Accordingly, that afternoon we bearded the lion in his . The road we took was a beautiful one, for we went “cross lots,” and we enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that we did not expect the interview with Mr. Campbell to be a very pleasant one. To be sure, he had been quite civil on the occasion of our last call upon him, but the Story Girl had been with us then and had him into good-humour and by the magic of her voice and personality. We had no such ally now, and Mr. Campbell was known to be opposed to missions in any shape or form.
“I don’t know whether it would have been any better if I could have put on my good clothes,” said Cecily, with a rueful glance at her print dress, which, though neat and clean, was undeniably faded and RATHER short and tight. “The Story Girl said it would, and I wanted to, but mother wouldn’t let me. She said it was all nonsense, and Mr. Campbell would never notice what I had on.”
“It’s my opinion that Mr. Campbell notices a good deal more than you’d think for,” I said .
“Well, I wish our call was over,” sighed Cecily. “I can’t tell you how I it.”
“Now, see here, Sis,” I said cheerfully, “let’s not think about it till we get there. It’ll only spoil our walk and do no good. Let’s just forget it and enjoy ourselves.”
“I’ll try,” agreed Cecily, “but it’s ever so much easier to preach than to practise.”
Our way lay first over a hill top, with golden rod, where cloud shadows drifted over us like a gypsying crew. Carlisle, in all its ripely length and breadth, lay below us, in the August sunshine, that spilled over the brim of the valley to the far-off Markdale Harbour, cupped in its harvest-golden hills.
Then came a little valley overgrown with the pale purple bloom of thistles and haunted with their perfume. You say that thistles have no perfume? Go you to a hollow where they grow some late summer at dewfall; and on the still air that rises suddenly to meet you will come a of faint, , sweet and evasive, the of that despised thistle bloom.
Beyond this the path wound through a forest of fir, where a wood wind wove its spell and a wood brook dimpled among the shadows—the dear, companionable, elfin shadows—that under the low growing . Along the edges of that path grew banks of green , starred with clusters of pigeon berries. Pigeon berries are not to be eaten. They are woolly, tasteless things. But they are to be looked at in their glowing . They are the jewels with which the forest of cone-bearers loves to deck its brown breast. Cecily gathered some and pinned them on hers, but they did not become her. I thought how witching the Story Girl’s brown curls would have looked twined with those brilliant clusters. Perhaps Cecily was thinking of it, too, for she presently said,
“Bev, don’t you think the Story Girl is changing somehow?”
“There are times—just times—when she seems to belong more among the grown-ups than among us,” I said, reluctantly, “especially when she puts on her bridesmaid dress.”
“Well, she’s the oldest of us, and when you come to think of it, she’s fifteen,—that’s almost grown-up,” sighed Cecily. Then she added, with sudden , “I hate the thought of any of us growing up. Felicity says she just longs to be grown-up, but I don’t, not a bit. I wish I could just stay a little girl for ever—and have you and Felix and all the others for playmates right along. I don’t know how it is—but whenever I think of being grown-up I seem to feel tired.”
Something about Cecily’s speech—or the wistful look that had crept into her sweet brown eyes—made me feel uncomfortable; I was glad that we were at the end of our journey, with Mr. Campbell’s big house before us, and his dog sitting gravely at the steps.
“Oh, dear,” said Cecily, with a shiver, “I’d been hoping that dog wouldn’t be around.”
“He never bites,” I assured her.
“Perhaps he doesn’t, but he always looks as if he was going to,” rejoined Cecily.
The dog continued to look, and, as we edged gingerly past him and up the veranda steps, he turned his head and kept on looking. What with Mr. Campbell before us and the dog behind, Cecily was trembling with nervousness; but perhaps it was as well that the was there, else I verily believe she would have turned and fled shamelessly when we heard steps in the hall.
It was Mr. Campbell’s who came to the door, however; she us pleasantly into the where Mr. Campbell was reading. He laid down his book with a slight frown and said nothing at all in response to our timid “good afternoon.” But after we had sat for a few minutes in wretched silence, wishing ourselves a thousand miles away, he said, with a ,
“Well, is it the school library again?”
Cecily had remarked as we were coming that what she most of all was introducing the subject; but Mr. Campbell had given her a splendid opening, and she wildly in at once, her explanation off with trembling voice and flushed cheeks.
“No, it’s our Mission Band autograph quilt, Mr. Campbell. There are to be as many squares in it as there are members in the Band. Each one has a square and is collecting names for it. If you want to have your name on the quilt you pay five cents, and if you want to have it right in the round spot in the middle of the square you must pay ten cents. Then when we have got all the names we can we will them on the squares. The money is to go to the little girl our Band is supporting in Korea. I heard that nobody had asked you, so I thought perhaps you would give me your name for my square.”
Mr. Campbell drew his black brows together in a .
“Stuff and nonsense!” he exclaimed angrily. “I don’t believe in Foreign Missions—don’t believe in them at all. I never give a cent to them.”
“Five cents isn’t a very large sum,” said Cecily earnestly.
Mr. Campbell’s scowl disappeared and he laughed.
“It wouldn’t break me,” he admitted, “but it’s the principle of the thing. And as for that Mission Band of yours, if it wasn’t for the fun you get out of it, catch one of you belonging. You don’t really care a rap more for the he............