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Cornell University Library 
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 Merry Andrew, 
 
 3 1924 014 518 264 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014518264 
 
MERRY ANDREW 
 
MERRY ANDREW 
 
MERRY ANDREW 
 
 BY 
 
 F. RONEY WEIR 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 RALPH G. HEARD 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Copyright, 1918 
 
 By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 (incorporated) 
 
MERRY ANDREW 
 
MERRY ANDREW 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 " The McNabs have beaten us again," grumbled 
 Merry Andrew. " They have finished both fields, 
 while we shall have to hustle to get our first one done 
 tonight." 
 
 Her grandfather gathered a handful of rustling 
 stalks, hacked them off at the bottom and carried them 
 to his " stook." 
 
 " Yes," he admitted patiently, "the McNabs always 
 beat us." 
 
 "Now why?" demanded Merry Andrew. She 
 jabbed her corn-cutter into the earth, drew off her 
 gloves and hat and threw them in a heap on the 
 ground. Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg, the hired man, 
 leaned against the stook he had just built and laughed 
 raucously. 
 
 " Yeh ain't a goin' to quit, are yeh, because McNab's 
 folks beat us ? " 
 
 " Not exactly," replied Merry Andrew ; " I'm going 
 to put up my hair." 
 
 It was dark hair with a loose kink, and so heavy as 
 
2 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 to defy the crookedest of pins. Her hands showed 
 white against the mass of it as she gathered and pinned 
 it into a compact knot at the nape of her neck. Grand- 
 father straightened up with an effort and gazed out 
 across his neighbor's field. 
 
 " McNab's folks have machines for everything," he 
 said. 
 
 "Well," accused Merry Andrew, "that's the best 
 way, isn't it — with machines ? You can do things so 
 much quicker and so much better." 
 
 "Oh, yes, it's the best way," conceded Grandfather, 
 hacking another clutch of stalks, " if you've got the 
 machinery." 
 
 " Haw, haw, haw ! See where your hat's a goin' ! " 
 called out Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg triumphantly, 
 and Merry Andrew turned to catch a glimpse of her 
 wildly waving head-piece borne away in the jaws of 
 Boy, the most aggressive of her collie pups, while Two- 
 boy, Boy's brother, raced madly after in an effort to 
 be in at the demolition. 
 
 A moment before Merry Andrew had believed her- 
 self tired to the dropping-point, but at sight of the raid, 
 all the untiring element of inconsequential youth 
 which had actuated the collies in the perpetration of the 
 theft, spurred their mistress to the pursuit. Away she 
 went, leaping the corn stubble and calling to the dogs 
 in a laughter-choked voice. 
 
 Boy cast a roguish glance at his pursuer, then paused 
 
MERRY ANDREW 3 
 
 to detach a souvenir from the hat rim. Twoboy ar- 
 rived, and was disputing possession with his brother 
 when the owner pounced upon them and recovered her 
 property. 
 
 " You've got a nice looking hat now," commented 
 Grandfather, trying to be severe but grinning in spite 
 of himself at Merry Andrew's chewed appearance. 
 
 " If I owned them there dogs, I'd shoot 'em! " de- 
 clared Bartholomew in solemn disgust. 
 
 " Calm yourself, Bartholomew," returned Merry 
 Andrew, " you don't own 'em; I own 'em." 
 
 " But you won't own 'em long. I heard old McNab 
 tellin' your gran'mother he'd be willin' to pay a little 
 suthin' for one of them pups — the best one." 
 
 " What's that ? " cried out Merry Andrew so wrath- 
 fully that Bartholomew flinched. She looked a bit 
 dangerous with her eyes flashing from under her dam- 
 aged hat and her corn-saber gleaming in the air. Bar- 
 tholomew had never heard of Semiramis or of Joan 
 of Arc, or he might have been even more concerned. 
 
 " There goes your gloves," he announced by way of 
 diversion. Merry Andrew was off again. 
 
 The recovery was more complicated this time as each 
 pup had taken a glove ; Twoboy escaping in the direc- 
 tion of home, Boy heading for the road which lay to 
 the west of the field. Merry Andrew returned at last, 
 puffing, gurgling with laughter, and far behind with 
 her work. Her four rows stood out lonesoraely, 
 
4 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Grandfather and Bartholomew having finished theirs 
 at the road fence and begun on new ones leading to- 
 wards the east and home. The dogs fairly radiated 
 satisfaction. They kept near Merry Andrew in hopes 
 of another frolic, but their mistress was through with 
 fooling. She hacked and hauled and bound the stalks 
 rapidly. She was already gaining on the men. She, 
 too, reached the fence at last and turned to new rows. 
 If Bartholomew had been alone she might easily have 
 overtaken him. Almost any one could overtake Bar- 
 tholomew in his work. But Grandfather hacked along 
 steadily and set the pace, his back bent in a tired, pa- 
 tient way. 
 
 Grandfather's hobby was United States history; a 
 taste he had scant leisure to indulge, because by the 
 time his day's work was over he was too tired to keep 
 awake through the " Critical Period," or to follow the 
 mazes of the Missouri Compromise. Often Merry An- 
 drew, or her sister, Sylvia, or her mother, " the Wid- 
 der Drew," as the neighbors called her, read aloud to 
 Grandfather until his gray head began to sag towards 
 one shoulder or the other and Grandmother commanded 
 a general retirement. Sometimes this command was 
 issued during the Battle of Bull Run or Stone River, 
 when no one was sleepy ; but it had to be obeyed none 
 the less. 
 
 There is no other place in the world where one may 
 follow out a train of thought so well as while cutting 
 
MERRY ANDREW 5 
 
 corn alone. Merry Andrew's reflections covered the 
 entire field of her experience; ranged from frivolous 
 to serious, from comedy to tragedy: Why was her 
 sister Sylvia's disposition, like her hair, pure gold, 
 while her own inheritance had been Grandmother 
 Drew's dark hair, homely name, and marked tendency 
 to domineer ? Merry Andrew did not fancy being like 
 Grandmother; she much preferred to be like Mother, 
 red-haired and conciliatory, loved and imposed upon 
 by everybody. But her locks were inky, and everybody 
 said she was " Grandmother's girl," everybody but 
 Grandmother. Grandmother was arrogant, overbear- 
 ing and stubborn — oh, dreadfully stubborn. When 
 Grandmother decided that a thing was right, no per- 
 suasion could turn her. Sylvia and Mother and 
 Grandfather "side-stepped" for Grandmother — 
 everybody except Merry Andrew herself. Of course 
 this went to prove the fact of their resemblance to each 
 other. 
 
 Because of this situation there had been ructions in 
 the Drew family and was likely to be again. Grand- 
 mother " couldn't see a joke with a spyglass " — 
 Merry Andrew was quite sure she was ahead of Grand- 
 mother there; that, at least, she had inherited, from 
 either Mother or Grandfather, a sense of humor — 
 they both had it. And Grandmother's servile admira- 
 tion for the McNabs — Merry Andrew was glad she 
 had not inherited that. Grandmother admired and 
 
6 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 bowed down to the McNabs. Why? Because the 
 McNabs were rich. And why were the McNabs rich? 
 Why did the McNab corn stand head and shoulders 
 above the Drew corn? Why did McNab have ma- 
 chinery to do his farm work with, while the Drews cut 
 and mowed and stacked by hand and acquired a mort- 
 gage which grew more troublesome every year? One 
 could not solve these problems even in a twenty-acre 
 cornfield, especially on a bleak day like this when one 
 had to keep moving. 
 
 Yesterday the work in the field had been pleasanter. 
 Then the air had been soft, the sunlight warm despite 
 the time of year ; the drying sunflower stalks along the 
 run had whispered pleasantly, and silvery webs had 
 undulated in a gentle silence. To-day all was changed. 
 The weather had turned sour; there were heavy gray 
 clouds gathering, and a cool wind which chilled one 
 through if one stopped work for a moment. Bartholo- 
 mew would certainly feel it, Merry Andrew reflected. 
 
 Bartholomew had ceased cutting corn and was gaz- 
 ing back toward the road in the well-known attitude 
 of the peasant girl in the picture called " The Song of 
 the Lark " ; eyes fixed, lips apart in sheer abstraction 
 — motionless, charmed. Merry Andrew turned to see 
 what had petrified him. It was a motor car driven at 
 top speed from the direction of McNab's toward the 
 north and south road which skirted the Drew corn- 
 field on the; west. It looked like the McNab car, but 
 
MERRY ANDREW 7 
 
 of course it could not be, because Wully McNab Senior 
 never drove the car, and Wully Junior was away at 
 school. 
 
 And there was another exasperating thought ! Why 
 could Wully McNab — who didn't care to — go to col- 
 lege, while poor Sylvia and Mary Ann Drew were 
 obliged to put up with Mother's teaching at home? 
 Not that she minded so much for herself; Mother was 
 an excellent teacher and well fitted for the task; but 
 Sylvia, who was musical, was fated to do housework 
 and teach the one-two-three's to a few country chil- 
 dren, while Gene McNab finished her musical training 
 in Boston and New York ! 
 
 Well, there was something to be thankful for, and 
 that was that the dogs had not been in the road when 
 the car swept along; they might have been run down, 
 the great clumsy, careless, ignorant things ! 
 
 Merry Andrew hacked away swiftly, gaining on 
 Bartholomew who had not as yet come out of his 
 trance. 
 
 " They're a goin' to our place," he announced, and 
 all three of the corn-cutters paused to gaze as the car 
 snapped into view a moment at the back door of the 
 Drew farmhouse and then whirled to the road again 
 and out of sight over the hill in the direction of Ben- 
 don. 
 
 " Wonder what old McNab wanted at the house? " 
 mused Bartholomew, and Merry Andrew shuddered. 
 
8 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 McNab held the mortgage on the Drew farm. Sup- 
 pose he wanted the money? And suppose Grand- 
 father couldn't raise it — which, of course, he couldn't 
 — and suppose old McNab should take over the farm, 
 with the dear, bleak, lonesome old stone house, and 
 put an Austrian or a'Polack tenant into it, and the 
 Drews be obliged to go somewhere else to live — in 
 a horrid homely house, an upright and a wing like 
 Pudney's, for instance? 
 
 Oh, this poverty! This giving of mortgages and 
 paying of interest ! Not knowing whether you owned 
 your place, or whether old McNab owned it ! 
 
 " What do you suppose old McNab wanted? " per- 
 sisted Bartholomew relentlessly. 
 
 "That wasn't Mr. McNab," said Merry Andrew; 
 " he never drives the car — anyhow, not like that." 
 
 " It was his car." 
 
 " No, it was somebody out from Bendon after 
 apples, or pumpkins, or whatever." 
 
 " I tell you that was McNab's car." 
 
 "Well, let it, then I" snapped Merry Andrew. 
 " Who cares ! Come on, Bartholomew, let's catch up 
 with Grandfather." 
 
 Thus urged, Bartholomew began again to hack 
 valorously, and so much advantage has youth, that by 
 the time the eastern edge of the field was won, the 
 three were once more hacking in a line. Here Bar- 
 tholomew went home to the milking, while Merry An- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 9 
 
 drew and Grandfather tackled the eight remaining 
 rows. 
 
 " If we make an extra IJ>rint we can finish to- 
 night," triumphed Grandfather. " And it will be a 
 good job if we can. It's been thickening for rain all 
 day and we'll get it tomorrow, I'm thinking." 
 
 " You don't suppose that was old McNab after all, 
 come about the mortgage, do you, Grandfather?" 
 ventured Merry Andrew. 
 
 " No, that wasn't McNab; he never drives like that." 
 
 Merry Andrew was reassured, but not wholly. 
 
 " But he will come some day, won't he ? " 
 
 " I suppose he will," Grandfather sighed. 
 
 " Grandfather," burst forth Merry Andrew, " I 
 don't see how you stand it! " 
 
 " You'll find out if you live long enough that the 
 things you have to stand you do manage to stand some- 
 how or other," responded Grandfather gloomily. 
 
 " But how did it happen that McNab got the mort- 
 gage on your place instead of your having the mort- 
 gage on his?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know." Grandfather was making a 
 pitiful effort to throw off the burden of the mortgage, 
 at least until those four rustling rows of corn were 
 stooked ; then, while he rested in the evening, he could, 
 as usual, take it up again, turning it over and over in 
 his tired brain. But Merry Andrew would not let the 
 matter rest. She longed to shift the load from that 
 
to MERRY ANDREW 
 
 bent old back to her own young shoulders and she 
 could not do so without a better understanding of the 
 situation. Before it had always been, "/You are too 
 young to talk of such matters! " but now that so much 
 of the heavy work of the farm was, naturally and in- 
 evitably, coming to her, as such Work will come to the 
 one strong enough to carry it, she felt that she had a 
 right to know. 
 
 " McNab is a better farmer than you are, isn't he, 
 Grandfather?" 
 
 " I suppose he is." 
 
 " Well, don't you think when a man starts in to be 
 something he ought to learn to be the very best in the 
 bunch?" 
 
 " I never did put much stock in book farming," 
 Grandfather replied with some irritation. " And I've 
 had bad luck. Your father married pretty young and 
 there were a good many extra expenses; and then he 
 died and left his wife and children — " 
 
 " I suppose if Sylvia and I had been boys things 
 would have evened up better, wouldn't they? " 
 
 " I suppose they would." 
 
 " But don't you think, Grandfather, that McNab 
 has had bad luck, too ? For instance, he's had Wully 
 — a boy who won't stay put anywhere. Do you 
 know, I think it must be awful bad luck for a man to 
 have a son like Wully McNab. Wully's never done 
 
MERRY ANDREW II 
 
 a turn on the farm, and look how Mother and Sylvia 
 and I have worked, and still we are behind." 
 
 " Yes, yes," owned Grandfather soothingly, 
 " you've been good girls — all of you." 
 
 " We have all worked as hard as we were able and 
 still we are away behind," reiterated Merry Andrew 
 savagely. " There must be a reason for it, and I am 
 going to find out what it is ! Everybody has a hobby 
 — a dream — something they think about more than 
 anything else; don't you realize that, Grandfather?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Grandfather. 
 
 " Well, they do. Take Grandmother, for instance : 
 she is a great housekeeper and if you or I should ask 
 her right out, she would tell a whopper — " 
 
 " Merry Andrew ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know ; but we are out here in the corn- 
 field alone together, Grandfather, and nobody hears 
 us — she would tell us that her mind is always on her 
 work. But it is not. It is on Mrs. McNab, and new 
 patterns for calico bedquilts; those are her hobbies. 
 I'll bet if you were to take an axe and split Grand- 
 mother's head right down through the middle, you'd 
 find Mrs. McNab sitting in one half and the ' star of 
 Texas ' or ' the bridal wreath ' bedquilt in the other." 
 
 Grandfather tried to suppress a wicked chuckle. 
 
 " Mother's hobby is that old church that McNab 
 takes over for his own next month. Sylvia's is music; 
 
12 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Bartholomew's is automobiles, and what he eats; 
 Boy's, Twoboy's, and Wully McNab's are alike — mis- 
 chief — destruction — tearing down what other folks 
 have worked hard to build up." Merry Andrew in- 
 stinctively fingered the jagged rim of her hat. 
 
 " What's yours? " demanded Grandfather. 
 
 " Heretofore I guess I belonged in the mischief- 
 making class with the dogs and Wully McNab; but 
 from this on, my thoughts by day and my dreams by 
 night shall be about just one thing — mortgage ! 
 That is to be my hobby — to save this farm from old 
 Wully McNab ! " 
 
 Grandfather's laughter provoked Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Don't you believe it ? " she challenged. 
 
 " Um-hum. It may be your hobby for a year or 
 so ; then it will be something else — some young chap 
 you'll be after to marry; Wully McNab himself, like 
 as not — " 
 
 " Why, Grandfather Drew ! " cried Merry Andrew 
 sharply, now thoroughly aroused. " I was never so 
 mad at you before in my life ! " 
 
 " Well, well," soothed Grandfather, " you can't 
 help it ; it's the way with young women, and I wouldn't 
 want you to be different from the rest." 
 
 " But — Wully McNab ! and I despise him ! You 
 don't know how I despise him! Trifling, whiffling, 
 no-account — " she struggled for» words to clothe her 
 indignation, and at that moment the wind, with a 
 
MERRY ANDREW 13 
 
 gleeful whirl, spattered the darkling landscape with 
 slanting lines of rain. Grandfather hastily tied up 
 the last stook. 
 
 "Just in time*! " he triumphed, adding in a sudden 
 boyish zest of achievement. " Night and storm are 
 upon us, and we must run for it or we shall be wet 
 through before we can make home ! " 
 
 With a rush like that of a bullet an automobile 
 flashed by on the road. The driver swung a hand at 
 the two dim figures in the field as his car sped past. 
 
 " Bartholomew was right after all," owned Merry 
 Andrew, gazing after the car where it turned west 
 toward McNab's. " That was McNab's car and that's 
 young Wully, home again, as sure as you are born! 
 Grandfather, don't imagine you've caught all the bad 
 luck which has been sprinkled over this neighborhood. 
 Old Wully McNab caught some of it, too. It will 
 just mad him clean down to his old brogans if Wully 
 has been turned out of school again! " 
 
 " I suppose it will," admitted Grandfather. " But 
 clipper, Merry Andrew, or you'll be wet to the hide 
 and get the rheumatism and can't raise that mortgage." 
 
 " Oh, you may laugh," warned Merry Andrew, 
 panting at his side through the storm. " You haven't 
 done it, but I will ! " 
 
 In the excitement of beating the storm the girl 
 threw off her fatigtfe like a garment. Not so Grand- 
 father; his breath came laboriously, his pace slack- 
 
14 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ened. Merry Andrew caught him by the elbow and 
 gave an added impetus to his gait. The collies cir- 
 cled and wheeled and cavorted, loth to have the chase 
 end. They were in their element. Then the house 
 door flew open, emitting a cheerful blaze of light and 
 a supper odor, while Sylvia called out, " Hurry, or 
 you'll be soaked ! " 
 
 " Oh," gasped Merry Andrew, still dragging Grand- 
 father, " glad you reminded us. Grandfather and I 
 were just strolling along absent-mindedly, as you no- 
 tice. Is it going to rain, do you think, really?" 
 
 The dripping collies plunged into the living-room, 
 but immediately plunged out again, driven by the still 
 more bitter wind of Grandmother's tongue and broom. 
 
 " We are going to have company," announced 
 Sylvia, helping her relatives out of their wet coats. 
 " Mrs. McNab is coming over tomorrow to spend the 
 afternoon and stay to tea. Who do you think told 
 us?" 
 
 " Why, Wully McNab." 
 
 " Yes, he's home again. Had a fuss with the presi- 
 dent, and so on. Have you seen him ? " 
 
 "At a distance. When Wully McNab is in a ma- 
 chine you don't have to be close up to recognize him," 
 declared Merry Andrew loftily. " You can tell him 
 as far as you can see the car. I only hope he gets 
 jailed for speeding some day; it would serve him 
 right!" 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 The day that Mrs. McNab came to visit the Drews 
 was one of the worst of the fall. The wind blew 
 steadily, and the rain weltered against the east parlor 
 window with wintry insistence. Sylvia Drew paused, 
 with her arms full of kindling-wood, to gaze out at 
 the sodden desolation of the dooryard ; the naked lilac- 
 bush, the tool-house afloat there to the east — (the 
 parlor side of the house, where it had no business to 
 be) the dead grass, long, unkempt, wiped here and 
 there like the careless yet effective brush strokes of a 
 skilful painter ; the forsaken road, winding to Bendon 
 eight miles distant. She had come in to build the fire 
 in the seldom-used parlor stove. The fact of a fire 
 in the parlor marked the importance of the occasion. 
 When any of the common neighbors came to see the 
 Drews they were entertained in the big living-room; 
 but when Mrs. McNab came the visiting took place in 
 the ugly little northeast parlor with its white walls, 
 blue-white Nottingham lace curtains, vivid Brussels 
 carpet, and haircloth furniture. 
 
 The room was an expression of Grandmother 
 Drew's taste. Grandmother had not given in to the 
 younger generation in the matter of furnishing, as had 
 
 is 
 
16 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Mrs. McNab. Mrs. McNab's house was old-fash- 
 ioned, too, upon the outside, but her son and daughter 
 had gone out into the world and brought back a breath 
 of it with them when they came from school. It had 
 wrung Mr. McNab's heart (he being of Scotch descent 
 and "thrufty") when his daughter, Gene, had de- 
 manded hardwood floors, a conservatory to the south 
 of the living-room ; but he had, nevertheless, yielded. 
 
 His son, " young Wully," did not inherit the family 
 thrift. Wully's extravagance had added many a gray 
 hair to his father's tawny thatch. 
 
 Sylvia built the fire, then stood a moment gazing 
 about the room, trying to see it with Gene McNab's 
 eyes. Mrs. McNab might not sense its ugliness; but 
 if ever Gene should happen to set foot upon that be- 
 plattered carpet, she would see — oh, she would see it 
 all! But it could not be helped; Grandfather was 
 not well-to-do like Mr. McNab. 
 
 To Sylvia's mind the redeeming feature of the par- 
 lor was the piano. Her mother had brought it as her 
 only dower when she came, a bride, with soul athrill 
 to the melody of life, to live in that lonely farmhouse. 
 The piano and her two little daughters had been the 
 bright spots in an unusually drab existence. She had 
 been a music teacher in Bendon until Allan Drew mar- 
 ried her and brought her to live with his mother, to 
 whom a clean hearth and well-filled larder spelt the 
 
MERRY ANDREW 17 
 
 whole of a normal woman's ambition. Her given 
 name was Felice, but the elder Mrs. Drew never spoke 
 it. She called her " daughter-in-law." 
 
