There were many Sabbaths indelibly impressed upon Elizabeth's memory, but none that burned its way in as did that afternoon's experience with Trip. The misery¹ of sitting through the long church service, with the awful guilt² upon her soul, and the thoughts of approaching retribution, almost made her physically³ ill. As yet there was very little fortitude⁴ in Elizabeth's soul. She was the only coward in the Gordon family, John was wont⁵ to say, and, though she dreamed of valorous deeds as the successor of Joan of Arc, in real life she had never yet been able to vindicate⁶ herself.  
She sat through the sermon, making vows⁷, Jacob-like, that if she ever came through this time of tribulation⁸ alive she would go softly all the rest of her days. She would live a life of complete renunciation—selfish pleasures, worldly ambitions centering round Mrs. Jarvis, even dreams of Joan of Arc she would put away forever. She would not finish that enthralling⁹ story she was surreptitiously reading in the Cheemaun Chronicle, the story of Lady Evelina De Lacy and the false Lord Algernon. She would never even wish she had curls like Rosie, but would be glad her hair was straight and plain; and when Mrs. Jarvis came, offering her a fortune and a velvet¹¹ dress and a gold crown, she would turn away, declaring firmly that for her there could be no pleasure in such worldly joys.
 
The sermon had never seemed so long. Mr. Murray, a good old man, whose discourses¹² had steadily¹³ lengthened¹⁴ with his years, preached on and on. Forest Glen nodded and woke up and nodded again, and finally roused itself to stand up for the closing psalm¹⁵. As the people slowly and silently filed out of church, still only half-awake, Elizabeth followed her aunt with the feelings of a criminal going to the gallows¹⁶. She knew that her secret was safe with John and Charles Stuart. The boys might fill her days with tribulation by teasing, but they would never stoop to tell tales. Nevertheless, Elizabeth did not for a moment consider this as an avenue of escape. The integrity of her soul demanded that she go straight to Mr. MacAllister and confess. And then everyone would know she had disgraced the name of Gordon forever, and what Aunt Margaret would say was a thought to make one shudder¹⁷.
 
As she went blindly down the aisle¹⁸, she found herself shoved against Mr. Coulson. He was looking straight ahead of him, very sternly, as though to let her know he realized how wicked and ungenteel she was. But Elizabeth had in memory many blessed occasions upon which her teacher had exonerated¹⁹ her in the face of damaging evidence. She had learned to put unbounded confidence in him. He was a person who understood, and there were so very few people in the world who did understand. He possessed²⁰ some wonderful divining power, which Elizabeth felt would make it possible for him even to conceive of a person who could carry a dog into Sunday school and yet not be quite a social outcast.
 
So she slipped up close to him, so close that she forced him to look down at her. He saw the misery in the little girl's deep eyes, and forgot that she was Miss Gordon's niece. "Are you sick, Lizzie?" he asked. Elizabeth shook her head, speechless. She caught his coat and drew him aside as they came outside the door. He was so big and so strong, his very presence thrilled her with hope.
 
"Oh, Mr. Coulson," she whispered. "I—I—what'll I do? It was me took Trip into Sunday school!"
 
"Trip?" Mr. Coulson had already forgotten the little incident in his own troubles. "What about it, you poor little mite²¹?"
 
"Will they put me out of Sunday school? Will Mother MacAllister be angry? Susie Martin's Brag²² was going to bite him, and I was afraid."
 
Mr. Coulson laughed. It struck Elizabeth as almost miraculous²³ that anyone who had witnessed that awful scene in Sunday school could ever laugh again. He glanced around and saw that Miss Gordon had already driven off in the little basket phaeton.
 
"Come along," he said, and taking Elizabeth's hand he led her up to where the MacAllisters were climbing into their buggy. He leaned over and talked in a low tone to Mr. MacAllister and they both laughed, and the latter called, "Hey, hey, Lizzie, come awa', bairn, and jump in!" And Mother MacAllister said, as her arms went around her, "Hoots²⁴, toots, and did the lamb do it to save the little dog?" And Charles Stuart looked at her with undisguised admiration²⁵ in his eyes, and said, "Aw, you goose, what did you go and tell for?" And Elizabeth's soul went straight from the depths right to the highest pinnacle²⁶ of joy and thankfulness.
 
