As Richard had foreseen, the Willis girls formed the habit of wandering over to the Gay farm nearly every day. Rosemary liked Louisa and the taciturn Alec, and the younger children were companionable in age and tastes for Sarah and Shirley.
It was Warren who explained something of the conditions under which the Gay children worked and lived, one evening when the girls were in bed and Winnie was busy setting bread in the kitchen. Warren treasured these rare half hours on the porch with Mrs. Willis and he had once declared to Richard that ten minutes' uninterrupted conversation with "Rosemary's mother" could make him forget the hardest and longest day.
"The way I figure it out," said Warren, his lean, brown face showing earnest lines even in the shaded light from the porch lamp, "the way I figure it, Mrs. Willis, the Gays will help Rosemary and Sarah and Shirley and they will certainly help them. Alec is fifteen and Louisa is just Rosemary's age—and yet they have the burden of supporting and bringing up four younger children."
"And my girls have such a happy, sheltered life," struck in Mrs. Willis. "Yes, Warren, I can see what you mean; it won't hurt them to learn of the existence of poverty and hard work. But what happened to the parents of these children?"
"They died a couple of years ago—within three months of each other, I believe," said Warren. "All they left was these few acres—sixty, I think Alec told me. There's a mortgage and most of the stock has been sold off—Alec does wonders for his age, but he can't get the work done alone. I helped him some last year and I'd help him more, but he is too proud to take much."
"But they can't go on like this," Mrs. Willis protested. "It is unthinkable—to allow six children to struggle alone for a living on a barren little farm. Doesn't anyone take an interest in them—the Hildreths or any of the people who live near and who knew their father and mother?"
Warren settled deeper into his comfortable chair.
"If the house burned down, I suppose they'd be taken in by some of the neighbors," he said a trifle bitterly. "Or if they all came down with the plague, someone might drop in to offer advice. But either of these calamities1 would have to happen in winter at that, to attract attention; the farmers of this community can't be disturbed in summer when they're up to their elbows in work."
"You don't mean that, Warren," the little lady opposite him smiled confidently.
"I mean at least half of it," asserted Warren doggedly2. "Of course when Mr. and Mrs. Gay died, everyone pitched in and helped the children; I suppose they did, though I wasn't here to see. But I do know that now when they need advice and practical help, they're apparently3 forgotten. Their attendance at school last winter was a farce4 and yet the authorities let an investigation5 slide; Mr. Hildreth promises vaguely6 to 'look after them' in the fall—and there they are, six fine American children left to bring themselves up."
"Someone must be responsible," said Mrs. Willis firmly. "I'll speak to Hugh—he will know what to do."
Warren shook his head.
"I wouldn't—that is not yet," he declared. "It is rather difficult to explain and—well, I suppose I haven't been quite fair in my statements, either. Alec and Louisa do not invite friendship—they are extremely proud and shy and so reserved as to be almost repellant to strangers. I think every allowance should be made, under the circumstances, for them, but the neighbors who tried to do for them at first were miffed, I suppose, and take the attitude that if they want to keep to themselves, they may.
"Alec is close-mouthed, too, and I fancy he has resented attempts to publicly discuss their financial affairs. There is a mortgage on the farm, of course—what would a farm be without a mortgage?" Warren digressed for a moment but was instantly serious—"and I suppose the interest keeps Alec awake nights figuring. Both he and Louisa have given up going anywhere—they send one of the children to the Center for the few things they have to buy. It's simmered right down to this—they're avoiding everyone and if they don't look out they'll be as queer as—as the dickens!"
"Like some of those mountaineers I saw when Hugh took me over the back road to that little settlement at the foot of the hills," said Mrs. Willis. "The women peep out of the windows furtively7 and the children run if they see a stranger—all because they have lost the habit of meeting folk."
"That's it," agreed Warren eagerly. "That's what I mean. And I think it is a shame, for the Gays are nice kids—clean and honest and wholesome8. You know I would never have taken the girls over there if there was the slightest possibility of the Gays setting them a bad example in any way. I have a cousin who is a teacher and she is always preaching that children pick up the bad traits they see in others quicker than they do the good ones."
"I'm not so sure of that," smiled Mrs. Willis. "But I am glad you are so thoughtful, Warren. They are very precious to me—my three daughters."
"If I had three sisters like them—" Warren's voice faltered9.
He began again, hurriedly.
"What the Gays need," he said earnestly, "is human contacts—I think that's the phrase I want. They need to know normal, happy children their own age. It isn't the poverty that will hurt them—Rich and I have been as poor as church mice and are still; but we have battled our way through school and mixed with fellows and met people. In some ways Louisa and Alec are ten ............