 When the first baby came Allan Drew had listened 
 to his romantic little wife's whisper and had named it 
 Sylvia ; but when Sylvia's little sister was born he had 
 been a month in his grave, and Grandmother named 
 the baby after herself — Mary Ann. Flippant, high- 
 sounding, or romantic names, Grandmother said, were 
 apt to influence the bearers of them. And how was 
 Grandmother to know that the baby's lisping assertion 
 that she was " Merry-^MM-Drew," was to fasten upon 
 her a title quite befitting a young person of her volatile 
 temperament. 
 
 Sylvia slid upon the music-stool and let her fingers 
 wander over the chilling keys. The very touch of 
 them sent little thrills of rapture along her nerves. 
 She only hoped the sound of her playing would not 
 reach her grandmother's ears ; to sit playing the piano 
 when Mrs. McNab was expected would, at least, be 
 accounted a misdemeanor. Presently the door flew 
 open and Mother's intense little face, under its crown 
 of red hair, appeared, all furroughed over with anx- 
 ious wrinkles. 
 
 " Hush ! " she warned, " don't play ! The sound 
 of the piano just now would make Grandmother sick ! 
 We're in awful trouble ! " 
 
i8 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " What is the matter ?" demanded Sylvia anxiously. 
 
 " It's Merry Andrew and the boys again ! They've 
 eaten the pie — that is, Boy has — " 
 
 " The pie ! " cried Sylvia, with tragedy in her voice. 
 
 " Yes, the blackberry pie ! Grandmother set it on 
 top of the pump to cool; the dogs knocked it off and 
 Boy has eaten it." 
 
 " How do you know it was Boy? " 
 
 Mother ran across the room and tapped on the win- 
 dow-pane. Sylvia followed and gazed out at Merry 
 Andrew, who turned a vivid face in their direction; 
 a beautiful face, framed in dusky hair and torn straw 
 hat, yet a face blazing with wrath and vindictiveness. 
 On either side she dragged a reluctant collie. Two- 
 boy walked in innocence, while Boy, ensanguined ' 
 with blackberry juice, slunk guiltily at his mistress' 
 side. 
 
 " Can you tell who ate the pie ? " asked Mother. 
 
 At sight of her mother and sister at the window 
 Merry Andrew began to laugh, wagging a reckless 
 head as she proceeded to jail her friends in the tool- 
 house — their regular place of punishment. 
 
 " They are both mad," sighed Mother. 
 
 "The dogs?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; Grandmother and Merry Andrew." 
 
 " It seems as if Grandmother is always mad at 
 Merry Andrew," sighed Sylvia, " and what is the 
 use!" 
 
MERRY ANDREW 19 
 
 " Merry Andrew should remember what Grand- 
 mother has done for her — for us all." 
 
 " And Grandmother should remember that Merry 
 Andrew is still somewhat of a child, and that she 
 loves her dogs ! " 
 
 " Grandmother says that she is going to get rid of 
 them both. Mr. McNab wants Twoboy, you know, 
 and she is going to tell Mrs. McNab today that he may 
 have the dog." 
 
 Sylvia was startled. " She wouldn't be that — 
 that heartless, would she, Mother ? What does Grand- 
 father say ? " 
 
 " Oh, Grandfather will do as Grandmother thinks 
 best; you know that." 
 
 " But we ought to have some rights, Mother ; at 
 least, you ought. And, after all, we girls are their 
 grandchildren, and, since we have grown up, we have 
 tried to earn our way. Grandfather says he should 
 have to hire another hand if it weren't for Merry 
 Andrew. And every farmer needs a dog." 
 
 " But not two, dear — not two, especially if Grand- 
 mother objects. Come now, we mustn't stay here in 
 the parlor when everything is askew in the kitchen. I 
 think you had better stir up a minute pudding for des- 
 sert to take the place of the pie. And — wait a min- 
 ute, Sylvia ; Grandmother wants me to warn you girls 
 not to mention the matter of the church before Mrs. 
 McNab. It is an unpleasant subject to her. It seems 
 
20 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 that she objects to Mr. McNab taking over the church, 
 and went to town to try to persuade her minister to 
 come out and preach in it — just to hold it. One 
 divine service held within its doors before the end 
 of the month would invalidate Mr. MacNab's claim 
 to the property for another ten years. But the min- 
 ister refused to come." 
 
 " He must be a hard-hearted minister." 
 
 " Apparently Mr. McNab had already laid his side 
 of the case before the minister." 
 
 " I can't imagine what argument Mr. McNab could 
 put forth except that he is so grasping that he wants 
 to take advantage of the clause in his father's will 
 which gave him the church, and the land it stands on, 
 if it wasn't used for church purposes. That is the 
 way of it, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, if the church isn't opened for religious serv- 
 ices for the space of ten consecutive years it reverts 
 to the McNabs." 
 
 " Mr. McNab has money with which to buy lumber 
 for his barns and pigsties — that's all the church would 
 amount to torn down — and he has more land now 
 than he knows what to do with — Mother, do you 
 think it is right of Mr. McNab to tear down the poor 
 old church just because the law gives him the chance? " 
 
 " No ! oh, no ! The poor little church, where I 
 played the organ when I was first married ! In that 
 little short time when — I was happy!" She fum- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 21 
 
 bled for her handkerchief, and not finding it, caught 
 up the corner of her big apron with which to stifle a 
 sob. 
 
 It cut Sylvia to the heart to see her mother weep. 
 It was not often in all her hard and sordid life that 
 Mrs. Drew gave way to tears before her girls. 
 
 " Mother," said Sylvia suddenly, " when Mrs. Mc- 
 Nab's own minister refused to come, why didn't she 
 try the other one — Mr. Clyde?" 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. McNab would never do that ; she would 
 think it almost a sacrilege to invite a minister not of 
 her own denomination to preach in the church built by 
 Mr. McNab's father." 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't," said Sylvia. "We certainly 
 need a church, and church services. We are getting 
 to be perfect heathen ; all of us." 
 
 The door opened suddenly and Grandmother's un- 
 compromising countenance confronted the culprits. 
 They both started guiltily. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " demanded Grandmother 
 icily. 
 
 " We — we — were just talking," faltered Mother. 
 
 " Well ! " breathed Grandmother, with the expulsion 
 of breath which with her meant high displeasure, " a 
 strange time for visiting ! She will be here now at any 
 minute, and the table not set, and neither one of you 
 with your dress changed. Seems very strange to 
 me!" 
 
22 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Grandmother was in the habit of describing herself 
 as a " frail old woman," but no one gazing upon her 
 stalwart figure, her abundant, iron-gray hair, her 
 youthful alertness of gesture and > sprightliness of 
 step, could doubt that she had still many years of 
 usefulness and administrative dominance before her, 
 or that she stood a chance of outliving her sensitive, 
 repressed little daughter-in-law. 
 
 " I don't know what is to become of that girl ! " 
 Grandmother's tones were weighted with despair. 
 Sylvia and her mother stood distressfully gazing at 
 the central platter-shaped figure in the carpet. They 
 seldom argued with Grandmother, especially when the 
 text of Grandmother's discourse was Merry Andrew. 
 
 " A self-willed, stubborn child, with no respect 
 whatever for her elders, and fast growing into a dom- 
 ineering woman," went on Grandmother. " She has 
 needed discipline — correction ; she has had neither ! " 
 She paused. Mother's face was flushed. Sylvia's 
 gaze was still riveted upon the platter. 
 
 "We — have thought—" faltered Mother, "that 
 Merry Andrew — I mean Mary Ann — was like — 
 you." 
 
 " Me ! Me ! " breathed Grandmother in horror. 
 
 " I mean," Mother hastened to add, " I had hoped 
 that her youthful wilfulness would turn into — into 
 strength of character — " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 23 
 
 "In my youth I was never flippant!" announced 
 Grandmother severely) " Never! " 
 
 " Has Merry Andrew — Mary Ann — been flip- 
 pant ? " sighed Mother. 
 
 " She has. When she saw the dog, with his muzzle 
 covered with pie- juice, she laughed ! " Sylvia stirred 
 uneasily, then suddenly produced her handkerchief and 
 coughed into it. " Now what was there to laugh at 
 in such a spectacle?" demanded Grandmother. "I 
 struck the dog, and when he yelped, she called out, 
 ' You rang the bell that time, Grandmother.' What 
 did she mean by that? And when I ordered her to 
 catch the dog and bring him to me so that I could 
 punish him as he deserved, she shook her head saucily 
 and refused. Said she couldn't; that she considered 
 that he had been punished enough; that whipping 
 ruined a collie. Now what is to be done with her? " 
 
 As Merry Andrew's relatives seemed to have noth- 
 ing to suggest, Grandmother issued her ultimatum: 
 
 " One thing is certain, the dogs must go ! I will 
 not have them about the place any longer ! " 
 
 Despite the episode of the pie, Grandmother was 
 entirely ready to receive Mrs. McNab when that lady 
 arrived a few moments later. She wore her second- 
 best black dress — her visiting dress — finished at the 
 neck with a crocheted collar and a lavender bow with 
 fringed ends. She had even tied on her large, light, 
 
24 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 calico apron, the last rite before the advent of com- 
 pany. It was well, for with a suddenness which fairly 
 took away the breath, a motor car whirled between the 
 parlor window and the tool-house, and young Wully 
 McNab jumped out and lifted his fear-stricken mother 
 to the ground. The ready and the unready went forth 
 into the rain together to greet the guest, while from 
 the tool-house came Merry Andrew — the most un- 
 ready of all — in her dirty dress and ragged hat. 
 Recklessly unready, for Boy had left the trail of his 
 affectionate caresses upon her face and waist in smears 
 of dark pie-juice, and in this condition she met the 
 scandalized eyes of her Grandmother across the Mc- 
 Nab motor. 
 
 "Hello, kid!" sang out young Wully McNab. 
 
 "Are you home? " returned Merry Andrew, rather 
 sullenly. 
 
 " No — oh, no ; I'm in the Rocky Mountains on a 
 hunting expedition." 
 
 " But why aren't you at school ? " 
 
 "Canned!" 
 
 " He is at home because he is a naughty boy ! " ex- 
 plained his mother unhappily. She spoke with that 
 haunting accent which never wholly leaves the Scotch 
 unto the third and fourth generation — that roll of r's 
 and pinch of vowels. She was a round little woman 
 with white hair and an importance bred of much pros- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 25 
 
 perity. " He was up to his tricks on Hallowe'en, and 
 a Professor Bailey, who has, I am sure, taken too 
 much authority to himself, suspended Wully. Mr. 
 McNab will look into the matter." Young Wully 
 winked broadly at Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Come in, come in, Mrs. McNab," urged Grand- 
 mother ; " your bonnet will be ruined." 
 
 " It doesn't matter," returned Mrs. McNab, in a 
 tone which conveyed the impression that there were 
 plenty more bonnets where that came from. 
 
 " I wanted to come home anyhow," declared young 
 Wully; " I wanted to use the machine. Father doesn't 
 dare run it, and mother is like a raving maniac when 
 one goes faster than three miles an hour. Jump in, 
 girls," he invited, as Mother and Grandmother led 
 their guest within, " I'll take you for a little spin." 
 
 " Thank you," said Sylvia, " but I would rather 
 go in and visit. Besides, I must make a pudding for 
 supper." 
 
 " Come on then, you, kid." 
 
 " I'm desperate, but not enough so to want to com- 
 mit suicide yet awhile, Mr. Wully McNab," retorted 
 Merry Andrew ; " and I do wish you would try to 
 remember that my parents were not goats ! And there 
 is something else I want to speak about, now that I 
 have the chance : Grandmother is threatening to give 
 one of my dogs to your folks. But I won't have it! 
 
26 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 If you dare — you or your father — to take my dog, 
 I'll — I'll burn your barns, and shoot your cattle, and 
 — and puncture your tires ! " 
 
 Young Wully howled with delight. 
 
 " You bet I'll take your dog if Grandmother Drew 
 gives him to me. I want a fightin' dog. A dog should 
 be taught to earn his keep." 
 
 " So should a boy. But they aren't — always. I 
 could mention some that are perfectly whiffling, no- 
 account — " 
 
 " Merry Andrew ! " expostulated Sylvia, " what are 
 you saying ! " 
 
 " Don't stop her," pleaded Wully, " I agree with 
 every word she says. That big George Stone, for in- 
 stance ; lazy as a dormouse, and Pete Swanson not two 
 jumps behind. It's a fright the way those guys carry 
 sail ! If I were their fathers — or — I should say, if 
 I was his father — or its father — or its fathers, — 
 or — Oh, dear me ! I'm all mixed up in my grammar 
 and me just from college, too! Which is correct, 
 Sylvia? I won't ask the kid there; she doesn't know 
 grammar from a saw-horse. Say, is that the voice of 
 the dog- Grandmother Drew is going to give us Mc- 
 Nabs ? Where is he, tied up in the shed yonder ? It's 
 a raucous voice, isn't it? Is he really good for any- 
 thing, kid?" 
 
 " He has never been turned out of school," taunted 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 227 
 
 "Why is he tied up?" 
 
 " He stole a pie." 
 
 "Is that straight? What a coincidence! That's 
 what I was canned for — stealing a pie, and eating 
 it — with other things, in the dormitory." Then he 
 jumped into his car, made a grand circle over the 
 grass, but drew up again to inquire, " That voice 
 sounds double; are there two of him? Or should I 
 have said, is there two of him? Which is right, Syl- 
 via ? Dear me, I do try so hard to be correct — just 
 having finished school this way." 
 
 " Finish school ! " sneered Merry Andrew. " You'll 
 never finish anything, Wully McNab. I haven't any 
 patience with you! It would do you good to get a 
 few hard knocks — to have to earn what you put in 
 your mouth and the. clothes you put on your back. 
 That might make a man of you ! Sylvia and I would 
 give all our old shoes to have the chance for the edu- 
 cation which you are throwing away ! " 
 
 " Instead of going to school you have to stay and 
 earn your bread and butter ? " 
 
 " Yes, we do." 
 
 " And still it hasn't made men of you. Theory all 
 wrong, you see." Then he swept away in a gale of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Come, come, Merry Andrew," soothed Sylvia, 
 " let's go in and get cleaned up for supper." 
 
 " I will not ! " stormed her sister. " I wouldn't dare 
 
28 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 sit down to supper with Grandmother and Mrs. Mc- 
 Nab feeling the way I do. I should say awful things 
 — just awful! And I warn you right here, Sylvia 
 Drew, and I shall warn Grandfather and Grandmother 
 and Mother, if Wully, or old McNab takes one of my 
 dogs, I'll steal him back again and go where none of 
 you will ever see me again ! " 
 
 " You think more of your dogs than you do of 
 Mother — poor little Mother, who would break her 
 heart if you were to run away? " 
 
 " You know better, Sylvia ; but you know that I 
 love my dogs. I saved 'em from Al Pierce when he 
 had 'em at the very pond to drown 'em, and I'll save 
 'em again in spite of the stingiest McNab that ever 
 drew breath ! " 
 
 " I don't think young Wully meant what he said 
 about teaching the dog to fight." 
 
 " It makes no difference whether Wully meant what 
 he said or not ; I meant what I said ! " Merry An- 
 drew stalked to the house, leaving her sister thinking 
 of the prophetic straightening of the lines about her 
 sister's pretty mouth which made her resemble her 
 grandmother. Was it possible that some day Merry 
 Andrew would be what Grandmother was today, stern, 
 hard, irresponsive to other people's wishes ? And was 
 it possible that in Grandmother's youth, she had been 
 sweet and loving, gay and reckless? Surely time and 
 environment were terrible mills to grind such grists! 
 
MERRY ANDREW 29 
 
 Perhaps there had been a day when old Wully McNab 
 had been generous — away back when his father, the 
 original Wully, was dictating that ridiculous will. 
 Perhaps if he had been reared amid different surround- 
 ings, where the dollar had not been worshipped so 
 openly, and where life had been less sordid, he might 
 not now be the wealthiest man in Rosedale Township 
 — nor the stingiest. 
 
 It was Mrs. McNab, herself, who broached the sub- 
 ject of the church at the supper table. She said very 
 decidedly that she did not approve of Mr. McNab's 
 tearing down, or moving, the church, and was sorry 
 that the Reverend Mr. Stroub's health would not per- 
 mit his taking extra duties upon himself, such as 
 driving eight miles into the country to preach in an 
 empty church. 
 
 " It is too much to ask of any minister," acquiesced 
 Grandmother. 
 
 " Yet ministers have been known to do even harder 
 tasks for the sake, of religion." Sylvia was startled at 
 the sound of her own voice. She knew that young 
 folks should be seen and not heard. 
 
 " Right you are, dear," said Mrs. McNab, " but I 
 guess that day is past and gone." 
 
 " I am wondering if the other Bendon minister 
 couldn't be persuaded to come — " 
 
 " Sylvia ! " interrupted Grandmother with her se- 
 verest expression, " bring in the pudding! " 
 
3.o MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Where is Mary Ann ? " inquired Mrs. McNab po- 
 litely as Sylvia reappeared with the pudding. 
 
 " She is in disgrace on account of her dogs," an- 
 swered Sylvia. " They have been bad, and to punish 
 them, and Merry Andrew, Grandmother threatened 
 to give one of them to your folks. Of course Grand- 
 mother was joking; she knows it would break Merry 
 Andrew's heart to take her dogs away." 
 
 If Sylvia had heaved the tray of pudding straight at 
 Grandmother's head it would not have created more 
 of a sensation. Mother fairly shriveled in her chair ; 
 Grandfather shuffled his feet, and gazed apprehensively 
 at his wife. Even Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg, stu- 
 pid as he was, awoke to the realization of the unusual. 
 Grandmother was the first to recover. 
 
 " No," she announced, " I was not joking; the dogs 
 must go. And if Mr. McNab would still like one he 
 may take his pick. We are going to get rid of them 
 both." 
 
 Sylvia's eyes met those of Mrs. McNab. There was 
 in them a straight appeal for help; an appeal which 
 was, not disregarded. 
 
 " Tut, tut ! " said Mrs. McNab in her slightly over- 
 bearing way, " let the child keep her dogs, Mrs. Drew, 
 if she finds any comfort in them. Let her keep them. 
 Mr. McNab shall not take either one of them. I may 
 not have authority enough in my own house to prevent 
 
MERRY ANDREW 31 
 
 the confiscation of a church, but I think I may have 
 my say in the matter of a dog or no dog." 
 
 There was a distant restraint over the remainder of 
 the meal, but afterwards Mrs. McNab went deeply into 
 the subject nearest Grandmother's heart — the piec- 
 ing of bedquilts. She expressed an ardent desire to 
 see again the two Grandmother had finished during 
 the past winter, and while Grandmother went to fetch 
 them, she gave Sylvia's arm a mischievous little shake. 
 " You tell Mary Ann I think I've helped her out with 
 her dogs," she chuckled. " And in the matter of the 
 church, if you can scare up a minister — any kind of 
 a minister, I shall be heartily glad of it ! " 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Sylvia dreaded the settling with Grandmother which 
 she felt must come after her open rebellion. Grand- 
 mother was not cruel. She loved her son's children 
 and their mother, but she had lived so long in undis- 
 puted authority that the increasing frequency of Merry 
 Andrew's spells of insubordination had menaced the 
 family peace for some time. Never before had Sylvia 
 in word or manner run athwart the bows of Grand- 
 mother's ship of authority. Now that she had done so 
 she feared a battle. She had been surprised that it 
 had not occurred immediately upon Mrs. McNab's de- 
 parture. Evidently Grandmother had decided to wait 
 until the next morning when she would be alone with 
 the culprits and their mother. 
 
 If such was the case her plan had been thwarted by 
 Grandfather, who, with Bartholomew, was building a 
 fence on the south line. They had run short of nails; 
 at least there would not be enough to last out the day. .. 
 If Grandmother could spare the girls he would like 
 them to drive to town with the lumber wagon, get the 
 nails, and, also, a load of lime. The men at the station 
 would load the lime, and it would practically save him 
 a day's work for two men, for neither he nor Bar- 
 tholomew could make fence alone. 
 
 32 
 
MERRY ANDREW 33 
 
 Sylvia's spirits sank. Here was the opportunity to 
 put the strength of her resolution to the test. , If any- 
 thing was to be done about saving the church from 
 Mr. McNab it must be done this week. Here was the 
 chance to go to Bendon to seek an interview with Mr. 
 Clyde. Brought face to face with the matter, it 
 seemed unfair that she, a young girl, should be obliged 
 to shoulder such a disagreeable task. She beckoned 
 her mother to follow her upstairs when she went up to 
 make ready for town. She hoped that Mother would 
 decide that the matter of the church might be dropped. 
 If Mother thought best to let it rest she could go about 
 her work with a clear conscience. It was a very dis- 
 agreeable errand, this going to coax a minister into 
 extra work when everybody knew that ministers had 
 more work to do than time in which to do it. And 
 suppose she should succeed in getting a minister 
 to drive the eight miles and preach in a shabby old 
 white church and then nobody should be there to 
 hear him? It would save the church, of course, but 
 how horribly embarrassing it would be for the minis- 
 ter. 
 
 Mother sat on the bed soberly thinking while Sylvia 
 combed her hair and knotted it in pretty shining coils, 
 thrusting it through and through with big honey-col- 
 ored pins which matched it exactly in shade. 
 
 " You know, Mother, ministers wouldn't be apt to 
 pay much attention to a girl of my age — " 
 
34 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Merry Andrew came rushing in, shedding hat and 
 apron as she came. 
 
 " I've had the awfullest time shutting up the boys," 
 she scolded. " Once Grandfather let 'em out, and once 
 Bartholomew. Dear me ! do you know where my best 
 shoes have got themselves to, Sylvia? " 
 
 " I saw them in my bedroom, dear," said Mother, 
 and while Merry Andrew flew to the front bedroom 
 on her search, Mrs. Drew answered : " I think any 
 real minister, one who believes what he professes to 
 believe, would be sympathetic if the case were pre- 
 sented to him, no matter who did the presenting — 
 old man or maiden — " 
 
 " I can't find the other one." Merry Andrew thrust 
 a round bare arm through the door to dangle one shoe 
 in midair. Grandfather called from the lower stair 
 door that the team was at the hitching-post. 
 