Then Mother MacAllister said, "Come away, Mr. Coulson, come home and have supper with father now, come away." Mr. Coulson sprang into the seat opposite, and he was no sooner in his place than Mother MacAllister cried out "Why, father, where are the girls? Come away, children. Come, Annie girl,—come, Sarah Emily! Come away, we're waitin' on you!"
 
Sarah Emily came forward, and with one leap landed herself upon the front seat with Mr. MacAllister and Charles Stuart; Jean climbed in beside Mr. Coulson, but Annie held back. The young man arose hastily. "Perhaps it's too crowded," he said hurriedly; "I'd better not go this time." Now this was a very absurd statement. For it had never been known that a MacAllister vehicle had ever been filled, much less crowded, and its owner turned upon the young man in wrathful amazement²⁷.
 
"Hoots, man! Ye're haverin'. Sit ye doon there! Annie bairn, jump in. What are ye gawkin' there aboot? Are ye scared o' the master?"
 
There was no other course but obedience²⁸. Mr. Coulson helped the young lady into the buggy and away they rattled²⁹ up the hill. And Elizabeth, thrilled with joy over her escape, little realized that in saving herself she had done a good deed that day for two people very dear to herself—a deed the results of which lasted through a lifetime.
 
It all turned out so beautifully. Mother MacAllister, who never in her life was known to do such a wicked thing as go visiting on Sunday, left her guest with Charles Stuart and his father, and went all the way over to The Dale to explain Elizabeth's case to Miss Gordon. And Annie was so radiant, and John was so admiring, that Elizabeth fairly glowed in the family felicity, and the sun went down behind the Long Hill in perfect peace and happiness.
 
After the excitement of that Sabbath, the days sped somewhat evenly. May budded into June, June blossomed into July, and still the long-looked-for Mrs. Jarvis did not come. Her non-appearance filled Miss Gordon with a sense of keen disappointment, but Elizabeth soon forgot all about her. She had more important things to take her attention.
 
The 1st of July had come, the first day of the holidays, and Elizabeth went to bed the night before unable to sleep from excitement. Mr. Coulson had bidden them farewell that afternoon. He had resigned and was going to Cheemaun to finish his law studies. Elizabeth and Rosie had cried themselves sick over the good-bys. But it was not grief that was keeping Elizabeth awake. It was the machinations of John and Charles Stuart. On the way home from school she had been made aware by certain nods and winks³⁰ and significant signs between her two tormentors that some wonderful scheme was on their programme for the morrow. Elizabeth knew as well as though they had shouted it from the treetops that they were going fishing. They always ran away from her when they went fishing. She firmly determined³¹ that, come what might, she would go fishing, too.
 
Just why the sight of those two disappearing down the lane with rods over their shoulders always filled Elizabeth with such unbearable³² anguish³³ was a question even she could not have answered. Such expeditions with the boys were sources of tears and tribulations³⁴. Elizabeth was always meeting with disaster. She was not satisfied unless she was manipulating a rod and line, and she did not know which filled her with the greatest heartrending compunction, the sight of the poor worm writhing³⁵ on the hook or the poor fish. Then she was always being thrown into a panic of terror by the sight of a snake or a frog or a mud-turtle, and when real dangers did not menace, the boys supplied imaginary ones more terrible.
 
But, for all this, when John and Charles Stuart went abroad Elizabeth must accompany them, and, though her aunt felt that every such expedition removed her niece farther from the genteel ideal, she generally allowed her to go. For there were quieter times at home when the noisy one was away.
 
Elizabeth knew by experience that the two would be likely to arise at dawn and steal away, and she went to bed that night in the bare white-washed little room, which she and Mary shared, with the determination that she would lie awake until morning and be ready. By persistent³⁶ pinching of her arms and tossing about, much to poor Mary's discomfort³⁷, she managed to keep herself awake for about an hour, but sleep overcame her at last, the dead, dreamless sleep of childhood, and all Elizabeth's joys and sorrows were as naught³⁸ until morning.
 
But her restless spirit asserted itself early. When she awoke it was scarcely light. The old clock in the study downstairs had just struck three. The room was quite dark, but a faint light from the window, and a strange hum of life from the outdoor world, told her that morning was approaching.
 
