes, where prostrated by the heat they lay limp and flaccid upon the grass. Miss Hazel Sleighter, who for some reason which she could not explain to herself had joined the first contingent of picnickers, was cross, distinctly and obviously cross. The heat was trying to her nerves, but worse, it made her face red--red all over. Her pink parasol intensified the glow upon her face.
"What a fool I was to come, in this awful heat," she said to herself. "They