 All three began a wild search for the missing shoe. 
 It was found under Bartholomew's bed with the top 
 partly chewed off. Mother gazed at it in consterna- 
 tion. The destruction of an almost new shoe was no 
 light matter. Merry Andrew looked sheepish. 
 
 " Could Bartholomew have been as hungry as all 
 that ? " she murmured. 
 
 " I remember hearing Boy galloping around up here 
 yesterday," scolded Sylvia. " Isn't it terrible ! " 
 
 " But I can wear it," declared Merry Andrew 
 stoutly. " Who's going to see the top of my shoe any- 
 
MERRY ANDREW .'35 
 
 way, unless the wind blows, and then I'll just have to 
 sit down and curl that bad foot under me. It's lucky 
 it wasn't my hat, or Grandmother's shoe ! " She 
 rushed out to finish her toilet. 
 
 " Well, .what shall I do about the church business, 
 Mother?" demanded Sylvia. "Do tell me! If it is 
 my duty to try to save the old church I am willing, but 
 you don't know how I dread it ! " 
 
 " Once," said Mother slowly, " you told me that you 
 were going to be a missionary ; that you would be will- 
 ing to sacrifice your personal plans, your happiness — 
 your very life — to carry the gospel to the heathen. 
 It seems to me I never knew a community more in 
 need of missionary work than is this of Rosedale — " 
 
 Merry Andrew dashed in. " Why Sylvia Drew ! 
 don't you hear Grandfather down there just tearing 
 himself to shreds, and you nowhere near ready! 
 Hustle, for pity's sake! Next thing you'll have 
 Grandmother up after us ! " 
 
 " I guess you 're right, Mother," owned Sylvia, 
 " and the Drews as well as the others in Rosedale need 
 missionaries. If I had known for sure I was going 
 to labor with Mr. Clyde I would have curled my hair 
 and tried to look as little as possible like a heathen. 
 But there is no time for that now. I do wish I might 
 have talked it over with you a little more. You could 
 have posted me as to what to say and how to say it," 
 
 " Look in your own heart for that," advised Mother. 
 
36 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " State the case briefly and as strongly as possible. 
 Explain how his service would hold the church for a 
 certain number of years, during which time some new 
 strength might develop in the community, and a self- 
 supporting society be again established. If we lose 
 this church, already built and paid for, we may never 
 hope to have another." 
 
 " What's all this you two are whispering about ? " 
 demanded Merry Andrew, closing the door behind her 
 cautiously as she came in. When the Drew family 
 whispered among themselves it was generally under- 
 stood that it was about something which would better 
 not reach Grandmother's ears. Mrs. Drew explained 
 to Merry Andrew while Sylvia hurried to finish getting 
 ready. 
 
 When the two girls were safely started for Bendon, 
 after a last delay caused by Bartholomew's blundering 
 into the tool-house and letting out the dogs, Merry 
 Andrew settled into the spring seat of the lumber 
 wagon with a sigh of relief. She was flushed and a 
 little soiled from that last tussle to persuade the Boys 
 that they were safer in the tool-house than trangling 
 to town after the wagon. Bartholomew had, once al- 
 lowed them this privilege, and the trip, fraught as it 
 had been with the spice of new and dangerous adven- 
 ture, had made a strong impression upon their collie 
 natures, never free from the wanderlust. Bartholo- 
 mew's indiscretion had heaped trouble upon the head 
 
MERRY ANDREW tf 
 
 of Merry Andrew, who, in turn, heaped reproaches 
 upon Bartholomew's. 
 
 Now as the two girls jogged down the road behind 
 the slow-moving farm-horses and completely out of 
 danger of Grandmother's overhearing anything they 
 might say, Merry Andrew would have enjoyed " sput- 
 tering " about family troubles, but Sylvia, keyed up 
 and nervous in view of her uncertain errand to the 
 minister's, was in no mood to respond. Merry An- 
 drew realized this at last, and switched to the subject 
 uppermost in her sister's mind. 
 
 " I'm glad it is you instead of me who is going to 
 see the minister. You won't get him to fuss with our 
 old barn of a church, Sylvia, and you needn't think it. 
 And for one I don't blame him." 
 
 ' " There's no harm in trying," sighed Sylvia. She 
 was hopeless enough without further discouraging 
 comment. 
 
 " How shall you begin ? " questioned Merry An- 
 drew. " Tell you what let's do : I'll pretend I'm 
 Mr. Clyde and you go on and rehearse the interview." 
 
 Sylvia laughed, but declined to take advantage of her 
 sister's suggestion. 
 
 " Then you be the minister and I'll be Miss Sylvia 
 Drew appealing for help. I'm willing to do what 
 little I can to assist." 
 
 " You can help most by looking after the lime and 
 the nails while I do the harder errand," said Sylvia. 
 
38 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " I presume you will tell him all about the fight be- 
 tween the Pudneys and the Pierces. Such matters are 
 apt to throw variety into a minister's life — makes easy 
 working, you know. And tell him that Grandmother 
 won't favor him because he isn't of her persuasion; 
 mat she's so sure that the ministers of the other 
 churches won't get through the eye of the needle that 
 she doesn't waste time praying for them. If every- 
 thing else fails to fetch him you may tell him about 
 me. But you better save that until the last. If that 
 doesn't bring him, break and run! He's not the per- 
 son for the Rosedale church — Whoa!" 
 
 She stopped her chatter suddenly and stood up, peer- 
 ing sharply into a clump of bushes by the fence. 
 
 " King of England and Emperor of India, we've 
 got to go back ! Look yonder ! " Sylvia gazed where 
 her sister pointed. A yellowish, reddish, doggish grin, 
 composed of teeth, waggish eyes, and a great expanse 
 of tongue shone forth. 
 
 " We've got to go back ! " repeated Merry Andrew. 
 
 " But we can't. Grandmother wouldn't — " 
 
 " We're going back ! My duty to my own family is 
 paramount to everything else ! Al Pierce told me yes- 
 terday that there was a mad dog in Bendon. Do you 
 think I'm going to sacrifice those pups for a handful 
 of nails? Or because I'm afraid of a jawing from 
 Grandmother? That dunce of a Bartholomew has let 
 
MERRY ANDREW 39 
 
 them out again ! Whoa — back ! " She was turning 
 the team around. 
 
 " I think I'll get out," said Sylvia, " and go on 
 afoot." 
 
 " You're a coward," scolded Merry Andrew. 
 " You are afraid to go back and face Grandmother." 
 
 " Yes, I am a coward," owned Sylvia, " but not on 
 Grandmother's account — not this time. But I am so 
 much of a coward that if I don't see Mr. Clyde today 
 I'll not be likely to get my courage screwed to the 
 sticking point again. It's like having a tooth pulled ; 
 you just can't bear to get ready twice to face the den- 
 tist." 
 
 " Well, I'll drive back at a pretty good jog and over- 
 take you before you get into town," promised Merry 
 Andrew. 
 
 " I don't believe you will, for I don't believe Grand- 
 mother will let you come back. See that storm-cloud ? 
 It's likely to rain and you couldn't get the lime any- 
 way if it rained. Grandfather told us not to bring it 
 if it looked as if we should get caught in a shower." 
 
 " What will you do if it rains — afoot and no um- 
 brella, and your best dress and shoes on? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," sighed Sylvia. " I'll just have 
 to do the best I can." 
 
 " Maybe they'll let me come back," said Merry An- 
 drew hopefully, "or, rather, maybe she'll let me; it 
 
40 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 won't be Grandfather who will kick up the row. I'll 
 tell you what I'll do," she schemed, " I'll tie the team to 
 the fence along down the road, take the dogs home by 
 hand through the fields, and perhaps get 'em into the 
 tool-house safe and sound without anybody seeing me. 
 Then I'll come kerwhalloping back before you get 
 anywhere near town. Now take it cool and walk 
 slowly. You'll be surprised to see me come." 
 
 She called to her reluctant charges who, with glances 
 of regret townward, went "kerwhalloping" joyously 
 home after the team, heedless of the tool-house incar- 
 ceration awaiting them. From the summit of a little 
 knoll Merry Andrew swung a hand to Sylvia, then 
 disappeared from view, dogs and all. 
 
 Sylvia trudged on, picking her way as daintily as 
 possible over the roughness of the road and through 
 the weeds at the side. At best it would be but a road- 
 worn suppliant who would present herself at the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Clyde's door. At the sound of an approach- 
 ing motor she shrank farther into the weeds. Auto- 
 mobiles were not numerous in the vicinity. 
 
 It was young Wully McNab who brought his car 
 to a standstill at her side. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 " I knew you'd climb the fence when you heard me 
 coming! " he called out to Sylvia. " Come on, jump 
 in! I know where you are going, and what you're 
 going for." 
 
 " How do you come to know so much ? " Sylvia 
 was nettled at Wully's manner. 
 
 " A little bird told me ; a little bird driving a farm 
 team and a rattling old wagon. I came within one 
 of running down a dog. The little bird stopped in 
 her mad career long enough to go for me good and 
 plenty. She said I'd probably run over you, and that 
 you were on your way down to the preacher's to try 
 to have him come out and save the church from my 
 old man. She said she hoped you could get him, and 
 that my old man would lose the church and every other 
 last thing that he owned — or words to that effect. I 
 told her I was going to show my willingness to help by 
 picking you up and taking you to the reverend's house 
 myself. Of course it wouldn't please the old man if 
 he knew, because he is quite keen on gathering in that 
 corner where the church stands. But he doesn't know, 
 so jump in." 
 
 " Thank you," returned Sylvia, " but I'd rather not. 
 41 
 
42 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 I'm anxious to keep your father from taking the 
 church, but I want to fight fair." 
 
 " Well, this isn't his car — it's mine — or almost. 
 He won't run it." 
 
 " Did you earn it ? " Sylvia's lip curled scornfully. 
 
 " No, but if it comes to that, neither did dad. He's 
 just sharp enough to gather in other men's earnings. 
 And besides, you won't do the old man a mite of harm. 
 Mr. Stroub isn't going to come out to Rosedale Cor- 
 ners to work for nothing. Ministers nowadays are 
 like the rest of us, they're out for what's in it. Why 
 say, now listen: when you get someone to preach in 
 that old ark I'll promise to furnish the music — honest, 
 I will. You know yourself I'm a whale on the tenor." 
 He clapped spreading fingers to his breast and warbled 
 exaggeratedly, yet altogether musically. " Come on, 
 jump in. I want to give you an imitation of a young 
 man taking a young lady somewhere — to the minis- 
 ter's, for instance. We'll make time that will put to 
 blush those old mares you've just been riding behind ! " 
 
 From her handbag Sylvia had taken a fountain pen 
 and a letter which she had forgotten to drop into the 
 R.F.D. box. She meant to sacrifice the cost of a post- 
 age stamp in a good cause. She hastily scribbled an 
 agreement across the back and handed the letter up to 
 Wully. 
 
 " Sign this, and then I'll let you take me to town." 
 
 "Sign?" Wully read the agreement. "Well, if 
 
MERRY ANDREW 43 
 
 you don't remind me of my old man ! ' Black-an'- 
 white, Wully, black-an'-white, an' then you've got 
 'urn ! ' You ought to get into the farm mortgage busi- 
 ness with dad ; you two would make a team ! " He 
 laughed uproariously, but signed his name at the bot- 
 tom of the envelope and handed it back to Sylvia, wh6 
 put it and the pen away in her handbag and immedi- 
 ately climbed into the car. 
 
 She knew what to expect. Young Wully was fam- 
 ous throughout the country for his reckless driving, 
 and he would be sure to want to show off with a 
 passenger aboard who had never ridden in an automo- 
 bile before. 
 
 The car shot forward. Sylvia fairly gasped for 
 breath. She clutched her gloved fingers together and 
 stared straight ahead. She knew when Crosby's barn 
 melted and ran by on the south side of the road, and 
 she knew, rather than saw, that the white house with 
 the tall silo, and the one with the iron fence, and the 
 one with the pigsty in the front yard, were all running 
 together, and going in an opposite direction from that 
 in which she and young Wully were traveling.' Then 
 she saw a team coming in the distance and shut her 
 eyes to avoid the sight of the crash. When she opened 
 them again they were entering Bendon, and Wully 
 had slowed up. She began suddenly to experience a 
 delightful sensation — that of joyous, bounding mo- 
 tion. She was almost angry at herself that she found 
 
44 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 the cushions of Wully McNab's machine so delight- 
 fully soft and comfortable; that the wind, whizzing by 
 her cheeks, exhilarated her. 
 
 " Doesn't it beat the old mares up to a point ? " 
 challenged Wully, grinning back at her over his shoul- 
 der. "Now here we go to Stroub's. Hold your 
 bonnet on. We should arrive in some sort of style 
 if we are to impress his reverence with the importance 
 of our mission. Want me to go in with you ? I could 
 say, ' Mr. Stroub, we have come to ask you to drive 
 out to the old Rosedale church to preach next Sunday, 
 so papa can't annex the church property. Papa wants 
 to make a cow pasture of the land and a hen-house 
 of the church. He thinks his chickens would be bene- 
 fited by religious surroundings — grow up to be better 
 hens and roosters.' It might help, although dad al- 
 ready pays his share of Mr. Stroub's salary here in 
 town, and it wouldn't be policy for Stroub to antago- 
 nize him." 
 
 " But I'm not going to see Mr. Stroub," said Sylvia, 
 " I'm going to see the other minister, Mr. Clyde." 
 
 " Oh, here now ; that's not fair. He might — " 
 
 "Of course he might. If I hadn't thought he 
 might, I wouldn't have taken my life in my hands by 
 riding in your automobile, Wully McNab. You'd bet- 
 ter let me out here at the comer; I'll walk down to 
 Mr. Clyde's." 
 
 " No you won't ; I never put my hand to the plow 
 
MERRY ANDREW 45 
 
 nor to the wheel and then turn back. Where do the 
 Clydes live? I'm a little rusty on ministers other 
 than my own. I knew a chap in school by the name 
 of Clyde. Good fellow, too." 
 
 " Mr. Clyde lives next door to his own church — 
 the church which isn't yours. Does that give you any 
 clue?" 
 
 Wully chuckled. He swung the car around the cor- 
 ner and came up with a great sweep in front of a quiet 
 white house almost hidden in maples. The excitement 
 of her first ride in an automobile had for a time taken 
 Sylvia's mind from the ordeal of her interview with 
 the minister, but now that it was at hand her heart beat 
 nervously and a feeling of faintness crept over her. 
 Young McNab jumped out and opened the door of 
 the car. 
 
 " I'm sure I'm ever so much obliged," she began 
 formally. 
 
 " Never mind that till the job is finished," said 
 Wully. " Trot in now, and I'll sit out here and do, sol, 
 fa, me, to get my voice into shape for anthems while 
 I wait for you. Don't be any longer than you can 
 help. I shall be anxious to know if I am in any real 
 danger of having to keep my promise about signing. 
 I don't think I am, but — " 
 
 " Oh, please go along ! I don't want you to wait 
 for me. I would rather — " 
 
 " But you see, so would I rather. You have in your 
 
46 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 handbag a solemn document duly signed. I want to 
 be assured that I haven't got into another horrible 
 scrape — there ! — someone is opening the front door. 
 Slide, Casey, slide! " 
 
 It was the maid who had opened the door. Sylvia 
 hurried up the walk. 
 
 "Is — Mr. Clyde in?" 
 
 The maid mumbled a response which Sylvia did not 
 understand, and led the way into a big, dimly-lighted 
 study. To Sylvia it was quite awe-inspiring. She 
 heartily wished that Mother was with her. Sitting 
 alone in that dim, scholarly room, where the walls were 
 almost entirely covered with books, where the very 
 air seemed heavy with learning and importance and 
 solemnity, her temerity in venturing to ask the owner 
 of it all to come out to preach in an old white box of a 
 church eight miles in the country grew upon her. The 
 fact that Wully McNab, reckless, grinning, irreverent, 
 sat waiting in his car out in front made matters worse. 
 
 She started nervously when the door opened. She 
 almost hoped it was the maid to say the minister was 
 not at home. But it was not. Neither was it the min- 
 ister. It was an altogether different sort of person. 
 f A young man — why, really, no older than Wully Mc- 
 Nab himself. Sylvia realized that, although the in- 
 quiring gaze he bent upon her came by way of a pair 
 of pince-nez glasses. 
 
 " You wished to see Mr. Clyde ? " It was a boyish, 
 
MERRY ANDREW 47 
 
 bantering voice, more so, even, than Wully McNab's. 
 
 " Yes, I — " 
 
 " I am Mr. Clyde." 
 
 " But not the Mr. Clyde I came to see — the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Fletcher Clyde." 
 
 " I am sorry, but my father is out of town." 
 
 Unconsciously Sylvia made a despairing little ges- 
 ture — a slight lifting of the hands and letting them 
 fall. She felt beaten, and a bit misused. The eyes 
 behind the glasses wandered from her to the waiting 
 figure in the car, lolling patiently. In no other manner 
 did young Clyde make known his suspicions save 
 through that teasing glance, but Sylvia flamed anew. 
 She had not meant to confide in this sarcastically smil- 
 ing young man, but she could not go away leaving him 
 to think it was a wedding party and she the prospective 
 bride. 
 
 " When do you expect him home ? " She asked the 
 question in order to get the chance to explain more 
 fully her reason for being there, and not that it made 
 any difference — now — when he came. She should 
 not come again. She had tried and — failed ; let the 
 old church go. 
 
 " He may be home next week." 
 
 " That will be too late," said Sylvia quietly, then 
 plunged into her story in order to forestall young 
 Clyde in directing her to the other minister's, as she 
 imagined he was about to do. She felt that circum- 
 
48 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 stances had played her a shabby trick — trapped her 
 all along: First, by entangling her path with that of 
 Wully McNab, and now whisking away the Reverend 
 Mr. Clyde and setting in his place this other faintly 
 smiling, facetious young student to grin at what seemed 
 to him a trifling matter, but which to her, and to her 
 mother, was almost a tragedy. 
 
 " If we can't save the old church we may never hope 
 for a new one, but with the old we might yet build up 
 a society — " 
 
 "Why didn't you begin sooner?" demanded the 
 young man. 
 
 "Oh, why didn't we!" sighed Sylvia. "But I 
 didn't know the time was so nearly run, at least I 
 didn't realize it. My mother knew, but Mother's a 
 timid little woman. She had given up long ago. And 
 yet — it was Mother who persuaded me into coming 
 here—" 
 
 " You might try Mr. Stroub." 
 
 Sylvia shook her head. " Mrs. McNab goes regu- 
 larly to Mr. Stroub's church, and I think Mr. Stroub 
 feels that Mr. McNab would be angry if anybody pre- 
 vented him from tearing down the old church. You 
 see, Mr. McNab says there is no need of a church at 
 Rosedale Corners. He says, if people want to go to 
 church let them come here to Bendon. He has prob- 
 ably said the same thing to Mr. Stroub. But there 
 are lots of people in the country who would come to the 
 
MERRY ANDREW 49 
 
 Rosedale church if there were services there who would 
 never come to church in town." 
 
 " McNab is rich, why should he covet a rotting old 
 church?" 
 
 " The church doesn't amount to so much, but the five 
 acres of land which go with it will be worth a good 
 deal of money if the electric road passes Rosedale Cor- 
 ners, as they think it may, and a village grows up there. 
 Grandfather says there will surely be a town there 
 some day. Then, you see, five acres in the heart of 
 even a very small town would be worth a good deal 
 of money. They may build saloons there, but there 
 will be no church, not for a long time at least. If only 
 we might have kept this one and then the town had 
 grown up around it. You know the line : ' Get your 
 spindle and your distaff ready and God will furnish 
 the flax.' " 
 
 " I 'm awfully sorry father isn't home," said young 
 Clyde. " Is that your grandfather out there in the 
 car?" 
 
 Sylvia laughed. " No, that's young Wully McNab. 
 They always call him ' young Wully ' because his name 
 is the same as his father's." 
 
 "Wully McNab? But I thought it was the Mc- 
 Nabs— " 
 
 " It is. He brought me here for a sort of joke. He 
 thinks I can't rouse anybody to save the church, and 
 it seems he is right, I can't. He was so sure that I 
 
'5o MERRY ANDREW 
 
 couldn't, that he promised to furnish the music if I 
 succeeded in furnishing the minister. He thought I 
 was going to Mr. Stroub, though, when he made that 
 promise, and he was pretty sure Mr. Stroub wouldn't 
 do anything to displease his father." 
 
 Young Clyde walked to the window and surveyed 
 young Wully McNab, or rather the top of Wully's 
 checkered cap, which was all there was to be seen, as 
 Wully was busily taking a much-needed siesta, being a 
 young person of irregular hours. 
 
 "Wully McNab is a good singer all right," said 
 young Clyde suddenly. 
 
 "You know him?" exclaimed Sylvia. 
 
 " We started in college together." 
 
 ' f But, of course, you got ahead, because Wully 
 wouldn't study." 
 
 " Well — Wully — er — isn't in that school any 
 more." 
 
 " I know. And now he isn't in the other school 
 any more." 
 
 " Not — not excused again ? " 
 
 " Yes, again. ' Canned,' he calls it." 
 
 " Exactly — canned — thaf s right. Well, well ! 
 Wully, Wully ! Yes, Wully is a singer, but — I can't 
 imagine him singing hymns." 
 
 "There's no danger," said Sylvia bitterly, "he 
 won't have to, although I have his pledge here in 
 
MERRY ANDREW '51 
 
 writing." She fished the letter from her bag and 
 handed it to Clyde, who read it and chuckled. 
 
 " What a pity father isn't home — what a pity ! 
 Say ! hold on a minute, Miss — " 
 
 " Drew," Sylvia prompted. 
 