She slipped stealthily from her bed and, trembling with excitement, ran silently down the long, bare hall to her brothers' room. It was a big chamber³⁹ above the dining-room. Its only furniture was two beds; a big old four-poster, where John and Malcolm slept on a lumpy straw mattress⁴⁰, and a low "bunk⁴¹" or box-like structure on casters, where the little boys, Archie and Jamie, lay tossed about in a tangle⁴² of bare limbs and blankets. Elizabeth brushed back her hair from her sleepy eyes, and peered into the dim room. The green paper blinds were partly raised, and she could discern through the gloom John's black head on the bolster⁴³ beside Malcolm's fair one. The black head was hanging half out of bed and its mouth was wide open. Elizabeth giggled⁴⁴ softly. She longed to stuff something into that yawning cavity; but she knew that dire⁴⁵ consequences followed upon tampering⁴⁶ with John. She tiptoed back to her room. The excitement was lulled⁴⁷ and she was beginning to feel sleepy. But she suddenly bethought herself that it would be wise to look out and see if Charles Stuart were coming. She remembered with hot indignation how once John had tied a string to his toe, which he let hang out of the window, and how Charles Stuart had come in the gray dawn and pulled the string, and the two had fled away in the dusk, while she slept all unawares. If they had any such plan on foot this time, she would be even with them. She would sit at the window and watch for Charles Stuart. She tiptoed gleefully across the room, and, slipping between the green paper blind and the sash, shoved her head and shoulders out of the open window.
 
And then her mischievous⁴⁸ mood fell from her like a garment, and there stole over her a feeling of awe⁴⁹. Elizabeth had often beheld⁵⁰ the sunrise, and, being a passionate⁵¹ lover of nature, her soul had arisen with the day, radiant and full of joy. But never before had she witnessed the first mysterious birth of the dawn, and the wonder of it held her still. It was so strange and unreal. It was surely night, for the stars still hung above the black treetops, and yet it must be day, for above, below, on every side one great unbroken voice of song was pouring forth⁵² from the darkness. Or was it dark? It certainly wasn't light. The swamp, away behind old Wully Johnstone's fields, lay in blackness, and there was even a hint of moonlight sifted⁵³ faintly through the gray veil of the sky. But the white line of birches by the stream stood out a soft, cloudy white, the fields were dimly distinguishable, and here and there a tree had taken form from its dark background.
 
But the wonder of it was the great chant the whole dark earth was raising to heaven. As June had waned⁵⁴ Elizabeth and John had missed many of their bird companions, who were too busy raising their families to sing much. But now it seemed as though every blade of grass and every leaf on the tree was giving forth a voice. At first no separate note could be distinguished⁵⁵. It was one great voice, all-penetrating, all-pervading. But gradually the ear discerned the several parts of the wondrous⁵⁶ anthem⁵⁷. The foundation of it seemed to come from behind the line of birches that hedged the stream, and here and there in the darkness of tree or bush an individual song arose to melt again into the grand chorus.
 
Elizabeth knelt by the open window, lost to everything except the mystery of music and light being woven before her. It was creation's morn again, at which the child's wondering eyes were gazing. Again the divine Fiat⁵⁸ had gone forth, "Let there be light." And, moving in stately march to the grand processional, slowly, majestically⁵⁹ the light was coming. Softly, almost imperceptibly, the phantom⁶⁰ world took shape, and grew clearer as the stars grew paler. Here a bush detached itself from its gray background, yonder a tree grew up tall and stately, there the curve of a hillock swelled⁶¹ up from a dark valley. And as each growing maple⁶² or cedar⁶³ or alder-bush took shape, from its depths there awoke a sleepy little murmur⁶⁴, swelling⁶⁵ into a rapturous song and melting away again into the great anthem. Away down the dim lane, near the edge of the pond, stood a noble elm, its topmost branch towering into the gray heavens, its lower limbs sweeping⁶⁶ the earth. As it gradually detached itself from the grayness and came forth beautiful and stately, there arose from its heart the musical accompaniment to its birth—not a sleepy little murmur, such as befitted a sumach or a bramble, but a loud, clarion⁶⁷ note, one wild shout of joy—and out poured the ecstasy⁶⁸ of a robin's song. There was a storm of music on all sides now, a splendid fortissimo, keeping pace with the growing light. Elizabeth, suddenly mindful of former sunrises, leaned far out to look towards the east, holding her breath. Over there might be glories that were not lawful⁶⁹ for men to look upon, much less utter. And, yes, there was a great wonder there, no sun's rays as yet, no daylight even, but behind the black trees of Arrow Hill there shone a luminous⁷⁰ crystal glow, a light more heart-moving than if the sun had risen in all his pomp of purple and gold. There was an awe, a mystery about this transparent⁷¹ clearness, a great promise of unspeakable glories to come. Elizabeth drew a long breath. She was but a child, perfectly⁷² unconscious and unthinking in all that she said and did, but she had a heart capable of being strongly moved by any hint of the Infinite. She did not guess why, did not even imagine the reason, but the tears came to her eyes with a smarting sting, and with them that feeling of overwhelming joy that was half-pain, the feeling that rushed over her so often when her father read some sublime⁷³ passage from the Scriptures⁷⁴.
 
One came to her now from the psalm of the night before:
 
 
"Who coverest Thyself with light as with a garment; who stretches out the heavens like a curtain."
 
 
God Himself must be just behind that mysterious glow, little Elizabeth said to herself reverently⁷⁵. That shining crystal was the garment in which He had wrapped Himself, so that people might not see Him. But she saw Him. Yes, He was there, she knew, and in the uplift of the moment there came to her child's heart a vision that never faded, a vision that many years later bore her up on the wings of poesy to fame.
 
But Elizabeth was woefully earthbound, tied down by the cares and worries that fall to humanity. As she still hung over the window-sill, gazing enraptured⁷⁶ at the heavens, she was brought sharply down to earth. Up near the willows⁷⁷ at the gate she dimly descried⁷⁸ a dark figure hastening along Champlain's Road. It paused at the gate. Instantly Elizabeth was transformed. From the rapt priestess of the dawn she descended⁷⁹ sharply to the keen-eyed spy. That was Charles Stuart just as sure as sure! And John would be up and off in another five minutes. She jerked herself back into the room so suddenly that her head came in crashing contact with the window-frame. Elizabeth was naturally keenly sensitive to pain, but she scarcely noticed the blow. There was no time to even complain. Though her head was spinning, she began to fling on her clothes in mad haste, feverishly⁸⁰ watching Mary lest the noise of the crash had awakened⁸² her. But Mary slept on soundly; and, reassured⁸³, Elizabeth made a frantic⁸⁴ toilet. She wrenched⁸⁶ herself into her clothes, pulling on garments upside down, inside out, any way that was most expeditious⁸⁷. Buttons would not go into button-holes, strings⁸⁸ refused to tie, pins would not hold. But somehow she managed to get herself dressed, after a fashion. There was no time to think of washing, or combing her hair. She crushed her sunbonnet down over her untidy head, snatched up her shoes and stockings, slipped silently into the hall, and took her place behind a huge wardrobe at the head of the stairs, from which hiding-place she could command a view of John's bedroom door. By this time she was bursting with mischievous glee. Wouldn't John and Charles Stuart be good and mad when they found her following them? She knew exactly how to do it. The only way was to dog their footsteps, keeping safely out of sight until they were too far from home to send her back alone. Of course she would have to endure innuendoes⁸⁹ all day regarding "Copy cats," but that was nothing to the anguish of being left at home.
 
As she stood breathless and full of mirth, she was rewarded by the sound of a door creaking, and a stealthy footstep approaching the stair. She crushed back into her hiding-place. She could not help wondering even in the midst of her excitement how John could ever move so quietly. She held her breath as the owner of the soft footfall came into view. And then it returned in a little gasp⁹⁰ of astonishment⁹¹. For it was not John at all, but Annie! Annie at this hour of the morning! Could she be going fishing, too? Elizabeth could not think of any other justifiable⁹² reason for getting up so early; Annie certainly looked as if she were on a very important mission. She went down the stairs hurriedly and silently, as though she were being pursued. Elizabeth had for an instant an impulse to call softly after her; but that wiser, older self within her arose and forbade. This ancient Elizabeth respected a secret, and said that here was one into which there must be no intrusion. She felt ashamed of herself, as though she had done something dishonorable like listening at a keyhole, as Sarah Emily had once done.
 