 " Why, say, father may possibly be home in time. 
 I'll wire him and he might be able to make it — and 
 if he couldn't, there's Uncle William. You see 
 preaching sort of breaks out in our family every once 
 in awhile — if father couldn't get back in time, Uncle 
 William might be able to come. Or — " he trailed off 
 in an absent-minded revery. Sylvia stood waiting im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " See here, Miss Drew," he said, coming out of his 
 abstraction suddenly, " I've been a good deal impressed 
 by your taking up this matter so bravely — " 
 
 " Oh, I didn't take it up bravely," murmured Sylvia 
 weakly, remembering her fear. 
 
 " And I know that father would have been im- 
 pressed, too. He would have helped you out. And 
 he may be able to do so yet. Now I'll make a bargain 
 with you : You go ahead with your spindle and dis- 
 taff, and I'll sort of — sort of — help with the flax, 
 you know. In other words, get your church open, 
 your choir and congregation ready, and I'll see to it 
 that there is a minister. If not father, then Uncle 
 William; and if not Uncle William, then a preacher of 
 
&2 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 an altogether different stripe. And don't say a word 
 to young Wully McNab; just let him think you saw 
 father, and that father promised to come. You have 
 him tight there, just make him stick to his word about 
 the music. I shall come out to the opening service if 
 for nothing else thap to hear Wully sing hymns." 
 
 " It — isn't anything to joke about," said Sylvia 
 • seriously, " and I should hate to have everything ready 
 and then no minister* and no service, and the McNabs 
 laughing at me after all. Because, you see, just a 
 meeting won't hold the church; there must be a ser- 
 mon." 
 
 "Any kind of sermon, eh? If father didn't hap- 
 pen to get home in time, and Uncle William couldn't 
 make it, if I bring out an enthusiastic Mormon elder, 
 will it fill the bill?" 
 
 " So far as the law is concerned, I suppose it would," 
 laughed Sylvia, " but I'm sure we should prefer some 
 other kind of preacher." 
 
 " All right, trust the flax end of the proposition to 
 me. I certainly wish you had begun a little sooner, 
 but we'll do the best we can. I want to hear Wully 
 McNab sing hymns." 
 
 " What's the news ? " demanded Wully McNab, as 
 his machine began to warm up for flight. 
 
 " He said that he would see to it that we had service. 
 We are to get the church, the choir and the con- 
 
MERRY ANDREW '53 
 
 gregation ready, and the flax — I mean the minister — 
 will be forthcoming. The church and the congrega- 
 tion, Merry Andrew and I will look after; the music 
 I hand over to you." 
 
 " Governor Johnson ! " breathed Wully. " Why, 
 I_" 
 
 " There's no backing out, Mr. Wully McNab. 
 ' Black-an'-white, black-an'-white, Wully, an' there 
 you've got 'em ! ' " She pulled the letter out and flour- 
 ished it, then put it carefully back in her bag. 
 
 " But what do you suppose my father will say? " 
 
 " I suppose he'll be angry, but you should have 
 thought of that before you promised." The car 
 leaped forward. Wully threw back his head and 
 laughed loudly. 
 
 " Oh, I'll stand pat. You've got me in black-and- 
 white, you Miss Shylock ! " 
 
 " And it must be good music, and suitable music," 
 gasped Sylvia. The speed of the car was once more 
 taking away her breath. They had already arrived on 
 the outskirts of Bendon on their homeward flight. 
 
 " Is there any sort of a musical instrument in the 
 old barracks ? " 
 
 " The church organ is still there." 
 
 " I can imagine its bray after standing unused in a 
 damp church for years." 
 
 " Well, you'd better look into that in time. The 
 music — organ and all — will be left to you entirely. 
 
54 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 You will be held responsible for any brays heard in 
 .that church — hadn't you better drive a little slower, 
 Wully? There's a farm team — or something — oh, 
 well — we've passed it — but, honestly, if you want me 
 to enjoy the ride, please go a little slower." 
 
 " I don't want you to enjoy it. I'm not enjoying 
 it. I did enjoy it going uito town, but, really, Miss 
 Drew, I don't know when a young lady has made me 
 so thoroughly unhappy as you have this afternoon. 
 I'm bound to do it, though; I'll furnish that music if 
 it kills everybody in Rosedale. And which of you 
 Drew girls sings alto ? " 
 
 " Merry Andrew can sing alto, but whether she 
 will or not is another question." 
 
 "We'll see about that; a bird that can sing and 
 won't — " quoted Wully grumpily. 
 
 " I think she will be glad to do anything to help. 
 She told me she would." 
 
 " Now let me se-e-e-e-, you're the soprano, Merry 
 Andrew the alto, I, tenor — where in all creation can 
 we scare up a bass? Can your grandfather sing? " 
 
 " He sings, but not bass. He sings a cracked sort 
 of falsetto." 
 
 "We don't want him, then; there'll be enough of 
 that quality in the tenor." 
 
 The machine was still swinging and swaying over 
 the country road at a terrific speed, but Sylvia had be- 
 come somewhat accustomed to flying, and again ex- 
 
MERRY ANDREW [55 
 
 perienced an exhilaration which took the place of fear. 
 
 " The old grays are going to seem dreadfully slow 
 after this," she breathed. 
 
 " I wish I'd never picked you up ! " grumbled Wully, 
 and Sylvia giggled. 
 
 They swept into the home yard. " You're still alive, 
 you see," triumphed Wully. " Now the next time I 
 want to take you out in the car you won't be afraid 
 to go, will you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I shall be more afraid," owned Sylvia 
 " Your recklessness with this car is terrible. One real- 
 izes it more when they are in the car than they do 
 when they are on the ground. I presume one couldn't 
 realize it any more deeply unless you had just run over 
 one." 
 
 Merry Andrew came round the corner of the house 
 followed by the dogs. She shook a warning finger 
 and came close to the car. 
 
 " You'd better skid right out of here, Wully Mc- 
 Nab! There's been awful doings, and Grandmother 
 says she has just about reached the end of her pa- 
 tience ! " 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Wully, " who's afraid of your grand- 
 mother! I think I'll stay to lunch." 
 
 " Not on my invitation, you wont ! " returned Merry 
 Andrew. 
 
 " Then I'll go in and try to coax an invitation from 
 your grandmother." He went into the house. 
 
'56 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " And he'll get it, too ! " fumed Merry Andrew. 
 " Anything by the name of MeNab can wind Grand- 
 mother round his little finger. And she will probably 
 make him a present of Boy, and throw Twoboy in for 
 good measure ! But he won't get 'em if she does ! " 
 
 " Now, where in the world have you been, and how 
 comes it that you are here instead of in Bendon, where 
 you said you were going? Here I've been feeling so 
 sorry for you — hoofing it clear to town through the 
 mud — and still worse, hoofing it clear ,back again — 
 for, you see, Grandmother set her foot right down that 
 I shouldn't go back, nails or no nails, lime or no lime. 
 She was so mad at me and at the dogs and at Mrs. 
 Pierce and Grandfather and — everybody ; and then 
 when I had to tell her that you had gone on afoot to 
 town, that capped the climax, and she was madder at 
 you than at all the rest put together. ' What pos- 
 sessed her,' she says, ' does she expect to carry a load 
 of lime home on her back? What has she gone for, 
 ' anyway ? ' " 
 
 " I wasn't going to tell her that you had gone to try 
 to coax a minister out to help wrest the church and 
 five acres from her beloved old McNab. I was just 
 trying to think up an awful whopper to tell her, when 
 Mother comes right out and stands up, white and trem- 
 bling, and tells her the whole truth ! 
 
 " Well, Sylvia Drew, you should have seen Grand- 
 mother ! — or, rather, you should have heard her. She 
 
MERRY ANDREW 57 
 
 said things to Mother that I will never forgive her 
 for if I live to be a hundred ! Mean, cutting things — 
 ingratitude — objects of charity — oh, I don't know 
 what all ! She .demanded that Mother put a stop to 
 all this agitation about the church. She said the idea 
 of offending the McNabs, the only neighbors we have ! 
 And Evangeline Pudney hanging on to the screen door 
 and listening to every word, too. And old Mrs. Pierce 
 sitting there with an arnica bandage around her 
 shin—" 
 
 " Mrs. Pierce? What was the matter with Mrs. 
 Pierce, and how did she happen to be at our house, 
 and bandaged ? " demanded Sylvia. 
 
 " Why, she began the whole trouble ! If it hadn't 
 been for her, you and I would have jogged comfort- 
 ably along to town, got our lime and our nails and our 
 ministers, and come home in peace and tranquillity. 
 But no, the minute we got out of sight, and the boys 
 all nice and safe and howling in the tool-house — over 
 came Mrs. Peirce to borrow some green paint. Of 
 course Grandmother would never stop her work to go 
 to the Jool-house and get the green paint, so she sends 
 Mrs. Pierce. Mrs. Pierce opens the tool-house door, 
 and the dogs, being in a hurry to follow you and me 
 to town — bound right at her and over her. She yells 
 like a wild Indian and pitches headlong down the tool- 
 house steps, and over the rain-barrel, and gets wedged 
 in between the barrel and the steps. And Mother was 
 
58 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 at work in my place in the west cornfield, so Grand- 
 mother was alone. And I suppose she had a tussle 
 hauling Mrs. Pierce out and bandaging her. 
 
 " Then, in due time, comes poor me trailing home 
 with the dogs, and you gone on mysteriously to town. 
 And now here you come, just as mysteriously, popping 
 home before dinner with Wully McNab. Did he pick 
 you up on the road and wouldn't let you go to see the . 
 minister after all?" 
 
 " No, Merry Andrew, he took me to see the minister 
 and brought me home again." 
 
 "Him?" demanded Merry Andrew forcefully, if 
 ungrammatically. 
 
 " Yes, ' him.' " 
 
 " But you haven't had time." 
 
 " Merry Andrew, until you have taken a trip in an 
 automobile with young Wully McNab you don't real- 
 ize how little time is actually required to get some- 
 where and back again. If it hadn't been for the half 
 hour I spent in the minister's house, probably, we 
 should have overtaken you and the grays, jumped you, 
 and been home to take the brunt end of the trouble 
 with Grandmother, instead of leaving it all to you, you 
 poor little thing." 
 
 " Did you really see the minister, and is he going 
 to preach and save the church ? " 
 
 " The minister is away from home. But somebody 
 else promised that somebody would preach — and 
 
MERRY ANDREW $9 
 
 Wully McNab is going to lead the singing and — " 
 " See here, Sylvia, are you plumb crazy? Somebody, 
 you don't know who, has promised, you don't know 
 what ; and Wully McNab is to take charge ! And now 
 what sort of a mixup have you got into anyhow ? " 
 
 " Well, that's about the way of it at present," Sylvia 
 owned. " But anyhow, I've done the best I could, and 
 it hasn't been easy, either. I have made a start, at 
 least with the spindle and distaff — " 
 
 " Come on in, girls ; dinner's ready ! " The sum- 
 mons was from Wully McNab, who was grinning and 
 grimacing at them from the front door. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Sometimes that which at first glance seems a calam- 
 ity turns out to be a blessing. It was so with Wully, 
 McNab's noon visit. As Merry Andrew prophesied, 
 the presence of a McNab, even the least McNab, ex- 
 erted a soothing influence upon Grandmother's over- 
 wrought nerves. She did not present him with either 
 of the dogs ; in fact, the word " dog " was not men- 
 tioned. But the word " church " was repeated a great 
 many times. Mother appeared pale and unhappy; 
 Grandfather cowed and silent, Merry Andrew with a 
 protuberant under jaw and a very apparent chip-on- 
 shoulder attitude. But no one attempted to knock the 
 chip off, and after Wully had issued a blanket invi- 
 tation to ride in his car (which no one but Bartholo- 
 mew Vonvolkenberg accepted) matters cooled down 
 to a sort of armed neutrality among the Drews. 
 
 After the dishes were washed, the vegetables and 
 dessert ready for supper, and Grandmother gone to 
 her room to piece quilts for an hour, the girls shoul- 
 dered pails and mops and started for the church. 
 
 The peacefully decaying old edifice certainly bore 
 no hint as yet of becoming a storm center. Its pallid 
 white clapboards sagged here and there, its front plat- 
 
 60 
 
MERRY ANDREW 6l 
 
 form had given way completely at one end, and some 
 of the boards had disappeared, presumably, as Merry 
 Andrew suggested, to stop a hole to keep the winter 
 wind away from the McNab pigs. The mayweed, 
 thick, pungent, dusty, whitened the generous yard ; the 
 horse sheds, gauntly empty, stood at an unusual dis- 
 tance from the church. To the north and west, they 
 served as a windbreak in winter. At the end of the 
 north shed was a very deep and very good well, one 
 of the best in that section, the farmers said. McNab 
 had raised a windmill over that well, and run a spout 
 to a drinking-trough in the adjoining pasture, which 
 belonged to him. Here his stock assembled to drink, 
 chew their cuds and stamp flies. Bees droned among 
 the mayweed, and when the breeze swept over the in- 
 significant yellow-and- white heads of the flowers, they 
 swayed and bent and recovered themselves in a lone- 
 some way, producing a sensation of utter neglect and 
 decay. Nothing more strongly indicates desertion and 
 ruin than thick mayweed in a country yard. No tree 
 or bush broke the bleak whiteness, or cast a shadow 
 on the still bleaker whiteness of the building. One of 
 the windows had been broken by the helpful hand of 
 youth ; the girls found the fragments of glass scattered 
 over the pews after they had succeeded in manipulating 
 the rusty lock and gaining the interior. The building 
 gave forth a ghostly, hollow return to the unusual 
 sound of human voices. 
 
62 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 It was nq easy task to put the deserted church into 
 usable shapp. The high windows must be washed, but 
 the ladder ikrhich belonged in the attic had been carried 
 away. / 
 
 " McNab, again ! " Merry Andrew concluded. 
 " He's been taking it over piecemeal for years, and 
 he'll probably get it all next week, in spite of our dig- 
 ging)" 
 
 Sylvia would not admit as much, although she har- 
 bored secret misgivings. 
 
 They built a shaky scaffolding of boards and mov- 
 able seats, and washed the windows as best they could ; 
 they swept the dust from walls and pews, and scrubbed 
 the floor. Then they sat down for a short breathing 
 spell before starting for home with their brooms and 
 scrubcloths. 
 
 " It is as ready as we can make it," announced Syl- 
 via; " now to rouse a congregation." 
 
 " Well, I draw the line at that," returned Merry 
 Andrew. " I've scrubbed and dug the dirt, and I'm 
 willing to sing in the choir (provided there ever is one 
 — when I remember whose hands it has been left in 
 I doubt if there ever is a choir) but when it comes 
 to doing missionary work among the heathen of Rose- 
 dale, you'll just have to count me out! Why, Sylvia, 
 this is the way I should go at it : 
 
 " ' Good morning, Mrs. Pudney.' 
 
MERRY ANDREW 63 
 
 " ' Why, good morning, Merry Andrew. How's 
 Gram'ma Drew ? ' 
 
 " ' Well enough, thank you ; but as cross as a bear. 
 Grandfather Drew is a sick man, but just as gentle and 
 patient as any old wooly lamb. We have fixed up the 
 church, and my sister has coaxed a minister from some- 
 where — she doesn't seem to know, herself, from ex- 
 actly where — to come out and preach to us. That 
 limb o' satan, young Wully McNab, is going to lead 
 the singing. And now you must come out to church. 
 Paint up the way you do when you go to the dances, 
 curl your hair, and put on that hat of yours which is 
 twenty years too young for you. Primp up your silly 
 daughter, Dorothy, and that big-mouthed boy, Earl — 
 who probably broke the church windows; he's none too 
 good for it — and, for pity's sake, wash that dirty 
 young one, Evangeline, who scrapes up and down our 
 screen door all the time, and sticks her toes through 
 the wire, and runs out her tongue and sasses my mother 
 — wash her up for once this year, and bring her to 
 church to see how decent folks act ! ' 
 
 " ' Why, Mary Ann Drew ! You impudent th-i-n-g ! 
 I'm just goin' right over an' complain to your gram'- 
 ma!' i 
 
 " ' Well, I don't care if you do. I'm getting so 
 reckless Grandmother can't do anything with me much 
 longer anyhow.' " 
 
64 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Sheer weariness, rather than her sister's mimicry, 
 elicited Sylvia's laughter, which, in turn, awoke all the 
 clattering echoes of the soapy edifice. A thudding 
 knock on the outside door brought a sudden silence. 
 
 " Old McNab, I bet a cookie ! " hissed Merry An- 
 drew, and seizing a broom, put herself in an attitude 
 of mock defense. 
 
 Instead of old McNab it was young Wully at the 
 door. 
 
 " I thought all this cackling meant something," he 
 grinned. " Either that the church was getting cleaned 
 or that dad had turned the hens in already. That's 
 what he's planning to do — make the old shack into a 
 henhouse." 
 
 " Doesn't it look nice ? " boasted Sylvia. 
 
 " It looks better than it smells ; it smells soapy." 
 
 " It does smell a little sudsy as yet, but that will wear 
 away. We had to scrub pretty hard on the mouldy 
 place over on the floor yonder where the rain has 
 beaten in through the broken window- I hope it 
 doesn't rain next Sunday; if it does, you folks in the 
 choir will be apt to sing in liquid tones." 
 
 " You're really going to stick me to that bargain, 
 Sylvia?" 
 
 " I certainly am. A scrap of paper is to be binding 
 in this case." 
 
 " Well, Gene's home. I found her there when I 
 
MERRY ANDREW 65 
 
 got back with the car today. Came on the North- 
 western to Cooperstown and rode over with the An- 
 dersons. I'll rope her into the sangerfest. It will 
 help out a good deal." 
 
 Sylvia felt a chill at Wully's news of the presence 
 of his sister in the neighborhood. Gene McNab spent 
 most of her time in the East, the advantages of Ben- 
 don not being deemed adequate for the finishing of 
 her education. Gene McNab had everything which 
 Sylvia yearned for but might not have. According 
 to her fond mother's report, Gene was an unrivaled 
 singer, and when Gene " took the organ " pupils and 
 tutors alike listened in awe. 
 
 " Will she be willing to help ? " murmured Sylvia. 
 
 " I don't know whether she'll be willing or not ; I 
 only know she's going to. I told her the mess I was in 
 and that I proposed that she should help me out." 
 
 "Of course, if you have issued your orders that 
 settles it," said Merry Andrew. 
 
 Wully gripped the back of the pew. " Goodness, 
 but that startled me ! " He approached and touched 
 Merry Andrew's nose with a timid forefinger. " Can 
 it really talk? I supposed it was a carved ornament 
 on the end of the pew." 
 
 " The pews will all talk when the singing begins 
 next Sunday; they'll rise and howl! " snapped Merry 
 Andrew, 
 
66 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Oh, that reminds me," went on Wully, — " I wish 
 you'd ask Mr. Pudney to sing with us. Gene says he 
 used to growl bass pretty well." 
 
 "Who's on this music committee?" demanded 
 Merry Andrew. " I should think that cleaning the 
 church, and finding the minister, and canvassing the 
 neighborhood for a congregation, and singing in the 
 choir, was quite enough for poor Sylvia to do ! " 
 
 " It's speaking again," murmured Wully, making a 
 feint of investigating the nose again. 
 
 " And if you stick your finger in my face it will be 
 biting again! " warned Merry Andrew. 
 
 " About my asking Pudney," owned Wully, " to 
 tell the truth, I don't dare set foot on Pudney ground. 
 He threatened to shoot me if I did, and in some ways, 
 Pudney is a man of his word. If you are going to 
 canvass the neighborhood, Sylvia, it will be dead easy 
 for you to see Pudney. Don't breathe that there are 
 to be any McNabs in the choir; and tell him that the 
 Pierces are anxious to sing, but that you wouldn't 
 have 'em ; that'll fetch him." 
 
 " How did that Pudney-Pierce quarrel start in the 
 first place ? " 
 
 " Politics. Pierce is on the opposite side of the 
 fence from Pudney. They began at the ' your-party- 
 couldn't-and-your-candidate didn't ^stage, and swept 
 right along down until now neithenlbne will write his 
 name because the names begin with the same letter." 
 
MERRY ANDREW 67 
 
 " Is it on account of politics that Mr. Pudney hates 
 your father? " asked Sylvia. 
 
 " No, oh, no ; my old man doesn't go in for either 
 politics or religion. While other men argue, dad 
 pops in and picks up pennies. Alliterative and ex- 
 pressive — that sentence, wasn't it? He has saved 
 pennies so successfully that all his neighbors hate 
 him." 
 
 " They'll never hate his son for the same reason," 
 said Merry Andrew loftily. 
 
 " Well — anyhow, you ask old Pudney to sing bass, 
 and — oh, yes, for goodness sake, don't let Dorothy 
 Pudney get loose in the choir — sort of tag her father 
 in, you know; nor Mrs. Pudney, either. They'd look 
 well, but sound like a riot. You'll have to be a little 
 careful about that. Good bye, Mary Ann. I'm com- 
 ing over for my dog next week. I've arranged a 
 match between him and Pete Swanson's bull terrier. 
 If the collie were only a little older I verily believe 
 he could lick Pete's pup — oh, say — yes — I nearly 
 forgot ! Choir practice here at the church Friday eve- 
 ning. Gene says we may need a lung specialist for 
 the organ before we can do a thing with it. In case 
 we do, it would give us a chance to have the operation 
 on Saturday." 
 
 When the girls returned from cleaning the church 
 an ominous silenjj^rested over the family. They had 
 expected trouble, and had sought surreptitious little 
 
68 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 interviews with Mother. Had Grandmother scolded 
 about their being away? Said anything more against 
 their work in the church? 
 
 No, Grandmother had been very noncommittal on 
 the subject, Mother said. A little bewildered, pos- 
 sibly. The fact that Mr. McNab wanted, and in- 
 tended, to take over the church property (which he, 
 had a lawful right to do) was offset by the activities 
 of his own son against the fruition of his plans. But 
 then young Wully was entirely irresponsible at best. 
 It was like him to go against his own interests through 
 sheer contrariness, Grandmother had said. That mat- 
 ter of the dogs, for instance: He had wanted the 
 dog — had offered to buy it — and when she had 
 given it to him, had suddenly changed his mind and 
 told Grandmother that Merry Andrew had a better 
 right to say what was to become of those two collies 
 than any other person on earth; she had saved their 
 lives and had fought for them ever since. 
 
 " Did young Wully McNab tell Grandmother that? " 
 whispered Merry Andrew excitedly. " Did he, 
 Mother ? " They were at the supper-table while 
 Grandmother, out by the dead maple, took a census of 
 the young turkeys. " And here I've been abusing him 
 every time I got a chance because I thought he was 
 trying to get my dogs ! He must have some good in 
 him after all!" flt < 
 
 " Everybody has, dear," 
 
MERRY ANDREW 69 
 
 " I suppose so ; but what I want to know is, why- 
 some people take so much trouble to hide it ? Wully 
 McNab, for instance — making me believe he was 
 fighting against me when all the time he was fighting 
 for me! And Grandmother, herself! Why doesn't 
 she let a little of her goodness stick out, like the corner 
 of a boy's clean pocket handkerchief? I thought 
 Grandmother had cooled off a good deal on the dog 
 question." 
 
 " What about the time you nearly died with the 
 measles, and poor Grandmother sat all night with you 
 in her arms ? " 
 
 " Oh, I was a baby then ; nobody can help being 
 kind to a baby, but it takes real Christian charity to 
 be kind to a big spraddling girl like me. Of course 
 I know that Grandmother has Christian charity, but 
 why doesn't she show it?" 
 
 At the supper table Grandmother was even more 
 bewildered when the girls announced that Gene Mc- 
 Nab was home from the East and was going to help 
 in the choir. 
 
 " A nice foolish lot you will look with a choir, but 
 no congregation and no minister," sneered Grand- 
 mother. "And just singing won't hold the church; 
 it's the preaching that's to hold it, and that you'll not 
 get, I am sure. And suppose you did; what good 
 would it do you to hold the church, empty and rot- 
 ting, another ten years? You might better let Mr. 
 
70 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 McNab take what belongs to him and put it to some 
 use! It is just a matter of youthful contrariness 
 which your mother and grandfather should not uphold 
 you in. If I had my say, you should drop the whole 
 matter. It is not one for children to mix up in at 
 best. It should be left to older people to decide." 
 
 " But suppose the older people just sit and won't do 
 a thing — " began Merry Andrew, when a warning 
 kick under the table from Sylvia, and an appealing 
 glance from Mother, caused her to branch off into a 
 harmless request for Bartholomew to pass the potatoes. 
 
 Grandfather ate steadily in a worried silence, and 
 Bartholomew inquired suddenly if Merry Andrew 
 knew that " One or t'other of the dogs had dug a 
 hole about two feet square and some two or three feet 
 deep in among the tomaters." He didn't know what 
 for — skunks, he guessed. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Friday was cleaning day at the Drew home. When 
 no out-of-door work called, Merry Andrew's allot- 
 ment was Mother's room, her own, the stairs and the 
 upper hall. Mother did the other rooms upstairs and 
 the spare room downstairs; Sylvia had the dining- 
 room, living-room and kitchen, while Grandmother 
 superintended the entire procedure and looked after 
 the cellar. Friday was the one day that Sylvia was 
 glad there was no porch on the house. Whether or 
 not the sun rose, whether there was war in Europe or 
 calamity at home, the Drew sweeping programme was 
 carried out to the last particular. 
 
 Friday was also visiting day. If the cleaning 
 moved along without a hitch, it was usually finished 
 by noon, leaving the afternoon for visits. 
 
 But if Merry Andrew was called to watch cattle, 
 cut corn, drive reaper, or to any other of the number- 
 less tasks which saved Grandfather the expense of 
 a'nother hired man, her share of the Friday's cleaning 
 was divided between Sylvia and her mother, Grand- 
 mother merely expending a little more force upon 
 superintendence. 
 
 But this particular Friday, although Merry Andrew 
 had to " go into the corn," Grandmother made ar- 
 
 n 
 
12 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 rangements to call upon Mrs. McNab. This virtually 
 added the cellar to Sylvia's burden, but she accepted it 
 uncomplainingly. 
 
 In due time Grandmother, dressed in her " second 
 black," her turnover collar and little fringed silk 
 neck-bow, her black toque set becomingly above her 
 care-wrinkled brow and far-sighted glasses, started 
 out, pointed due south-west-by-south — McNabwards. 
 She was going — as all the family felt sure — to re- 
 lieve her bewilderment ; to make sure how the McNabs 
 stood, as a body, in order to know how to command 
 the forces in her own camp. Mother and Sylvia held 
 a hurried consultation, and fifteen minutes later Syl- 
 via, also, was on the road, bent on drumming up her 
 congregation. 
 
 Far afield she caught sight of Merry Andrew work- 
 ing shoulder to shoulder with Bartholomew and 
 Grandfather cutting corn; her dogs, as usual, offi- 
 ciously doing something which might better be left 
 undone. Sylvia swung a hand and Merry Andrew 
 responded, then each went on with her appointed task. 
 Cutting corn is not easy work, but Sylvia felt before 
 the close of day that Merry Andrew's task was lighter 
 than her own. 
 
 In many instances, after an unsatisfactory inter- 
 view with the wife, Sylvia plodded across strips of 
 early ploughing or stubble ground, to talk with hus- 
 band or boys. At one or two places she met with 
 
MERRY ANDREW 73 
 
 scant courtesy ; but in the main her neighbors listened 
 soberly and gave a more or less hearty promise. 
 When she reviewed her wanderings on her .homeward 
 way she counted those who had promised and half 
 promised, and found to her astonishment that if they 
 all came the church would be comfortably filled. 
 
 The Pudneys and Pierces she left until the last, they 
 being near her own home ; and she wished to interview 
 Mr. Pudney rather than the other members of the 
 family. 
 
 She found the Pudneys waiting for supper. Mrs. 
 Pudney was busy finishing an elaborate silk waist. 
 She stitched away at the sewing-machine in the corner, 
 while her daughter Dorothy put a dirty cloth askew 
 'upon the table, and brought in the boiled potatoes, 
 bread, salt pork, " cold-slaw " and underdone apple 
 pie. Mr. Pudney — much older than his wife — let 
 himself down into his chair with a groan. He was a 
 man whom all the world combined to wrong; trusts, 
 political parties, family and friends. According to 
 Mr. Pudney no one did what was right, from the presi- 
 dent to the pathmaster. His small black eyes peered 
 out from behind poor cheap glasses, and the lines in 
 his leather-colored face were snarling lines. 
 
 "Sing?" he sneered in answer to Sylvia's gentle 
 request, " I don't know why a man should sing now- 
 adays — especially a laborin' man! There ain't 
 much to sing for ! " 
 
74 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Sylvia looked with compassion upon his knotted 
 hands and sweat-soiled clothing, and felt that he was 
 right; there was little in his life to make him desire 
 to sing. His was a hopeless case of mortgage and 
 mismanagement. 
 
 " It seems to me it will sort of rest us all," said 
 Sylvia humbly. " We farmers all work hard, and 
 Sunday is too much like all the other days. To get 
 together and sing, and listen to good words, it seems 
 to me, might rest us." 
 
 " Well, if pa don't care to go into the choir me an' 
 Dorothy can go," suggested Mrs. Pudney. Sylvia 
 tried to evade the offer. 
 
 " For this one service we are in need of nothing but 
 a bass singer. Later — perhaps — if we succeed in 
 redeeming the church — " 
 
 " I'll sing, if singin' will keep anything out of the 
 clutches of old McNab! " snarled Pudney. "If ever 
 there was a — " 
 
 " They say Gene's back," put in Mrs. Pudney. " I 
 s'pose she'll be for astonishin' the natives with her 
 city clothes. I never did like her. High-nosed thing ! 
 She don't seem to pick up a husband in the East very 
 fast. I s'pose it would cut old Wully up pretty bad 
 if his only girl should turn out an old maid." 
 
 " She's homely as a bear ! " said Dorothy, slapping 
 a plate of soft butter into the middle of the table, and 
 
MERRY ANDREW 75 
 
 bringing in a pot of tea which had been boiling in plain 
 sight on the kitchen range for over ten minutes. 
 
 " So you was out with young Wully in his automo- 
 bile, I understand," went on Mrs. Pudney, shaking 
 the raveling from her work and pushing the machine 
 back for the night. " It's quite a car, I guess. He's 
 goin' to be like his old dad : — too stingy to live, I'm 
 afraid — Behave yourself, Evangeline Pudney! 
 Don't you see you're a drippin' that molasses all over 
 everything? If you don't clear out I'll slap you good, 
 now ! I met him the other day, and I says, ' Why 
 don't you come over an' give Dorothy an' me a ride ? ' 
 He grinned and never said a word; just whizzed out 
 of sight. They say it ain't safe to ride with him. 
 He drives something terrible! The old man is afraid 
 to run the car, they say. How'd he come to take you 
 out?" 
 
 " Oh, he just picked me up on the road," said 
 Sylvia. " I was on my way to town — " 
 
 Her explanation became unnecessary, for at that 
 moment Mrs. Pudney grasped her youngest by the 
 slack of her waist and haled her away to the kitchen 
 where she administered chastisement noisy enough to 
 have been more effective. 
 
 When Sylvia made her escape with a sample or two 
 of soil from Evangeline's shoes, and a few drippings 
 of molasses on the front of her skirt, she had the sat-r 
 
76 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 isfaction of knowing that Mr. Pudney would come to 
 choir practice at the church, and that, though Mrs. 
 Pudney and Dorothy would very likely accompany 
 him, they would not expect to sing. How young 
 Wully McNab's being choir leader would affect the 
 easily-tangled Pudney nerves remained to be seen. 
 Somehow, Sylvia had a feeling that once there at the 
 church young Wully's boyish fooleries would attract, 
 rather than repel, Mr. Pudney. 
 
 She would gladly have left the last call — that at 
 the Pierces' — until the next morning, but she knew 
 it would not be politic to do so. If the Pierces discov- 
 ered that their invitation had not been given the same 
 day as that of the Pudneys, they would at once become 
 enemies, rather than friends, of the church movement. 
 
 When Sylvia reached home Grandmother had al- 
 ready arrived, supper was over and the dishes washed, 
 but Mother had saved a " bite " in the warming-oven, 
 which tasted delicious to the overworked canvasser. 
 
 " And what did Grandmother make out at Mc- 
 Nab's ? " whispered Sylvia as she hastily ate her sup- 
 per. 
 
 " The enemy," explained Merry Andrew in an 
 exaggerated hiss, " is completely disorganized. Old 
 King McNab is raging; the queen, calm and collected, 
 lies low and doesn't express opinions ; the crown prince 
 keeps pretty well out of the clearing at present, and 
 the Princess Gene, as usual, goes serenely on her way 
 
MERRY ANDREW 77 
 
 doing just about as she pleases. Grandmother doesn't 
 think that Gene approves of the church project any 
 more than does her paw-paw, but is going to help be- 
 cause her brother tells her she's got to. None of them 
 knows the bet, or dare, or whatever you call it, be- 
 tween you and young Wully, you schemer you ! How 
 did you manage it, Sylvia? " 
 
 Like a great many things in this world, choir prac- 
 tice did not turn out altogether as Sylvia' imagined it 
 was going to. Part of it was better and part worse. 
 She had forgotten to provide lamps, and the rehearsal 
 went forward literally under the light of pine knots 
 obtained from the side of a packing-box by the help 
 of Wully's pocket-knife. Boy and Twoboy appeared 
 inopportunely, as usual, and joined so enthusiastically 
 in the first anthem that they were summarily ejected 
 by Mr. Pudney, who was out of all sorts through find- 
 ing the McNabs figuring so largely in the choir. A 
 number of times he flung down his book declaring 
 there was no use, he couldn't see the music, and if he 
 could, he couldn't sing it, it was so " highfalutin'," 
 and he didn't believe he was " goin' to fool round with 
 it anyhow ! " 
 
 One of the satisfactory surprises was the helpful- 
 ness of Gene McNab. She was not a bit " stuck up " 
 by her culture and knowledge of the world. Indeed, 
 they seemed to have developed in her a hearty toler- 
 ance with her surroundings. She graciously helped 
 
78 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Sylvia with a hard place in the anthem — she had not 
 herself " taken the organ " after all — and she alter- 
 nately coaxed and joked Mr. Pudney along in his bass 
 part. She sparred delightfully with her brother, 
 showing at once her affection for him and her impa- 
 tience at his shortcomings. She praised Merry An- 
 drew's voice. 
 
 " It is pretty when you talk and it's delightful when 
 you sing — all supple tenderness and depth; just what 
 a contralto voice should be. I wish you would come 
 over and practice some duets with me, Merry Andrew, 
 will you ? " Sylvia's heart swelled with gratitude to- 
 ward this world-wise young woman who was entering 
 with such helpful eagerness into their forlorn scheme. 
 That which pleased her more than all else was the way 
 in which Gene spoke of services yet to come. 
 
 " We'll try this anthem next time," or, " I know a 
 book of beautiful sacred songs which I shall send for." 
 
 " You don't expect me to keep this thing up right 
 along, do you?" challenged Wully. 
 
 " Aren't you the one I heard bragging that he never 
 began a thing and then backed out ? " demanded his 
 sister. ' 
 
 " I may be, but when Sylvia Drew got me into this 
 I didn't consider it a life sentence." 
 
 " Well, never mind ; don't cry. And please hold 
 that torch more carefully; you came within one of 
 setting my hat on fire," 
 
MERRY ANDREW 79 
 
 " If we'd had a light we might have got that anthem 
 halfway decent," groaned Pudney. 
 
 " It's well enough," said Wully. " There'll be no 
 one to hear it except Mrs. Drew and your wife and 
 daughter." 
 
 " You needn't bank on my wife bein' here," said 
 Pudney. " Anyway, I heard her say if it rained you 
 wouldn't ketch her and Dorothy out to spoil their 
 clothes, an' by the way the wind holds tonight I think 
 it's goin' to suds down tomorrer, and the storm will 
 probably last over Sunday." 
 
 " What time we got to strike the gravel Sunday 
 morning, Sylvia? " asked the choir leader. 
 
 " We had better get here early and run this last 
 piece through before the minister comes; don't you 
 think ? " she suggested. 
 
 "What hour does that mean — early?" demanded 
 Wully. 
 
 "Well — nine o'clock." 
 
 " Nine ! Why, say, that's before I get up Sunday 
 mornings. If you're going to practice that anthem at 
 nine o'clock, you'll have to stand round my pillow and 
 sing it." They conceded a half hour. 
 
 " You'll have to git along without me," announced 
 Mr. Pudney. " I've got chores to do Sunday morn- 
 in s. 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Pudney," cut in Gene cheerfully, 
 " you are letter-perfect in your part anyway." And 
 
8o MERRY ANDREW 
 
 in a whisper to Sylvia, " You couldn't keep him away. 
 He loves to sing, poor man, and, I think, doesn't often 
 have a chance." 
 
 They came out, feeling their way over the broken 
 platform. " We'll give a concert," said Gene, " and 
 raise money for a new platform and lamps and a 
 stove." 
 
 " They will be so nice for the hens to roost on after 
 dad has the church all snugly backed up against our 
 corncrib," suggested Wully. 
 
 " You bet he's right," Mr. Pudney grumbled to the 
 Drew girls after the McNabs had said good night and 
 turned southwards toward home. " Old McNab ain't 
 one^to see five dollars slip through his fingers, let alone 
 five acres of the best land around Rosedale Corners. 
 That there girl of his was kindah nice; and the boy 
 was whiter'n I've ever seen him before. I jucks ! I 
 druv him off my land the last time I met up with him. 
 I says, says I, ' Don't you ever set foot on my land 
 again ! ' and he never has, nuther." 
 
 " And there he has returned the compliment by In- 
 viting you to sing the anthem at his bedside," chided 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Humph ! Yes — well, he'll have to sing it round 
 my bedside, instead, I guess." 
 
 " On stilts, I suppose, so as not to step on your 
 land," laughed Merry Andrew, and Mr. Pudney came 
 
MERRY ANDREW 81 
 
 very near smiling as he bade the girls good night and 
 went on to his own gate. 
 
 " I feel terribly, Merry Andrew," owned Sylvia 
 when they were alone. " I feel like a little child who 
 had put forth a hand to a great wheel, which it was 
 afraid of and didn't know much about, and had set 
 the wheel to turning, and then could only stand in fear 
 to see the big thing move, knowing that he had started 
 it, but that if the fate of the world depended on his 
 stopping it again he couldn't do it. I have stirred up 
 all these people, and whether they come to church 
 Sunday morning or not, they'll all be thinking about it, 
 and about me ; and, if the minister doesn't come, laugh- 
 ing at me! I don't believe I shall sleep a wink until 
 after Sunday ! " 
 
 "And then you'll go to sleep in church and snore, 
 maybe ; and Wully McNab — he's to be usher, I heard 
 him say — will put you out for disturbing the meet- 
 ing. How silly to feel that way! You ought to be 
 proud of having started in on a big job of doing good 
 all by yourself." 
 
 " Not by myself at all, Merry Andrew ; if Mother 
 hadn't shoved me off the plank I'd never have made 
 the dive in the world." 
 
 " We'll admit that Mother started you, and that you 
 made the dive, as you say ; and all the more credit to 
 you in view of the fact that you didn't care especially 
 
82 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 for diving. But you did your duty as you and 
 Mother saw it, and if it comes to nothing, you two 
 are the last ones who ought to feel ashamed. It's 
 Grandmother, and old McNab, and Mrs. Pudney, and 
 all the rest of Rosedale who ought to feel ashamed, 
 sitting around like a lot of lazy lumps and losing five 
 acres of land and a perfectly good church ! The way 
 to look at it is this : That victory already perches on 
 our banners, and that we shall have more than just 
 this one meeting, and that heathens, like me and Wully 
 McNab and Charley Wohoskey, will be more or less 
 civilized through the influence of those meetings." 
 
 " I believe that," owned Sylvia. " The good it will 
 do will reach out and out through all eternity — that 
 is — it might; it is possible, you know. And all 
 through the timid little effort of a woman like Mother 
 who pushed me off the plank." 
 
 They were at the kitchen door now, and Merry An- 
 drew paused in a reflective attitude with her hand on 
 the doorknob. 
 
 " But — just suppose, that little teenty-Weenty shove 
 which Mother gave you had been toward the bad in- 
 stead of toward the good? Nobody could ever tell 
 how far the effect of it might reach, or how many 
 would be influenced by it, could they ? " 
 
 " No, Merry Andrew." 
 
 " It makes a body feel a little anxious about how he 
 does his jostling in this world, doesn't it? " 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Sunday morning Sylvia went early to the church. 
 It had been a struggle to get away, for the spirit of 
 contrariness had possessed not only Grandmother, but 
 Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg, Boy, Twoboy, and each 
 and every calf and turkey on the Drew place. But at 
 last Sylvia dropped other duties and went upstairs to 
 put on her best dress, a soft gray wool, her gray straw 
 hat with its bunch of pink roses, and her long white 
 cotton gloves. In the kitchen door she met Merry 
 Andrew, her face the color of a jacqueminot rose, her 
 dark hair flying in the breeze. She was still in her 
 working gear. 
 
 " My, but you look splendid ! " Merry Andrew 
 gasped in admiration. She had just succeeded in pry- 
 ing the calf's head from the only place in the fence 
 where a calf could possibly get caught, and in persuad- 
 ing the dogs to postpone a digging contest which would 
 have completely finished the tomatoes. 
 
 " Now come as soon as you can," Sylvia cautioned, 
 " and see if you can't coax Grandfather to come." 
 
 " Oh, I'll toll in'as many of the family as I am able 
 to," promised Merry Andrew largely. 
 
 83 
 
84 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " There are two members that we can dispense 
 with," said Sylvia. ' 
 
 " Who, Grandmother and Bartholomew ? " 
 
 Sylvia ignored her sister's foolery. 
 
 " And mind you get. them safely into the tool-house 
 and lock, and double lock the door. You know as 
 well as I do they would come galloping right up into 
 the choir just as they did Friday night." Merry An- 
 drew promised and Sylvia hurried on her way. « She 
 carried the key to the church and she was going early 
 to make sure that everything was in order. The rain 
 had beaten wildly all Friday night and stopped on Sat- 
 urday in time to give the roads a chance to settle and 
 dry. The sun was like the sun of midsummer. 
 
 " If they don't come they can't lay it to the weather," 
 mused Sylvia. 
 
 When she reached the top of the knoll from which 
 the church was visible she saw a man waiting on the 
 platform and she hurried forward. Perhaps it was 
 the minister, or perhaps it was Mr. McNab to forbid 
 them the use of the church. 
 
 It was Mr. Pudney (true to .Gene McNab's proph- 
 ecy) waiting with his anthem book under his arm. 
 
 The church fairly clashed with echoes as Sylvia 
 went about with a dustcloth touching the pulpit, the 
 chairs, the railings, while Mr. Pudney boomed over 
 his part like a cornered bumblebee. 
 
 Presently Gene McNab came wearing a stylish tan 
 
MERRY ANDREW 85 
 
 gown and black hat. She brought a sheaf of gladio- 
 luses which she arranged in a big vase beside the pul- 
 pit. From that moment Sylvia loved her. 
 
 " Mother's coming," she told Sylvia, who clasped 
 her hands in rapture. 
 
 " Oh, it's lovely of her — just lovely! " 
 
 Gene laughed. " Why, she's so pleased about 
 Wully — his singing, you know — that you couldn't 
 have kept her away." 
 
 They had gone through the anthem twice before 
 the leader arrived " all fussed up," as he declared, 
 with the mighty haste he had been obliged to make. 
 " Dad's coming," he announced, and Sylvia could 
 scarcely believe she had heard aright. 
 