She heard the old door leading on to the side-porch creak stealthily, then pause, and creak again. Perhaps Annie was ill, and she ought to follow her. She softly tiptoed back to her room and peeped from her window. Her sister was stealing down through the orchard⁹³, her light summer dress plainly visible against its dim greenness. She stopped at the bars that led into the pasture field, and as she did, Charles Stuart came vaulting⁹⁴ over the fence from the lane and strode towards her. And surely everybody must have been touched with a magic wand, and turned into somebody else; because it wasn't Charles Stuart at all, but Mr. Coulson, to whom Elizabeth had bidden such an agonized⁹⁵ farewell only yesterday! He came straight towards Annie, holding out both his hands, and when he reached the bars he leaned over them and kissed her! And then, though Elizabeth was not quite eleven, she knew that she was looking upon something sacred and beautiful, something that should not be exposed to the eyes of another, and she turned swiftly and, running to the bed, hid her face in the clothes beside Mary.
 
She knelt there, motionless, wondering, and in a few minutes she heard the stealthy foot upon the stair again and the soft rustle⁹⁶ of Annie's skirts. She crept into bed and pulled the clothes over her sunbonneted head. She felt she would be doing her sister an irreparable injury if she let her know anyone had witnessed that parting scene.
 
She lay there, trembling with excitement, until all was still again. She forgot all about the fishing expedition in this new discovery, and lay wideawake wondering why in the world Annie should kiss Mr. Coulson good-by when she had not even gone to school to him, until worn out with wonder and excitement she fell sound asleep. And outside the dawn still marched majestically onward⁹⁷ towards the day, in time to its glorious accompaniment of song.
 
When Elizabeth awoke again it was broad daylight. Sarah Emily was already downstairs, setting the breakfast table, stirring the oatmeal porridge, and singing loudly about the many glittering but false young men who had sought her hand, but had been defeated in their machinations by the finest old lady that ever was seen, who lived on yonder little green.
 
Fortunately Elizabeth escaped inquiry⁹⁸ by slipping from the bed and arranging her clothes in a more respectable manner before Mary was stirring. Mary was delicate, and the only one allowed to lie abed in the morning, or to refuse porridge if she did not want it, so Elizabeth's early morning adventure was not discovered. To her relief also she found John downstairs apparently⁹⁹ not going fishing. At breakfast Annie was quieter than usual, but it was characteristic of Elizabeth that she did not by word or sign let her elder sister see that she had the smallest knowledge of the morning's farewell. John was right when he conceded to Lizzie the power of not only keeping secrets,—deathly secrets like a pet toad¹⁰⁰ under the bed or rabbits in the barn,—but at the same time looking as if she had nothing to hide.
 
It was Elizabeth's turn to help Sarah Emily with the dishes, and after breakfast she wearily dragged her feet towards the kitchen. Tom Teeter had come over and was talking to her father as the latter hoed in the vegetable garden, and Tom always had candies in his pockets. Then Malcolm and John were building a new hen-house in the barnyard, and every stroke of the hammer shouted to Elizabeth to come. She took up the dish-towel drearily¹⁰¹ and stood looking wistfully down the sunny path that led into the orchard. She realized now that she was utterly¹⁰² worn out with the excitement of her morning adventure. Mary and the little boys were playing in the old wagon¹⁰³ that stood in the barnyard. She could hear them laughing and shouting. The old pig was grunting¹⁰⁴ over his trough, the hens were cackling. She really ought to go and gather the eggs. She felt just then that drying dishes was an insupportable burden. It was always so with Elizabeth. She could toil⁸⁵ strenuously¹⁰⁵ all day, building a playhouse, or engineering a new game, running, leaping, toiling¹⁰⁶ all unwearied. But when household duties were laid upon her, except when she worked for Mother MacAllister, she was actually overcome with physical weariness. She leaned against the table and yawned aloud.
 
"Oh, Sarah Emily, don't you hate dishes?" she groaned¹⁰⁷. "We've got such stacks of them."
 
But Sarah Emily did not hear. Tom Teeter was standing¹⁰⁸ down there between the rows of cabbages, talking to Mr. Gordon upon the "Conscienceless greed and onmitigated rapacity¹⁰⁹" of certain emissaries of the opposing political party. To all of which his neighbor was responding with: "Well, well. Deary me, now, Tom."
 
But Sarah Emily was firmly convinced that Tom was there for other reasons than to talk politics with her master. Sarah Emily was neither fair of face nor graceful¹¹⁰ of form, neither had a suitor ever been seen to approach the Gordon kitchen; nevertheless, she lived in the pleasant delusion¹¹¹ that all the young men of the countryside were dying for love of her. Tom Teeter's condition she believed to be the most hopeless; and, like all other proud belles¹¹² sure of their power, she flouted¹¹³ him; and the innocent young man, when he thought about her at all, wondered why Sarah Emily disliked him so, and took considerable pleasure in teasing her.
 