 " Is he, really? " cried Gene, all in a flutter. " He 
 told me positively that he would not ! " 
 
 " Well, he's coming," said Wully, " and if the min- 
 ister doesn't get round to begin before noon he's go- 
 ing to turn the hens in. Time's up today noon, you 
 know." 
 
 Merry Andrew appeared, redder and more like a 
 rose than ever, in her white dress and rakish hat 
 swathed about with a Bulgarian ribbon. She brought 
 Mother's big Bible, and Sylvia gasped. She had al- 
 together overlooked the necessity of a Bible. 
 
 " Mother thought of it," owned Merry Andrew, all 
 out of breath from the pace at which she had come. 
 
 Just as they finished, the Wehoskey family arrived 
 
86 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 — eight of them. They were about to settle in pews 
 down by the door, but Wully McNab hurried down to 
 them and brought them, with something of a flourish, 
 well up to the front. 
 
 " Glad the Wohoskeys got here early so I could 
 practice on 'em," he told Merry Andrew in a stage 
 whisper. 
 
 Before the Wohoskeys were fa"irly settled the 
 Shultzes arrived, and then the Andersons, and then 
 the Smiths. The church echoed no longer. It seemed 
 filled and waiting. Sylvia trembled for fear the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Fletcher Clyde would not, after all, come 
 in time. 
 
 Grandfather, Grandmother and Mother came; and 
 suddenly it was really the Sabbath, with the pleasant, 
 solemn hush which comes just before service, brood- 
 ing over the house, broken now and then by newcom^s 
 rustling into their seats. Their feet no longer seemed 
 to clatter upon the bare floor of the aisles. If they 
 did, the sound was not apparent in the filling church. 
 There were the Pierces, and there was Mrs. Pudney 
 in a hat so comprehensive that it could never make 
 much difference to the persons immediately behind her 
 whether there was a minister or not. And there was 
 Wully McNab, serious now, and handsome, showing 
 the people to their pews like a young prince. 
 
 Presently in came Mrs. McNab in lavender silk, and 
 
MERRY ANDREW 87 
 
 a little puff of a lavender bonnet resting upon her 
 snow-white hair. And lo! behind her who but Mr. 
 McNab himself, for the first time in the memory of 
 man in a stiff collar and a white shirt. His sun- 
 burned ears leaned away from his close-cropped gray 
 old head the same as ever; the squint of his shrewd 
 eyes among their wrinkles was the same everyday 
 squint. Yet still not the same. In place of old Mc- 
 Nab, the skinflint, he was Mr. McNab, a law-abiding, 
 well-wishing member of society, waiting with his 
 neighbors to listen to the preaching of the gospel. 
 
 Every time now that the door opened Sylvia's heart 
 gave a throb. Now it was the Peters boys, and now 
 Bartholomew in his new suit, but with a pocket hand- 
 kerchief knotted around his throat in place of a collar. 
 Bartholomew never had been able to assemble an en- 
 tire outfit at once. If his shoes were new, his coat 
 was out-at-elbow. There was always somewhere a 
 weakness in his defenses. 
 
 Now came the Hendersons from across " on the 
 other road," and there was really trouble in getting 
 them seated satisfactorily because the church was al- 
 ready filled. Sylvia gazed down into the anxious eyes 
 of Mother, sitting apparently so placid there in the 
 pew below, and prayed a trembling little prayer : 
 
 " Our spindle and our distaff is ready, dear Lord ; 
 do Thou send the flax!" 
 
88 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 The door opened and someone came in. Wully Mc- 
 Nab had come to his place in the choir. He bent to 
 whisper excitedly to Sylvia. 
 
 " If it isn't Bob Clyde himself, instead of his old 
 man!" 
 
 Sylvia stared into the youthful face coming up the 
 aisle. A little pale it was, but the lips were set and 
 determined. Was he coming to tell her that after all 
 his father had not been able to get home in time ? 
 
 He did not come to her, but mounted the pulpit 
 steps and sat down in the pulpit chair, then smiled his 
 recognition across at Wully McNab. Sylvia thrust 
 a scrap of paper into Wully's hand with the hymn 
 numbers upon it and motioned him to take it to young 
 Clyde. 
 
 The two boys clasped hands with fitting solemnity 
 there before a congregation which had gathered in gqod 
 faith and must be treated accordingly. They whis- 
 pered together a moment, then Wully stepped back into 
 his place, and Robert Clyde stood up before the people. 
 
 He began his excuses with much diffidence. His 
 father was to have spoken to them, but a train wreck 
 and consequent delay had prevented. He beggedjjheir 
 forbearance and hoped his reading of one of his father's 
 sermons might in some measure mitigate their disap- 
 pointment. He then announced the hymn and sat, 
 white and unhappy-looking, during its rendition. The 
 people did not join in the hymn. They were not as a 
 
MERRY ANDREW 89 
 
 whole familiar with that class of music. But the hymn 
 was well sung nevertheless. ■ Sylvia, looking over the 
 low top of the organ, saw the eyes of Wully McNab's 
 mother suffused with tears, and Mr. McNab's lips 
 twitch strangely at the corners. 
 
 Robert Clyde's prayer followed the hymn. It was 
 short and impressive. It asked God to help a boy who 
 was not in the habit of praying in public; who had 
 never before addressed any kind of meeting, to carry 
 this service through with the dignity and solemnity 
 which belonged to the place and to the time. After 
 Gene McNab's beautiful solo, he rose again and slipped 
 his father's sermon under the lid of the open Bible, 
 and announced that since coming into the church he 
 had changed his mind about reading it. 
 
 " I have it here," he said, smiling, " to fall back upon 
 in case I find it impossible to say what I wish to say. 
 But the sermon is upon a text which may be considered 
 at some future time, while that which I wish to say 
 must be said now — today — or not at all. 
 
 " I cannot tell you where to look for my text, for I 
 do not know where it is to be found. I heard it upon 
 the lips of one who was doing willingly her share of 
 the work of the world. 
 
 " ' Make ready thy spindle and distaff, 
 And God will furnish the flax.' " 
 
 Mr. McNab stirred uneasily in his pew, fumbling for 
 a handkerchief with which to mop his brow. He evi- 
 
go MERRY ANDREW 
 
 dently feared a personal attack, but there was no hint 
 of anything of the kind. The sermon was a vivid, 
 unhackneyed appeal to youth to array itself on the side 
 of good. 
 
 " In the past I have not done what I now ask you to 
 do," continued the speaker — " what I propose to try 
 to do in the future. I left it to others to carry on the 
 work of the world — to do the difficult tasks while I 
 hunted amusement. Suddenly this emergency arose 
 and I realized that I, Bob Clyde, must do something 
 which I feared to do ; I must do it, or it must remain 
 forever undone. I said, ' I can't do it ; I'm not a min- 
 ister — I am not even a professor of religion. It 
 would do more harm than good for me to speak to 
 those people. There will be old men present who will 
 have known life as I have had no time to know it; they 
 will resent my speaking to them; there will be young 
 men there who will say, " Bob Clyde, preaching to us ? 
 Why, he is no better than he should be himself. What 
 authority has he to advise us ! " ' 
 
 " Then I looked into my own heart and said : ' If 
 this last accusation is true, Bob Clyde, something is 
 wrong. You are shirking your part of the world's 
 work. You should have been more nearly ready for 
 this unexpected task which has been thrust upon you ! ' 
 
 " It required this demand to waken me — to jar me 
 out of my self-complacent sloth. There was little ex- 
 cuse for me — a minister's son — surrounded by schol- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 91 
 
 arly and religious influences, nurtured and taught and 
 looked after by the best of fathers — oh, there was no 
 excuse at all for me. I should have been more nearly 
 ready. And if the words I speak to you today do no- 
 body else any good know this: They have made me 
 less a shirk and less a traitor. I cannot go back to my 
 old-time indolence, for my sense of obligation has been 
 awakened. I must stand ready to do my share of the 
 world's work else I might better never have been born. 
 Not as a minister ; I shall in all probability never stand 
 before a congregation again, but in whatever walk of 
 life I may find myself, I am one of the spinners and 
 weavers of God's great fabric. To me has been in- 
 trusted the spindle and the distaff for which no one else 
 is responsible. It is my place to be ready to labor for 
 the betterment of the world, leaving the results to Him. 
 
 " You older men have either your regrets to make you 
 sad, or your satisfaction in well-lived lives to gladden 
 you; it is we boys and girls who still have our choice 
 to make — our chance before us." 
 
 From her perch behind the organ Sylvia saw " Shar- 
 ley " Wohoskey with mouth dropping open and eyes 
 bulging in the intensity with which he drank in the 
 speaker's words. She noted the absorption of the An- 
 derson boys. Even Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg, 
 dense, slow of comprehension, with his red necker- 
 chief askew until the knot of it was where the knot 
 would have been if he were going to be hanged, seemed 
 
92 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 wholly alive to the meaning of the message, as he would 
 not have been alive to the Reverend Mr. Clyde's more 
 polished and shapely discourse. It was the youth of 
 the speaker, the personal appeal of the theme, which 
 caught and held his interest to the end. 
 
 Wully McNab's anthem book slipped from his knee 
 and fell to the floor with a bang. He stooped for it 
 and came up with a flushed face. 
 
 After the closing anthem and the benediction, Mr. 
 McNab came slowly to his feet and faced the congre- 
 gation. 
 
 " I'd like to say," he began, " that there isn't a pair- 
 son in the house more glad to see this chairch bein' used 
 for its legitimate purpose than I am." In his embar- 
 rassed earnestness his Scotch extraction became more 
 than usually apparent in the roll of his r's, and the 
 pinch of his vowels. " I admit I did intend takin' it 
 over for my own uses accordin' to my father's wull. 
 'Most ten years it stood rottin' in r-r-rain an' sun, the 
 land aboot it goin' to rag- an' mayweed. But now 
 that you Rosedale folk have seen fit to make a stir-r-r, 
 an' open it again to the singin' o' hymns, an' the 
 preachin' o' the Word, I'm wullin' to — sort of do my 
 shaire with the gettin' ready of the tools for the work. 
 My faither gev the ground and helped to build the 
 chairch, an' if you Rosedale folk are a mind to use the 
 chairch, I'll put a new platform to it, pent it, get a new 
 or-r-gan, some lights, an' such small fixin's as the 
 
MERRY ANDREW 93 
 
 women folk seem to think necessary." He sat down 
 suddenly and there was a murmur that was almost ap- 
 plause as the people rose to go. 
 
 " Flax ! Flax ! The flax is just rolling in ! " de- 
 clared young Wully, ostentatiously stacking the hymn- 
 books. " Just see what you've done to poor dad's 
 hens, Sylvia." And then he turned to Mr. Pudney. 
 " Choir practice at seven sharp, Mr. Pudney. We'll 
 probably have electricity in the church by that time. 
 Now that dad's really started to work his spindle and 
 distaff he'll make a noise with 'em like a whole woolen 
 mill. Dad's like me, he never does things by halves. 
 When he was mean he was real good and mean, but 
 now that Bob Clyde has him faced about in the oppo- 
 site direction, he'll make good speed, I shouldn't won- 
 der. Farewell, Mary Ann, until Friday night, and if 
 you have any dogs to throw on the open market, why 
 let me know." 
 
 Sylvia was still looking at the people standing in 
 groups or passing out of the church, when Gene whis- 
 pered, " Look at your mother ; she has an expression 
 on her face as if an angel's wing had just brushed 
 her cheek." 
 
 Sylvia looked, and smiled, and as she did so she 
 caught a gleam of tender pride in her grandmother's 
 eyes, and knew that the wing Gene spoke of had even 
 fanned away some of the disguising dust of sternness 
 from that lean old face. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In winter the Drews abandoned the shed-room 
 kitchen at the west and carried on their numerous 
 activities in the warmer part of the house. Con- 
 sequently the living-room, although large, did not ap- 
 pear so, with the kitchen table, cupboard, and range 
 added to its regulation dining-room equipment. The 
 house was old, having been built away back in the 
 pioneer days, which accounted for its sturdy stone con- 
 struction, and the great fireplace which filled most of 
 the western end of the house proper. This fireplace 
 
 — a nice dark cave behind the range — was the winter 
 Mecca of the dogs. As often as Grandmother's vigi- 
 lance lapsed two bundles of yellow hair might be seen 
 bulging from behind the range, while knowing doggish 
 eyes watched for the first flourish of Grandmother's 
 broom. Grandfather let the dogs in — surreptitiously 
 
 — Sylvia and Merry Andrew were both very blind 
 where dogs were concerned, especially on a cold, stormy 
 day; and even Mother, who tried to be law-abiding, 
 fell from grace now and then. When Grandmother 
 really did tolerate their presence it was the sign of, ex- 
 treme weather without. She said a family which 
 owned two dogs the size of yearling calves might well 
 
 94 
 
MERRY ANDREW 95 
 
 be expected to stable the stock behind the kitchen stove. 
 It would be of a piece with the rest of Merry Andrew's 
 foolishness. She considered that the Lord had in- 
 tended dogs to live out of doors ; had furnished them 
 coats with which to withstand cold, and Grandfather 
 had wasted time and lumber building a dog-kennel. 
 Besides there were the barn and the tool-house ; so out 
 they went. 
 
 It was on one of these trying winter days while 
 Mother washed the breakfast dishes, and Grand- 
 mother, over by the north window, mended the family 
 stockings, that Sylvia, making doughnuts by the south 
 window, saw Merry Andrew and the dogs coming full 
 gallop from the barn. Merry Andrew did a big half 
 of the chores nowadays, as Grandfather kept no help 
 during the winter months and every year it grew 
 harder for him to do the work alone. 
 
 The wind was from the north, but it seemed to take 
 a fiendish delight in sweeping the snow across the path 
 to the barn and banking it against the unprotected 
 southern doors of the old stone house. The sun was 
 dazzling, and out across the fields in the direction of 
 the McNabs' place the snow rose and fell and rose 
 again, like waves at sea. 
 
 It was Saturday, and Sylvia was wondering a little 
 wistfully if the minister would be able to get through 
 the drifts tomorrow. So far he had not failed, but 
 the worst snow storm of the winter was now being 
 
96 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 followed by the bitterest wind. The roads were full 
 and with a sigh Sylvia acknowledged the hopelessness 
 of seeing any one of her three music scholars, who took 
 their lessons on Saturdays. 
 
 It was too bad. It would do the pupils no good to 
 miss their lessons, and it would certainly work a hard- 
 ship on the Drews to miss the dollar and a half which 
 the lessons brought. , Times were hard with them these 
 days. It took all Grandfather Drew could scrape to- 
 gether in the fall to pay the taxes, the interest on the 
 mortgage, and to buy wood for the long hard winter. 
 In fact, he had come short this fall of doing even this; 
 so that in the spring, in place of the satisfaction which 
 comes from knowing that progress has been made if 
 ever so little, there would be, instead, a perfectly fresh 
 debt to worry him. The small salary Sylvia received 
 as organist in the church, and the Saturday music schol- 
 ars, had served to furnish the girls with their modest 
 outfit of clothes. 
 
 "Heard the news?" demanded Merry Andrew, 
 opening the outside door just far enough to admit her 
 glowing face. " The big boys have turned the teacher 
 out of school! She's gone home, trunk and all, and 
 there is nothing left in the McNab district but insur- 
 rection, and insubordination and incompatibility and 
 all the other ins ! " 
 
 " Either come in or shut the door ! " called Grand- 
 mother sharply. " You are letting all the heat out of 
 
MERRY ANDREW 97 
 
 the house and all the snow in ! And if you are coming 
 in, stamp the snow off your feet. I should think a 
 woman grown, like you, would remember to do that, 
 without being told." 
 
 " I wasn't coming in ; I'm not through at the barn," 
 replied Merry Andrew, " but I thought you'd want to 
 hear the news." 
 
 Sylvia paused with a doughnut poised above the 
 kettle of lard on the stove, and Mother commanded 
 Merry Andrew to " come on in and tell us about it." 
 
 " Oh do ! " seconded Sylvia, and Merry Andrew re- 
 sponded to the invitation. She opened the door, let- 
 ting in a furious blast of snow-laden wind and the 
 dogs, who scurried into obscurity behind the stove. 
 On their way, however, they were each moved to exe- 
 cute a showery shake of their great-coats, spattering 
 the clean floor with snow and filling the room with 
 dampness and confusion. 
 
 Grandmother, at her darning over by the north win- 
 dow, poised a stockinged hand and shivered, hot so 
 much with cold as with disapprobation. But in view 
 of what was going on outside she held her peace. 
 
 " My, but it smells good in here ! " declared Merry 
 Andrew, drawing off her rubber boots and wiggling a 
 pair of stubby little moccasins close to the stove. 
 
 " Smells good ! " repeated Grandmother sarcastic- 
 ally; "you must be fond of the smell of drying dog 
 fur." 
 
98 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " They haven't begun to dry to that extent yet," pro- 
 tested Merry Andrew, investigating Twoboy's back 
 with a moccasined toe. " And do please let them stay 
 until I go out again. I'm going right away." 
 
 With her back to her grandmother she wigwagged a 
 signal for doughnuts to Sylvia, who responded surrep- 
 titiously with two. 
 
 " Now go on with the news," urged Sylvia. But 
 Merry Andrew procrastinated, as one will, when in 
 possession of an unusually rich bit of gossip. 
 
 " Do you know it is a horrible day outside ? Wind 
 right from the north, too. Listen to it wheezing 
 through the oak tree. It might blow that old tree over 
 on to the house and smash it." 
 
 Involuntarily Grandmother glanced out at the trunk 
 of the great tree whose branches above whined in the 
 wind. Sylvia caught a glimpse of a flying fragment of 
 doughnut disappearing somewhere behind the stove. 
 
 " There is a bank out in the road right in front of 
 our house which looks to me as if it wouldn't melt be- 
 fore the Fourth of July, and getting bigger every min- 
 ute." 
 
 Grandmother craned a wiry neck. She had a horror 
 of banking snow, and no one to shovel it save an old 
 man and a flyaway girl. The bank was there, and as 
 Merry Andrew had asserted, growing every moment. 
 Two doughnut flights, attended by snapping of canine 
 jaws, took place during Grandmother's investigation 
 
MERRY ANDREW 99 
 
 of the road. Four hopeful, waggish eyes peered from 
 behind the stove. v 
 
 " What about the fuss at school? " prompted Mother, 
 " and how did you hear of it? " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Pudney went wallowing by just now on 
 his way to the Corners. He called to Grandfather, and 
 Grandfather waded out to the road to hear about it. 
 Isn't it queer! Mr. Pudney is the kind of man who 
 catches things coming and going. Because of this 
 snow he had to go to the Corners; if it had been a 
 flood he would have had to make Bendon. It's lower 
 in that direction and he would have stood a better 
 chance of being mired. It always thunders and light- 
 ens the hardest when Pudney is at his milking; if 
 there comes a swinger of a hot day in June you look 
 over into that cup-shaped meadow of his, where never 
 a breeze can get in, and there you'll find Pudney sweat- 
 ing and haying." 
 
 " You have a bad habit, Mary Ann, of wandering 
 when you start to tell anything," said Grandmother. 
 (Merry Andrew signaled for more doughnuts. Sylvia 
 only smiled and shook her head. She had seen the 
 reckless expenditure of provision. But Mother inno- 
 cently responded to the call and the recklessness went 
 on. ) " Finish your news about the school ; although 
 it makes little difference to us-<— we have no one at- 
 tending. I am glad your grandfather refused to go on 
 the board." 
 
ioo MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Oh, did they want Grandfather on the board ? " 
 asked Merry Andrew in surprise. 
 
 Grandmother stirred uneasily. She would not lie. 
 On the other hand, what was the use of a granddaugh- 
 ter-being so pertinacious! Why could not Mary Ann 
 assume, with other polite listeners, that Grandfather 
 had been tendered a place on the school board and had 
 refused it? 
 
 " Go on with your story ! " she commanded. 
 
 " Mr. Pudney lays it all to the Pierce boy." 
 
 " Of course," assented all three of the listeners to- 
 gether. 
 
 " It seems that little Al Pierce got soaked with a 
 snowball and was pretty badly hurt. At first it was 
 supposed to be one of the Button boys' who threw the 
 ball, and Miss Murdock punished him; or tried to. 
 Then it turned out that it wasn't the Button boy at all 
 who hurt little Al Pierce. Mr. Pudney says they don't 
 know what boy really did it, but I wouldn't be afraid 
 to bet — if I were a betting person — that I could lay 
 my hand on the head of the boy who did throw the 
 snowball and not go very far beyond that drift out 
 there in the road either." 
 
 " You think it was Earl Pudney? " asked Sylvia, in- 
 terested. t 
 
 " I just know it was." 
 
 " You don't know anything of the sort," said Grand- 
 mother severely, " and you might be in better business 
 
MERRY ANDREW 101 
 
 than running down your nearest neighbor. And — 
 What are you doing ! — feeding those dogs dough- 
 nuts? Put them out! Put them out this minute ! If 
 your mother upholds you in such wastefulness I shan't ! 
 The idea!" 
 
 Like many before them, Boy and Twoboy had spoiled 
 their own fortunes by greediness. In order to be near 
 the source of supplies they had emerged from their 
 place of retirement to lay coaxing muzzles upon their 
 benefactress's knee. 
 
 " Well — Grandmother — well ! " grumbled the un- 
 repentant Merry Andrew, " give me time to get my 
 boots on and we'll hike ; won't we, boys ? Who wants 
 doughnuts anyway ! " They scratched through the 
 door as a gust of wind brought round an extra load of 
 snow. A portion of it swept indoors. 
 
 " If your grandfather had built a storm-house in 
 place of a dog-house he would have worked to a better 
 end," remarked Grandmother to Sylvia. Then the 
 door flew open again and Merry Andrew called out 
 excitedly : 
 
 " Ship ahoy from the sou'-sou'-west ! From the di- 
 rection of McNab's ! I believe Mrs. McNab is coming 
 to make a call ! " Then she banged the door and was 
 gone for good. 
 
 Sylvia and her mother laughed at the idea of the 
 stout little Mrs. McNab wading through such roads to 
 make a call, but they both leaned across the table to 
 
102 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 peer in the direction indicated. Grandmother came 
 also, and all three could plainly see a feminine figure 
 battling bravely against the wind. Grandmother was 
 the first to identify it. 
 
 " It's Gene, and she's coming here ! Go straight and 
 light a fire in the parlor. Hurry ! " 
 
 Sylvia went willingly. Now if any of the three 
 music pupils should happen to brave the storm, at least 
 the piano keys would not quite freeze their fingers. 
 
 When Miss McNab, laughing and gasping, reached 
 the back door it swung open hospitably to receive her, 
 and she was borne through the living-room and hall 
 into the newly-warmed parlor so rapidly that she 
 scarcely caught a whiff of the doughnuts. 
 
 "Cold!" she gasped, "Oh no, Mrs. Drew! I'm 
 reeking with perspiration ! I've been working hard, I'd 
 have you know. Why, once I really thought I'd have 
 to give up and flounder back home. I don't think I 
 have ever walked through such drifts before." 
 
 " You must stay all night," cooed Grandmother, and 
 Mother slipped around and opened the door of the 
 spare bedroom to let in the heat gradually. But Miss 
 McNab scoffed at the invitation. 
 
 " At least you must stay to dinner," persisted Grand- 
 mother. 
 
 " No, I must get back as soon as possible — before 
 father finds I am gone. You must know, Mrs. Drew, 
 that nothing short of desperation would drive me to 
 
MERRY ANDREW 103 
 
 face that field of snow on such a day — Just a mo- 
 ment — until I catch my breath ! " 
 
 Miss McNab laughed and sank back into the cre- 
 tonne-covered rocking-chair. Against its tan and yel- 
 low roses her black hair took on a bluish luster, and her 
 skin lost something of its sallow tint. She appeared 
 very lovely to Sylvia, who, since their year together 
 in the church choir, had come to like instead of fear 
 her. In spite of her liking, however, Sylvia could not 
 altogether be rid of the familiar tremor when her 
 friend's eyes wandered over those floral patterns in the 
 carpet, and the perfectly ugly Nottingham window- 
 curtains. 
 
 " Did you know that Miss Murdock had given up 
 the school ? " Gene began abruptly. 
 
 " Mr. Pudney told Grandfather just a little while 
 ago. 
 
 " I think it is a hard school to manage," commented 
 Grandmother politely. 
 
 " Indeed it is ! " owned Gene, " and father suggests 
 that I take Miss Murdock's place for the rest of the 
 term. In fact, he insists upon it. He says it'would 
 be all sorts of disgrace to have it go abroad that the 
 school in the McNab district was closed because no one 
 could manage it. He says he will give me a hundred 
 dollars a month and stand behind me in the matter of 
 disciplining the school." 
 
 Sylvia's heart sank. She anticipated what was com- 
 
104 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ing next. All her life she had dreaded being forced to 
 teach in that barren old schoolhouse with its eight star- 
 ing windows, its one door, its chimney awry from the 
 day it was built; with its pile of cord-wood by the door 
 and its bleak road stretching away to the north and to 
 the south. She hated the very idea of teaching school. 
 With music it was different : You had your one pupil 
 to whom you were imparting a delightful art ; the one 
 mind to influence and direct. A school-room was a 
 storm center, always. You taught and fought simul- 
 taneously. It was too much ! 
 
 " I wouldn't take the school — not for two hundred 
 dollars a month," went on Gene. " But I didn't tell 
 father so; not flatly. I told him I would consider 
 the matter. He was very peremptory. You know 
 father's way. He said there was little time, to con- 
 sider, for either I, or somebody else, must open that 
 school Monday morning." 
 
 Gene paused and sat up straight in the calico chair. 
 Sylvia kept silent, but Grandmother gave voice to a 
 sympathetic murmur which meant nothing beyond ad- 
 miration for the daughter of a McNab. She had not 
 caught the drift of the matter and was far from seeing 
 any connection between Gene's stormy visit and the 
 troubles of District Number 3, or " McNab's School," 
 as it was usually called. 
 
 " It has always been a rough school," continued 
 Gene. " It was rough in my day, and — I'm afraid — 
 
MERRY ANDREW 105 
 
 rougher in Wully's. Although," she hastened to add, 
 " I don't believe Wully's mischief was a vicious or vin- 
 dictive mischief like that of some who attend now." 
 
 " No, no, not at all ! " said Grandmother. 
 
 Gene acknowledged the older woman's kindness by a 
 glance, but turned to Sylvia for confirmation. 
 
 " Was it, Sylvia ? You ought to know ; you went to 
 school when Wully did." 
 
 Sylvia smiled. 
 
 " I used to wonder whatever I should do if I were 
 obliged to be Wully McNab's teacher." 
 
 Gene's face fell. She sighed. 
 
 " I presume," she owned, " our own brothers and sis- 
 ters and — any who are dear — appear in a very dif- 
 ferent light to us than to others. And I admit that 
 Wully has been — unfortunate in college. But mother 
 thinks that is due to the fact of his having chanced 
 upon fussy and over-particular professors — " 
 
 " Certainly ! " chorused Grandmother. Gene re- 
 warded her again, but looked straight at Sylvia for sup- 
 port of her theory. Not receiving it, she laughed. 
 
 " I don't care ! He has always been a sweet brother 
 to me and always will be, Sylvia Drew ; and it's no mat- 
 ter what you think ! I know him better than you do, 
 if you did go to school with him." 
 
 " And when it comes to unmanageableness, we don't 
 have to go away from home," declared Grandmother. 
 Sylvia flushed. 
 
10S MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " We're all bad enough," she owned. 
 
 " I'm not talking about you, and you know it," said 
 Grandmother. 
 
 " Then if it is Merry Andrew, there is some excuse 
 for her. She has so little that other girls have — hard 
 work — boy's — yes, man's work ! And no play — " 
 
 " Ah, ha ! Now the shoe is on the other foot ! " 
 triumphed Grandmother. " When do you expect 
 Wullyhome?" 
 
 " His vacation is in March, but — we have sort of — 
 fallen into the habit of expecting Wully rather — un- 
 expectedly, you know." 
 
 The girls laughed together, and Gene rose to go, 
 coming to her real errand abruptly and baldly at the 
 last, even as her father would have done. 
 
 " I want you to take the school, Sylvia, and do the 
 best you can with it. If my wish counts for any- 
 thing, father's offer holds good to you — a hundred 
 dollars a month (the increase out of his own pocket, 
 and a private matter, you understand) and his influ- 
 ence back of you to maintain order. And still back of 
 that, twenty-five dollars a month more ; which must be 
 strictly between ourselves." 
 
 There was nothing to be said. Sylvia stood silent 
 — overwhelmed, while Grandmother joyfully accepted 
 on her behalf. There was the money with which to 
 pick up that teasing little debt of Grandfather's; the 
 money for the spring hired man ; the money for those 
 
MERRY ANDREW 107 
 
 last cords of stove-wood which were always so hard 
 to come by, and the money to work them up into stove 
 length. 
 
 " It will not be money earned easily," warned Gene, 
 addressing Grandmother, not Sylvia. 
 
 " No," said Sylvia desperately, " and it is not likely 
 that I shall be able to stick it out during the whole 
 term. I will do my best. But oh, you don't know how 
 I dread and fear it! " 
 
 Gene stood conscience-smitten. 
 
 "If you feel that way about it, Sylvia — " 
 
 " Tut, tut ! " said Grandmother. " Think how you 
 can help your grandfather with your salary! " 
 
 " Yes, yes," trembled Sylvia, " I don't want to be one 
 of the shirks of the world. I want to be ready to 
 shoulder my share of the hard work," and then for 
 Grandmother's benefit added with defiance, " as Merry 
 Andrew always is." 
 
 When Gene McNab had gone Sylvia went about in 
 a miserable daze setting the table for dinner. Mother's 
 eyes followed her anxiously — pityingly ; but there was 
 no chance to talk things over. Grandmother was la- 
 menting the fact that they had not been able to per- 
 suade Gene to stay for dinner. That Sylvia stood 
 pledged to a dreaded and hazardous task was a second- 
 ary matter. Presently Grandfather, Merry Andrew, 
 and both dogs arrived from the barn, stamping and 
 shaking themselves free from the powdery anew. 
 
io8 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Well, Sylvia is in for a strenuous winter," an- 
 nounced Mother. 
 
 " How is that? " asked Grandfather, hanging up his 
 hat. 
 
 " She has promised Gene McNab to be her substitute. 
 She is going to take the school." 
 
 " Heaven's high tower ! " exclaimed Merry Andrew, 
 who had been reading Hardy. " Why, Sylvia Drew, 
 are you crazy? Grandfather, Sylvia can't teach that 
 school ! Why don't you put a stop to it ! " 
 
 " Mr. McNab has promised to stand behind Sylvia 
 — " began Grandmother. 
 
 " Mr. McNab stand behind Sylvia ! " raged Merry 
 Andrew. " Why, the farther off Mr. McNab stands 
 the better! It's the Pudneys — Dorothy and Earl — 
 who have been raising hob in the school, and if they 
 found out Mr. McNab was standing behind Sylvia, or 
 beside Sylvia, or anywhere near Sylvia, they'd be 
 worse than ever ! They don't love the McNabs as — 
 as — " 
 
 " Mary Ann ! " warned Grandfather. 
 
 " There, there ! " soothed Mother, passing a calming 
 hand over the ruffled hair. And Merry Andrew ended : 
 
 " — as some folks do ! If anybody belonging to this 
 family must teach that school I am the one to tackle 
 it!" 
 
 " You ! " snorted Grandmother. " You haven't 
 enough education yourself to teach others." 
 
MERRY ANDREW 109 
 
 " You don't need education in District Number 3," 
 declared Merry Andrew, " you need muscle and grit ! 
 You don't need to be a teacher; you must be a scrap- 
 per — that's all ! I am that, and Sylvia isn't ! There 
 are just two scrappers in this family; me and — " 
 
 " Merry Andrew ! " warned Grandfather and Sylvia 
 and Mother all together. 
 
 " Oh, don't stop her," said Grandmother grimly. 
 " Let her go on ! She has no reverence for gray 
 hairs ! " 
 
 " — And that's me and Twoboy ! We are fighters ! " 
 finished Merry Andrew, glaring at her grandmother. 
 
 Whether because of her perturbation, or her prelim- 
 inary luncheon of doughnuts, Merry Andrew's appetite 
 failed her in the middle of her meal, and with a hardly 
 audible " Excuse me " in the direction of her grand- 
 mother she flung away from the table and stood glow- 
 ering at the drifting snow from the north window. A 
 moment later she called out excitedly : 
 
 " There is a team down below Pudney's ! They are 
 breaking the road! I'll bet you it is somebody from 
 Bendon breaking through so the minister can get out 
 here tomorrow ! Yes — it is — it is Robert Clyde and 
 somebody else, and they are digging ! It won't do 'em 
 any good — with this wind it will fill right up again. 
 There is a girl with them and — who is the other man ? 
 Good gracious ! It is — " She turned and stuffed her 
 apron into her mouth — " It is — Wully McNab ! 
 
no MERRY ANDREW 
 
 They're waving at us ! " She flapped her apron wildly. 
 
 Presently the team was turning in at the east of 
 the house. The Drew family buzzed out of the back 
 door to welcome them. The dogs whirled and cavorted 
 about the tired horses' feet. 
 
 " We've managed to get through, but it's like sticking 
 your finger into a pan of water and then pulling it out 
 and looking for the hole. Isn't this a whale of a blow ? " 
 called out Robert Clyde. "Let me introduce you to 
 my friend, Mr. McNab, late of Wisconsin University." 
 
 Wully was helping out Aggie Brown, Sylvia's eldest 
 music pupil, whom they had overtaken floundering 
 towards her lesson. He shook hands all around, grin- 
 ning a bit sheepishly. They all poured into the living- 
 room, which immediately became a caldron of youth 
 and hilarity and collie dogs. Grandmother greeted 
 Wully. 
 
 " Gene has just gone home across lots," she told him. 
 
 " Gene ? What in the name of the seven seas was 
 
 she doing over here on such a day as this? " demanded 
 
 Wully. 
 
 " Came over to wish old District Number Three on 
 i 
 
 to Sylvia," said Merry Andrew. " Dorothy and Earl 
 Pudney and Liz Wood and a few more brave spirits 
 turned poor meek little Miss Murdock out, and now 
 Sylvia is elected to take a whirl at it." 
 
 " I've a mind to begin school again," declared Wully, 
 " take my old desk once more — that one by the door 
 
MERRY ANDREW m 
 
 with the beautiful bas relief of Jim Stanley carved on 
 the top — yes-s-s, that's my work ; done that winter 
 that Jim taught our school. Splendid likeness of Jim, 
 if I do say it. All the boys thought so, too. Last 
 work I ever did at District Number Three. It was 
 easier than it looks. Stanley, you may remember, had 
 wide, wandering ears, and one wisp of hair which re- 
 fused to associate with its fellows, standing up alone on 
 his crown. It wasn't at all bad-looking on his head, 
 but somehow in the drawing — or rather, the cut — it 
 came out so vividly — that and the ears — that every- 
 body laughed. There is no title to the work. I carved 
 not a line and I raised not a stone, but Jim recognized 
 his portrait the moment he came down where I was at 
 work. He excused me for the rest of the term." 
 
 " Did he lay it up against you ? " asked Bob Clyde. 
 
 " No, oh no ; but he told father, and it was father 
 who laid it up against me — the buggy-whip — in the 
 barn ! Bur-r-r-r ! I was warmer than I am this min- 
 ute! Oh, father took such things in time, I can tell 
 you! I often think if it had not been for father's 
 bringing-up I might not be what I am today." 
 
 " Well, I think — " began Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Yes, yes, we all know what you think, dear," 
 Wully interrupted her to say. " But I do really wish 
 you would let me come to your school, Sylvia; to see 
 if I couldn't manage to stick through one whole term. 
 I never have yet." 
 
ii2 MERRY. ANDREW 
 
 " Oh, goody, goody! " cooed Aggie Brown. " Are 
 you really going to teach our school, Miss Drew? I'm 
 so glad ! The big boys are the meanest — " 
 
 "Which big boys?." demanded Bob Clyde so 
 abruptly that Aggie started. 
 
 " Why, Pete Swanson — " 
 
 " Pete Swanson ! You don't mean to say that Pete 
 Swanson is going to district school yet!" exclaimed 
 Wully. " Why, he went to school when I did. Pete's 
 education must be sticking to the shell even worse than 
 mine." "' 
 
 " And George Stone," went on Aggie. 
 
 " Another ! " said Wully. " Thank you, I don't care 
 if I do have a doughnut, Mrs. Drew. Breaking roads 
 in company with a minister's son is frightfully ex- 
 hausting. They are brought up, you see, to the idea 
 that farmer lads like me are designed by Providence 
 to do the lifting, while they — " 
 
 " Dry up, Wully, while I get the rest of this school 
 census," admonished Robert. 
 
 " Let me see-e-e — ," reflected Aggie, " where did I 
 leave off — Oh, yes; there's that horrid Earl Pud- 
 ney. He hectors all the little boys, and the middling- 
 sized boys — mother took my brother Ray out of 
 school. She was afraid Earl Pudney would blind him 
 with snowballs. There's William and Sanderson An- 
 derson, and Gabe Peters and the Button boys — " 
 
 " Are they large — the Buttons ? " inquired Wully, 
 
MERRY ANDREW 113 
 
 measuring a circle with the thumb and forefinger of the 
 hand not encumbered with doughnut. " They weren't 
 trimming with 'em when I was on the rollcall of Num- 
 ber 3. We had Loops, I remember — " 
 
 " And the big girls," went on Aggie, " are almost 
 worse than the big boys. Hilda Swanson — " 
 
 " I remember Hilda. White hair, little rosebud 
 mouth and red rims around her eyes." 
 
 " She's awful pretty now," witnessed Aggie, " and 
 so is Lizzie Wood." 
 
 " That's right ; tell us about the big girls. They are 
 so much more interesting than the big boys. Are you 
 one of them, Aggie ? " 
 
 " No ; I am one of the betweens. But I shall be one 
 next year. So will Kate Anderson and Alma Wohos- 
 key. There are ten little girls, three betweens, and 
 three big girls ; the rest are boys." 
 
 " There will be four big girls ! " announced Merry 
 Andrew sententiously. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Grandmother, but Mother said 
 never a word. 
 
 Aggie described the family feud between the Metz- 
 laffs and Buttons, and the still more serious one be- 
 tween the Pierces and the Pudneys. 
 
 " If they annoy you kill 'em off," advised Wully. 
 " That is why the committee who selected the site for 
 the schoolhouse built it next to the cemetery. They 
 expected such emergencies to arise. Nice little row of 
 
U4 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Buttonholes close to the fence — and in the case of the 
 Pierces and Pudneys, tie the Pierces and let Dorothy 
 sing—" 
 
 " Wully, Wully ! " remonstrated Grandmother, " you 
 are carrying your joking too far." 
 
 " Yes," said Mother, " Dorothy is not the worst 
 singer in the world." 
 
 " You are right, Mrs. Drew," owned Wully frankly, 
 and immediately spoiled his retraction by adding, 
 " Her mother takes the blue ribbon in that class." 
 
 " Hush ! " warned Sylvia with a covert nod at the 
 tittering Aggie Brown. " You know that will go right 
 back to the Pudneys, and won't help to establish 
 friendly relations between them and the McNabs to 
 any great extent. But your fooling has given me an 
 idea : I'll get up a school exhibition. Perhaps in that 
 way I may be able to interest the little ones, the ' be- 
 tweens,' as Aggie calls them, and even some of the big 
 ones." 
 
 " Hear that, Bob ? Sylvia wants you to write a play 
 for the school." 
 
 " Oh do ! " seconded Sylvia, although she had not 
 thought of such a thing before. " Something with a 
 good part for everybody ! " 
 
 " Sort of a miracle play, it would have to be," chor- 
 tled Wully. . 
 
 " Play ' Midsummer Night's Dream,' and get Wully 
 
MERRY ANDREW 115 
 
 to take the part of Bottom. It would fit him down to 
 the ground," suggested Bob. 
 
 " I shall be happy to attempt the part," promised 
 Wully, " if I can get the make-up. Will you lend me 
 your head, Bob? " 
 
 The Drews laughed in chorus, and Aggie also, al- 
 though she did not understand the joke. She knew, 
 however, that it must be funny if Wully McNab cracked 
 it. Robert grinned sheepishly. 
 
 " I'll talk with you about the play tomorrow, Syl- 
 via," he promised as the boys prepared to go. They 
 would proceed with their road-breaking as far as the 
 church, where Robert would turn back, picking up Ag- 
 gie on his way, while Wully would flounder through 
 the drifts across-lots to " surprise father." 
 
 After Aggie had finished her lesson, been warmed, 
 bundled, and packed into Bob Clyde's cutter for her 
 homeward " lift," Mother came tiptoeing into the par- 
 lor where Sylvia stood watching the departure. 
 
 " I'm afraid we shall have a fuss," whispered Mother 
 gloomily. " Grandmother says she shall set her foot 
 right down on her going." 
 
 Sylvia understood who Mother meant, and where 
 she was not to go. 
 
 " W e must side with Grandmother in this," said Syl- 
 via. " She is in the right of it. It would only make 
 my task the harder to have Merry Andrew in the 
 
n6 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 mixup. She believes in force ; I believe in diplomacy. 
 Merry Andrew can throw a snowball swifter and surer 
 than I can ; she can run faster and fight harder. But 
 she can neither run nor throw nor fight as well as can 
 Pete Swanson or Earl Pudney. That is their own 
 game and they will beat her at it. And I can't bear to 
 see my gay little sister vanquished — " Sylvia paused, 
 startled as the spare bedroom door slowly opened and 
 out walked the little sister, who was supposed to be in 
 the barn helping with the early chores. 
 
 " I was just sure you would have this talk if you got 
 the chance," she giggled, " and I was bound to be to it. 
 I want to state right here that you two need not con- 
 nive with Grandmother, for I am going to school ! I 
 am still of school age — " 
 
 " But, Merry Andrew," protested Sylvia, " you 
 haven't been going for the last two years — " 
 
 " I know it. I didn't think the last teachers could 
 teach me anything." 
 
 " What do you expect to learn of the new teacher? " 
 demanded Sylvia. 
 
 " Diplomacy," answered Merry Andrew promptly. 
 " I am deficient in it. And you, Mother, will be obliged 
 to take a short course in higher milking. You are pro- 
 ficient in the rudimentary branches, of course. You 
 know how to balance yourself on a three-legged stool, 
 softly murmur ' So, boss ! ' and pull a quart or so of 
 
MERRY ANDREW 117 
 
 milk from a normal cow ; but when it comes to milking 
 Ambrosia you have to be proficient in the higher 
 branches, or you will find yourself in the higher 
 branches — of the plumtree there in the cow-yard ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew referred to a new acquisition to the 
 barnyard family which she had named Ambrosia, but 
 which Grandfather called " Swayback." 
 