So Sarah Emily made frequent excursions to and from the well as he stood in the garden. She sang loudly and pretended she saw no one.
 
"The 'first that came courting was young farmer Green,
As fine a young gent as ever was seen."
"Oh, Sarah Emily, I'm awfully¹¹⁴ tired," said Elizabeth, when the young woman had at last settled to washing the dishes. "Don't you 'spose you could do them yourself this time. I really ought to go and help Malc and John with the hen-house."
 
"No, I don't, you lazy trollop," responded Sarah Emily promptly¹¹⁵. "You don't seem to think I ever get tired, an' me with that pinny of yours to iron for Sunday, too!"
 
Elizabeth was immediately seized with compunction. She caught up the towel and went at her task with feverish⁸¹ haste. But her eyes would stray down the orchard path that led to the barn.
 
It was only this very morning she had witnessed that strange little scene there in the dewy, music-thrilled twilight¹¹⁶. It seemed so unreal now that Elizabeth could almost believe she had dreamed it all. She almost wished she had. For Mr. Coulson was perfection, and Annie was a little better, and it was rather hard to think of her two paragons¹¹⁷ doing anything that people might laugh at. In the Gordon family life there was something improper¹¹⁸ attached to any display of affection, and kissing was positively¹²⁰ disgraceful. Elizabeth dared not even kiss Jamie, much as she enjoyed it, except when the older boys were at a safe distance. She herself disliked being kissed by grown-up people. Babies and little people were different. She could remember being kissed by her aunt once, on her first arrival, but never since. She and Rosie had sobbed¹²¹ for an hour with their heads on the desk when Mr. Coulson made his good-by speech, but they would never have dreamed of doing what Annie did. And surely they loved him far more.
 
She was recalled to present affairs by Sarah Emily's snatching the plate out of her hand and demanding if she intended to rub it clean off the face of the earth?
 
Elizabeth took another rather sullenly¹²². But such a mood never lasted longer than half a minute with her, and she was suddenly struck with the notion that Sarah Emily might furnish some valuable information on the subject that was worrying her. Sarah Emily had such a vast experience with young men.
 
"Sarah Emily," she said, rather hesitatingly, "did anybody—I mean any young man ever—kiss you?"
 
Sarah Emily gave an hysterical¹²³ shriek¹²⁴. She doubled up over the table, almost dipping her face into the dish-pan, and went off into a hurricane of giggles¹²⁵.
 
"Oh, oh, you awful, awful bad girl, Lizzie Gordon!" she screamed, whereupon Elizabeth knew she had not been bad at all, but had said something that had mightily¹²⁶ pleased Sarah Emily.
 
"But did they though?" she insisted, showing her even white teeth in a sympathetic laugh. "Eh, Sarah Emily?"
 
The young woman straightened herself and suddenly became dignified¹²⁷.
 
She darted¹²⁸ a withering¹²⁹ glance at Elizabeth. "Not much, they didn't!" she cried righteously. "Jist let me ketch any o' them—yes, jist any one o' the whole gang up to any such penoeuvres. I'd soon fix 'em!"
 
There was so much scorn in her demeanor¹³⁰ that Elizabeth was disconcerted.
 
"Why?" she asked anxiously. "Ain't it nice, Sarah Emily?"
 
"No, it ain't!" snapped Sarah Emily emphatically.
 
Elizabeth was much taken aback. It was surely not possible that Annie could do anything impolite or ungenteel—Annie, the only one in the family whom Aunt Margaret never scolded. She was puzzled and troubled. There was no one to whom she could take the matter for advice. Elizabeth had no close confidant. John was the nearest, but there were so few things John understood. Then one never dared tell Mary anything. Mary did not mean to be a tell-tale, but somehow everything she knew always oozed¹³¹ out sooner or later. Yes, this was a puzzle Elizabeth must work out alone.
 
"Well," she said at last, determined to uphold Annie at all costs, "it's all right in stories, anyhow. I mean when people are going to get married some day. I read about it in that story about Lady Evelina in the Chronicle. Now, if you were going to get married to Tom Teeter, Sarah Emily——"
 
Sarah Emily exploded in another spasm¹³² of shrieks¹³³ and giggles. She leaned against the wall, overcome with laughter, wiping her eyes, and declaring that if Lizzie didn't hold still she'd be the death of her.
 
Elizabeth became impatient. Her older self rose up, protesting that Sarah Emily was very silly, indeed.
 
"Oh, bother you, Sarah Emily," she cried, "you're a big goose!"
 
Sarah Emily made a leap towards her. "You jist say that again, Lizzie Gordon, and I'll give you a clout¹³⁴ over the head that'll make you jump."
 
Elizabeth dodged¹³⁵ round to the other side of the table, and promptly said it again—said it many times, dancing derisively¹³⁶ upon her toes and waving her towel; sang it, too, in the most insulting manner to the tune¹⁰ of "My Grandmother Lives, etc."
 
Then ensued a mad chase around the table, attended with uproar¹³⁷ and disaster. A plate fell crashing to the floor, the dish-pan was upset, the water splashed in all directions, and the small figure with shrieks of laughter dodged this way and that, followed by the big clumsy one shouting vengeance¹³⁸.
 
And then there suddenly fell a great silence as from the heavens. The door had opened, and Miss Gordon was standing in it. Elizabeth stood rigid¹³⁹ in a pool of dish-water, and instinctively¹⁴⁰ felt to find how many buttons of her pinafore were undone¹⁴¹. Sarah Emily promptly turned away and went vigorously to work, presenting a solid wall of indifference¹⁴² to her mistress, in the form of a broad pink calico back with a row of black buttons down the middle.
 
Elizabeth was not so incased in armor. One swift glance of shame and contrition¹⁴³ she gave towards her aunt, and then hung her head, waiting for the blow to fall. Miss Gordon had never seemed so remote and so chillingly genteel.
 
"Elizabeth," she said in a despairing tone, "how is it that I can never trust you for even a few minutes out of my sight? You grow more rebellious¹⁴⁴ and unmanageable every day. I have given up my home, and slaved and worked for you all, and you alone show me no gratitude¹⁴⁵. I can never make a lady of you, I see. How any child belonging to a Gordon could be so entirely¹⁴⁶ ungenteel——"
 
On and on Miss Gordon's quiet, well-bred voice continued, every word falling like a whip upon Elizabeth's sensitive heart. She writhed¹⁴⁷ in agony under a sense of her own sinfulness, coupled with a keen sense of injustice¹⁴⁸. She had been bad—oh, frightfully wicked—but Aunt Margaret never arraigned¹⁴⁹ a culprit for any particular crime without gathering¹⁵⁰ up all her past iniquities¹⁵¹ and heaping them upon her in one load of despair.
 
She listened until she could bear no more, and then, darting¹⁵² past her aunt, she tore madly upstairs in a passion of rage and grief. Miss Gordon's genteel voice went steadily on, adding the sin of an evil and uncontrollable temper to Elizabeth's black catalogue. But Elizabeth was out of hearing by this time. She had shut herself, with a sounding bang, into the little bedroom where she and Mary slept, and flung herself upon the mat before the bed. Even in her headlong despair she had refrained from pitching herself upon the bed, which Annie and Jean had arranged so neatly¹⁵³ under its faded patch-work quilt. Instead she lay prone¹⁵⁴ upon the floor and wept bitterly. Anger and a sense of injustice came first, and then bitter repentance¹⁵⁵. She loved her aunt, and Sarah Emily, and she had injured both. She was always doing wrong, always causing trouble. Aunt Margaret could not understand her being a Gordon at all. Probably she wasn't one. Yes, that was the solution of the whole matter. She was an adopted child, and not like the rest. She was sure of it now. Hadn't Aunt Margaret hinted it again and again?
 
Elizabeth always went through this mental process during her many tempests of anguish. But always, through it all, the older self sat waiting, sometimes quite out of sight, but always there. And in the end she brought up a picture of Elizabeth's mother—the bright little mother whom she never forgot and who used to say, "Little Lizzie is more like me than any of my children." That assurance always came to Elizabeth. No, her whole family might forsake¹⁵⁶ her, but her mother was always her very own. Her mother could never, never have been so cruel as merely to adopt her. Next, as always, came contrition, and deep self-abasement. She stopped crying and lay still, wondering why it was she could never be good like Annie, or even Jean. Then there was Constance Holworth, the lonely girl in the Sunday-school library book. She never got into a temper. And if she ever did, or even thought the smallest wrong thought, she always went down to the drawing-room and said sweetly, "Dear mamma, please forgive me." Even Elizabeth's imagination could not draw a congruous picture of herself speaking thus to Sarah Emily without some strange result. Besides, they had no drawing-room, and evidently one needed that sort of chamber for the proper atmosphere. Elizabeth wondered drearily what a drawing-room could be. Most likely a room in which one sat and drew pictures all day long. This reminded her of her own drawing materials lying in the bottom drawer, one of her birthday presents from Mrs. Jarvis. She half arose, with the thought that she might get out her paint-box or the old faded doll that Mary and she shared, then sank back despairingly upon the mat again. What was the use trying to solace¹⁵⁷ a broken heart with such trifles?
 
But when she grew up and became a great artist, and drew pictures as big as the Vicar of Wakefield's family group, and all the Gordons came to her drawing-room to wonder and admire,—Sarah Emily and Aunt Margaret the most eager and admiring of all,—then, though she would be very kind to them all, she would never smile. She would always wear a look of heart-broken melancholy¹⁵⁸, and when people would ask what made the great Miss Gordon, who was Mrs. Jarvis's adopted daughter, so very, very sad, Mrs. Jarvis would explain that dreadful afflictions in her childhood had blighted¹⁵⁹ her whole life. And then Sarah Emily and Aunt Margaret would go away weeping over the havoc¹⁶⁰ they had wrought¹⁶¹.
 
Elizabeth gained so much comfort from these reflections that she came up from the depths of despair sufficiently¹⁶² to take note of her surroundings. The window looking out upon the orchard was open, and from the pasture-field there arose a great noise—whistling, shouting, rattling¹⁶³ of tin pails, and barking. She sprang up and darted to the window. That double racket always proclaimed the approach of Charles Stuart and Trip. Yes, there they were, the former just vaulting over the bars, the latter wriggling¹⁶⁴ through them. Charles Stuart had a big tin pail and a small tin cup, and, just as sure as she was a living, breathing person, he and John would be off in two minutes to pick strawberries in Sandy McLachlan's slash¹⁶⁵!
 
Elizabeth went down the stairs three steps at a time. Miss Gordon was sitting by the dining-room window, Annie at her side. Both were sewing, and Annie's cheeks so pink and her eyes so bright that her aunt looked at her curiously¹⁶⁶ from time to time. They were interrupted by the bursting open of the door, and like a whirlwind a disheveled little person, wild-eyed and tear-stained, in a dirty, streaked¹⁶⁸ pinafore, flung herself into the room.
 
"Oh, Aunt Margaret! The boys are going pickin' berries. Can't I go, too? Oh, do let me go?"
 
Elizabeth stood before her aunt twisting her pinafore into a string in an agony of suspense¹⁶⁹.
 
Miss Gordon looked at the turbulent little figure in silent despair, and Annie ventured gently:
 
"It would be nice to have strawberries for tea, aunt, and Lizzie could help John."
 
Miss Gordon sighed. "If I could only trust you, Elizabeth," she said. "But I wonder what new trouble you'll get into?"
 
"Oh, I promise I won't get into any!" gasped¹⁷⁰ Elizabeth in solemn pledge, all unconscious that it was equivalent to a promise from the wind not to blow.
 
"It's no use promising," said Miss Gordon mournfully. "You know, Elizabeth, I have warned you repeatedly against the wild streak¹⁶⁷ in you, and yet in the face of all my admonitions you still persist in acting¹⁷¹ in an unladylike manner. Now, when I was a little girl, I never went anywhere with my brother, your dear papa, except perhaps for a little genteel stroll——"
 
Elizabeth could bear no more. The last prop¹¹⁹ of endurance gave way at the sight of John and Charles Stuart marching calmly past the window, rattling their tin pails.
 
"Oh, Aunt Margaret!" she burst out in anguished¹⁷² tones, "couldn't you—would you please finish scolding me when I get back. The boys are gone!"
 
Miss Gordon paused, completely baffled. This strangest child of all this strange family of William's was quite beyond her.
 
"Go then," she said, with a gesture of despair. "Go. I have nothing more to say."
 
Elizabeth was tearing down the garden path before she had finished. To be cast off as hopeless was anguish, but it was nothing to the horror of being kept at home to be made genteel. In a moment more, with shrieks of joy, she was flying down the lane, towards two disgusted looking boys reluctantly awaiting her at the edge of the mill-pond.