 " Grandfather can't milk her — poor dear old thing 
 — I mean Ambrosia, not Grandfather — Ambrosia's 
 heifer days must have been spent under the manipula- 
 tions of some hideous, horny-handed old hired man 
 whose method with cows was kicking and swearing; 
 and she can't seem to get used to any other method — 
 diplomacy, for instance. She has to be sworn at be- 
 fore she will stand still — " 
 
 " Merry Andrew ! " gasped Mother, " you don't 
 mean that ! " 
 
 "Of course I do — I have to! I use grape-juice 
 profanity. Poor old Ambrosia has never been to 
 school. She doesn't know the difference if the words 
 sound like those she was brought up on. I grab my 
 pail and yell, ' Git over there ! You Dardanelles, De- 
 deagatch, Saloniki bovine, you ! ' then I ram my head 
 into her side and begin with the milking. I have to 
 hurry, too. For if you give her time to let her mind 
 wander back to that cruel old hired man, first you know 
 you hear something rattle, and you'll be lying otv y v ^\r 
 
n8 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 back with your shoes sticking straight up, and there 
 in the air, flying around like a Zeppelin, will be your 
 milk-pail!" 
 
 Sylvia and her mother tried to make their apprecia- 
 tion of Merry Andrew's recital as noiseless as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 "And you would doom Mother to such dangers?" 
 gurgled Sylvia, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " I've thought it all out," answered Merry Andrew 
 solemnly. " I shall have to get up early enough to 
 do Ambrosia before I go mornings, and again after I 
 get home nights. For go I will and nobody shall stop 
 me ! How much are you going to get a month, Syl- 
 via?" 
 
 " You couldn't guess if you tried all night," tri- 
 umphed Sylvia. " One hundred and twenty-five dol- 
 lars a month ! " 
 
 " What ? One hun — Sylvia, you're stringing me ! " 
 
 " No, that is to be my salary." 
 
 " Why, Sylvia Drew ! One hundred and twenty-five 
 dollars a month for four months is — " 
 
 " But wait — I may not be able to stand it the whole 
 term through." 
 
 " You must — you shall ! Why, it will pay the in- 
 terest on the mortgage, buy a nice new hired man for 
 spring — Poor old Grandfather! why, it will be like 
 taking a rock right off the top of his battered old felt 
 hat!" 
 
MERRY ANDREW 119 
 
 Mother's eyes shone; so did Sylvia's. Merry An- 
 drew jumped up and dragged the two to their feet. 
 They joined hands and began to whirl in a fantastic, 
 bacchanalian dance. Down clattered the shovel and 
 the poker, and bang went a heavy music book from the 
 corner of the piano; over went a haircloth chair, at 
 which Merry Andrew prudently " faded " into the 
 parlor bedroom whence she had so suddenly appeared. 
 
 Grandmother opened the door and demanded to 
 know what was the matter. Almost inarticulately 
 Sylvia owned that a book had fallen from the piano. 
 Grandmother picked up the book, the shovel, the poker 
 — the chair. 
 
 " Nice silly business ! " she commented. Then in a 
 voice like hardened steel she inquired, " Daughter-in- 
 law, are you going to get supper, or must I do it? " 
 
 " Oh, I am coming right away," murmured Mother 
 contritely, and followed her into the kitchen. 
 
 Sylvia lingered to peep into the parlor bedroom. It 
 was as well that Grandmother had not done so; for 
 although there was no girl in there, the window was 
 operand snow blowing in upon the best bedroom car- 
 pet. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Monday morning Sylvia went to her task with more 
 courage than she could have thought possible Saturday. 
 Perhaps Mr. Clyde's sermon had something to do with 
 this. His text had courage for the central thought. 
 Success did not always follow courage to do, he said. 
 Success was a secondary matter, after all. The will- 
 ingness to make the sacrifice — that was the main 
 thing. Perhaps it was Bob Clyde's interview with her 
 after church, in which he outlined a scheme for a grand 
 entertainment — a sort of historical pageant which 
 might be produced in the church. He had taken part 
 in a show of that kind in college and he was (Juite sure 
 he could adapt it to whatever number of the faithful 
 might remain at the end of the school term. 
 
 For the boys there would be easily-produced cos- 
 tumes, made up largely of cotton batting wigs and long 
 stockings, and for the girls flowered calico, puffs, pow- 
 der-patches and so on. He even hoped his father 
 would allow the " stately minuet " to be performed 
 during the entertainment. Wully McNab had prom- 
 ised to do everything he could to help the cause along ; 
 unobtrusively, of course — almost surreptitiously, in 
 fact, for the less the McNabs appeared in the matter 
 
 jao 
 
MERRY ANDREW 121 
 
 the better. To a Pudney, a McNab was almost as 
 poisonous as a Pierce. 
 
 Bob had pressed him to take the leading part in the 
 drama — that of George Washington ; but Wully had 
 brought forth very good reasons why such an arrange- 
 ment would not be practical, the strongest being that 
 his father had promised him a term or two in a mili- 
 tary school to see if that " wouldn't thr-r-r-m um up ! " 
 Consequently he might not be with them when the show 
 was pulled off. 
 
 The other reason, as Wully stated it, was that he 
 lacked the facial advantages which the part demanded. 
 In order to be a candidate he considered that he should 
 have to submit to some " good hitter giving him a biff 
 under his chops in order to knock his rather pointed 
 chin and rosebud mouth into the square and straight- 
 across of the national hero." But in any humble ca- 
 pacity — curtain-puller, wig-maker, property man or 
 call-boy — he would stand pat. 
 
 Sylvia intended to play up this entertainment to its 
 full value. The question was, whether to mention it 
 at the outset — this very morning, or wait until mat- 
 ters settled into some sort of routine. - 
 
 The wind was still high, and the crossroads drifted 
 full when, with a beating heart, she set out for the 
 scene of battle. She was alone, for Merry Andrew 
 had lingered to milk Ambrosia before getting ready. 
 
 The schoolhouse, gaunt and bare and weather-worn, 
 
122 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 stood with its blind gable to the road, looking more 
 forbidding than it ever had before; even upon that 
 never-to-be-forgotten occasion when Miss Dean, a for- 
 mer ifeacher, had promised Merry Andrew a whipping 
 the next morning. Sylvia remembered that, although 
 she herself had suffered cruelly, Merry Andrew had 
 taken the punishment stoically, as she took Grand- 
 mother's doses of sulphur and molasses; it was un- 
 pleasant, inevitable, but, possibly, beneficial. 
 
 A group of big boys stood about the platform hunch- 
 ing shoulders against the cold. Sylvia hurried her 
 steps. 
 
 Among those who waited she recognized burly Pete 
 Swanson, a man grown; Gabe Peters, George Stone, 
 the Anderson boys. A moment later the entire brigade 
 of Metzlaffs and Buttons appeared, even at this early 
 hour, carrying on the never-ending family feud. Earl 
 Pudney, the front and chief of all offenders, had not 
 yet arrived. Perhaps he would not come at all. Syl- 
 via hoped that he would not. 
 
 " Good morning, boys," she called out briskly, as she 
 approached the school-house. " Pretty cold, isn't it? 
 I wonder if some of you will build a fire for me? " 
 
 No one responded, but after a moment's hesitation 
 the big Sanderson boy came in and began to help with 
 the fire. Through the open door a hard-packed snow- 
 ball whizzed, shattered against the stove and scattered 
 
MERRY ANDREW 123 
 
 in fragments over the floor. Sylvia patiently closed 
 the door. 
 
 " The boys didn't realize that the door was open," 
 she said. 
 
 " I guess they realized it all right," returned the San- 
 derson boy dryly. 
 
 The door opened far enough to admit the red woolen 
 cap and pop eyes of the oldest Button boy. 
 
 " Hello, Grandma Sanderson ! Are you buildin' 
 your morning fire? " he drawled. 
 
 " Awh, shut yer mouth ! " returned young Sander- 
 son ; but his face was very red, and he was already half 
 sorry for his gallantry in helping the teacher. 
 
 A sharp fusillade of snowballs battered the front of 
 the building. The door opened again disclosing a 
 queer little face, bulging eyes set far apart in a flat red 
 plateau, a negligible hillock of a nose above a mouth 
 shaped like an inverted horseshoe. Out of the mouth 
 came a resounding oath delivered with a strong Slavic 
 accent. 
 
 " Who was that? " asked Sylvia, startled. 
 
 " Awh, Charley Wohoskey ! But it is Earl Pudney 
 who is puttin' him up ! " 
 
 Sylvia turned to the desk for the bell, but found 
 none. 
 
 " Where is the bell? " she asked. 
 
 " The boys carried it off, I guess," returned Bill San- 
 
124 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 derson, still piling in stove-wood. " Earl Pudney said 
 it made too much noise. There, I guess your fire is all 
 right." 
 
 " I'm — I'm just as much obliged as I can be," fal- 
 tered Sylvia, following William toward the door, 
 where he contemplated a quick escape. " William," 
 she added, and her voice trembled a little, " I hope you 
 .and your brother and sister are going to stand by the 
 school. It — is going to be a hard job for me, I am 
 afraid. 
 
 " You bet it is ! " owned William. 
 
 " Well, will you Andersons be on my side, Will- 
 iam?" 
 
 William grinned, grew redder and delayed his an- 
 swer. If he had possessed the language with which to 
 clothe his thought he would have told Sylvia that she 
 was asking a good deal of him. But Sylvia did not 
 need his assurance. 
 
 " I'm going to stick, William," she added in a tense 
 voice. " Will you help me ? " 
 
 The door burst open and a mass of small children 
 came surging in under a dangerous fire of snowballs. 
 William made his escape, but flung a promise over his 
 shoulder as he disappeared. 
 
 "You bet I will!" 
 
 Sylvia felt that she had taken a trench; now to 
 hold it! 
 
 She greeted the children, the Franklins, Bengie, 
 
MERRY ANDREW 125 
 
 Mary, and Solomon, the baby (the last-named not 
 yet of school age, but sent to relieve his mother of 
 maternal cares) ; Mitty and Alma and " Yennie " Wo- 
 hoskey (Charley after his late performance lingered 
 outside with his chief), the little Smith girls, all 
 bathed and clothed and beribboned as well-to-do chil- 
 dren should be ; Pete and Mame Kelly, Julie Spiervogle, 
 chubby and kissable and willing to be good with half a 
 chance. Sylvia smiled and joked and helped to peel 
 coat-sleeves from arms which persisted in sticking to 
 them because of an eternal tendency to outgrow cloth- 
 ing. Her heart went out to these little helpless folk 
 who looked up at her with eager, hopeful eyes, to be 
 taken care of, to be protected, to be taught. What a 
 pleasure it would be if it were not for that other ele- 
 ment ; that unruly clique which did not need protection 
 and did not care to be taught ! 
 
 Outside there was the sound of growing conflict. It 
 must be stopped. Sylvia took up the ruler and went to 
 the window to " call school." As she approached, a 
 snowball came crashing through the pane, showering 
 ice and broken glass over the benches and floor. A 
 jagged piece struck her in the face. Half-blinded, she 
 clapped her hands to her face. The blood spurted 
 through her fingers. One of the little girls began to 
 cry, and outside a roar went up as of an invading army. 
 
 The horrible fear came to Sylvia that she was 
 blinded, but it was the snow merely, which had hurt 
 
126 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 her eyes, not the more vicious glass which had cut into 
 her cheek. 
 
 With her blood-stained handkerchief pressed to her 
 face she rapped smartly on the window-casing with her 
 ruler, then went to the door to do the same. Here she 
 met the " big girls," who had arrived — as they were 
 in the habit of doing — in a body: handsome, over- 
 bearing Lizzie Wood, wearing a black velvet Tam 
 O'Shanter very much over one ear; Hilda Swanson, 
 straw-colored, round-eyed, red-lipped; and the leader, 
 Dorothy Pudney — why the leader, is left to the stu- 
 dent of the psychology of country schools. She was 
 neither prettier, nor wittier, nor wiser than the others ; 
 in fact she fell below any one of them in these charac- 
 teristics. She was a bad dresser for two reasons — 
 lack of means and lack of taste. But the fact re- 
 mained that the feminine portion of District Number 
 3 — the " bigs," the " betweens," and the small girls, 
 accepted her dictatorship unquestioningly. 
 
 In response to Sylvia's summons the scholars 
 swarmed in, Earl Pudney last of all. 
 
 " What yeh rappin' for? " he demanded aggressively. 
 " 'Tain't school-time yet! " 
 
 A heat of anger rose in Sylvia. Ah, that was a foe 
 to be dreaded. Earl Pudney could not be subdued by 
 the anger of a girl so near his own age. 
 
 " I called you a little before school-time in order to 
 arrange about seats," replied Sylvia. She still held her 
 
MERRY ANDREW '127 
 
 bloody handkerchief to her cheek, which she felt to 
 be swelling rapidly. She realized what that meant; 
 instead of a normal face, a grotesque, one-sided coun- 
 tenance would be the focus of these critical young eyes. 
 
 " Awh, Pete Swanson and I always set in the back 
 seat. And, anyway, this ain't the first day of school ! " 
 
 " This is the first day of my school," returned Sylvia 
 calmly, and took a pencil and pad from the desk. " Be 
 quiet, please." 
 
 She wrote rapidly. Earl Pudney continued to talk 
 out loud, and one of the Buttons scuffled with one of the 
 Metzlaffs. Dorothy Pudney said something funny to 
 Lizzie Wood about Sylvia's appearance and the two 
 brdke into spasms of ill-concealed mirth. 
 
 " Pete Swanson and William Anderson will sit in 
 seat Number 1," read Sylvia from her list. " George 
 Stone and Merton Button in seat Number 2 ; Earl Pud- 
 ney and Gabe Peters in seat Number 3 — " 
 
 " Awh, I guess not! " broke in Earl Pudney — " Not 
 with that little scrub ! Wha'd yeh think I am — in the 
 primer class ? " 
 
 His faithful allies bleated in admiration. Sylvia 
 proceeded with the Buttons, Metzlaffs, Wohoskey. 
 She knew it was going to be hard on slender, butter- 
 milk-eyed Sanderson Anderson to seat-yoke him with 
 the pugnacious, bullet-headed Joe Metzlaff, but for 
 diplomatic reasons it had to be done. 
 
 Then she began with the girls. For a reason of 
 
128 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 her own she placed the little ones first. There was no 
 trouble among the little ones. As she named seat- 
 mates they smiled at each other and sidled to their ap- 
 pointed places. The " betweens " followed suit. But 
 before seats 2 and 1 had been assigned the door opened 
 to admit Merry Andrew. For this Sylvia had waited. 
 
 A murmur ran like a summer breeze over the school- 
 room. 
 
 "Is she coming to school?" was heard in sibilant 
 whispers from different groups. 
 
 Merry Andrew swung in with a haughty mien and a 
 distinctly belligerent expression of countenance. Her 
 morning struggle with Ambrosia had heightened her 
 color and keened her temper. She was about to hang 
 up her well-worn gray felt hat with its picturesque 
 scarf when she caught sight of Sylvia's swollen cheek 
 and blood-stained waist and handkerchief. 
 
 " Sylvia," she cried, " what is the matter? " 
 
 " Never mind, now," answered Sylvia quietly. 
 " We are assigning the seats. Dorothy Pudney and 
 Hilda Swanson, seat Number 2 — " 
 
 "Oh, see here, Sylvia Drew; we won't stand for 
 that!" 
 
 It was Dorothy Pudney who objected this time. 
 
 " Silence ! " The ruler struck the top of the desk 
 sharply. 
 
 Dorothy's hand shot up with snapping fingers. 
 " Now — we won't do no such thing ! Liz an' I have 
 
MERRY ANDREW 129 
 
 set together for years in the back seat an' we ain't goin' 
 to give it up for nobody ! " 
 
 The ruler played a sharp tattoo on the desk. 
 
 " Seat Number 1, Mary Ann Drew, and Elizabeth 
 Wood. Pupils be seated, please, in the seats assigned 
 to them." 
 
 " Not much ! " muttered Earl Pudney, edging to- 
 ward the door. 
 
 " You must either obey me or take your books and 
 go home," announced Sylvia. 
 
 " I don't have to ! " retorted Earl. " You ain't no 
 teacher anyway! You're jest old Gran'dad Drew's 
 girl!" 
 
 Sylvia's head reeled. What should she do? Oh, 
 what could she do ? She saw Merry Andrew upon her 
 feet — her eyes blazing. Sylvia brought the ruler 
 down again smartly. 
 
 " Sit down — everybody ! " she commanded. Most 
 of the pupils obeyed, Merry Andrew among the first. 
 Earl Pudney backed toward the door. 
 
 " I would like you to stay a few moments, Earl — 
 at least until you hear what I have to say." Sylvia's 
 tone had a conciliatory ring. She tried to keep her 
 voice brave and steady and her eyes away from those 
 blazing ones in the back seat. She was suffering, but 
 not as much as was Merry Andrew. 
 
 " We are going to make our school, especially our 
 Study of American history, more than usually interest- 
 
130 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ing. We are going to specialize in that branch. We 
 Americans have done wonderful things in the past. 
 We have fought and won great battles. It is more 
 interesting than any story — the history of these 
 struggles. For instance: Just a young fellow — 
 merely a boy — coming at his country's need to com- 
 mand a fleet newly carved from the green timber along 
 the banks of the Great Lakes." 
 
 Sylvia was sparring for time. She had no idea of 
 anything further. But suddenly she was conscious of 
 the fixed attention of Frank and Joe, the warlike Metz- 
 laffs, together with all of the Buttons from the oldest 
 to the youngest. The Andersons, George Stone, and 
 Gabe Peters were listening open-mouthed. Earl Pud- 
 ney, trying to attract Pete Swanson's attention, stuck 
 his tongue into his cheek, caricaturing Sylvia's swollen 
 face ; but the effort was lost on Pete, whose Scandina- 
 vian soul had suddenly responded to the call to arms 
 in Sylvia's narration. He was actually listening to her 
 instead of minding the antics of his leader. 
 
 Sylvia skipped to the Battle of New Orleans, with a 
 casual mention of the part played in that battle by the 
 Island pirates, Lafittes. 
 
 " We are going to read about those pirates," she 
 promised, " how brave they were, and how loyal, in 
 spite of their nefarious business; how they stuck by 
 the struggling United States army in the hour of 
 greatest peril — how many in this school would like to 
 
MERRY ANDREW 131 
 
 know how it all came out and what became of the 
 pirates, the Lafitte brothers, after the war was over? " 
 
 A score of palms shot up, among them that of Pete 
 Swanson. Every boy in the school was eager. They 
 wanted to know — not in what year the stamp act 
 took effect, nor the date of the purchase of Louisiana 
 — they had had those unmeaning dates drilled into 
 them in a set, unmeaning way through many terms of 
 school. But pirates, boy admirals — yes, they hon- 
 estly wanted to know; and in spite of sundry surrepti- 
 tious signals from their chief, perched on the woodpile 
 by the door, their minds remained occupied by the 
 Lafitte brothers. 
 
 Even some of the more studious of the " betweens " 
 on the girls' side showed interest. The younger ones 
 could not be expected to do so. They were engaged 
 in smiling winningly at new seatmates, comparing lead 
 pencils, neck-charms, and other bits of personal prop- 
 erty. 
 
 If it had not been for the presence in their midst of 
 that imperious, indignant Merry Andrew, the big girls 
 would have been whispering witty things to each other 
 and smothering disconcerting bursts of mirth in 
 scented handkerchiefs. As it was, Dorothy handed 
 back a folded paper with " aint she prity " written on 
 it. The paper flopped open on the desk under the eyes 
 of the girl for whom it was meant, and likewise under 
 those of the one for whom it was not meant. Where- 
 
132 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 upon Merry Andrew choked back a snort of derisive 
 mirth and penciled on the paper in large characters — 
 " Eighteen years old and spells pretty with one t. 
 Thickhead!" 
 
 Liz Wood crushed the paper in her hand, but her 
 face was flushed, and she wriggled uncomfortably in 
 her seat. If the standard of superiority was to be 
 efficiency in scholarship in place of mischief, as had 
 been the rule in the past, it meant discomfort all along 
 the line. 
 
 Then, suddenly, the attention of every boy and girl 
 in school, big, between, and little, was pinned by what 
 Sylvia was announcing : At the end of the term those 
 scholars who stood high in deportment and scholar- 
 ship were to take part in a grand, historical pageant 
 — an operatic, spectacular affair, under the leadership 
 and supervision of Mr. Robert Clyde. There would 
 be a part in the play for everybody in the school — 
 big or little — who cared to take part. How many 
 cared ? 
 
 Hands again all over the room ; big and little, brown, 
 pink, dimpled — dirty. Even Dorothy Pudney voted 
 with enthusiasm. Earl did not vote, probably because 
 the idea had not entirely penetrated his cranium. 
 
 Then, while everybody was in a receptive mood, 
 Sylvia suddenly swung into everyday matters and be- 
 gan to arrange arithmetic classes. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 133 
 
 That night after supper (of which she had eaten 
 none) Sylvia sat by the stove and wept. The victory 
 for which she had struggled and suffered was like to 
 prove a barren one after all. For Grandfather and 
 Grandmother, Merry Andrew and Mother agreed that 
 for Sylvia to go to school in the morning with her 
 face in the condition it was, would be presumption of 
 the wildest sort. 
 
 " A doctor is what you need, and what you are go- 
 ing to have ! " stormed Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Grandfather, " I'll hitch up first 
 thing in the morning and bring him if I can get him 
 through the drifts. There is glass in that cheek yet; 
 I'm sure of it." 
 
 " And Earl Pudney is the simp who put it there ! " 
 raved Merry Andrew. " I grabbed Charley Wohoskey 
 by the nape of the neck and shook him, and he told me 
 the truth, but begged me not to let Earl Pudney know 
 he told. He said Earl Pudney ' vouldt make him 
 deatd, by gosh ! ' " 
 
 " Isn't it dreadful ! Oh, isn't it dreadful ! " wailed 
 Sylvia in a nervous collapse. " It will all go for 
 nothing now, and they will be worse than ever after a 
 week's vacation ! " 
 
 " But they won't get a week's vacation ! " announced 
 Merry Andrew. " I am going to teach District Num- 
 ber 3 myself until you are able to go back ! " 
 
134 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 The entire Drew family cried out in concert; and 
 the tones, vocally discordant but mentally in harmony, 
 caused Merry Andrew to burst into untimely laughter. 
 At the same time she spunkily reiterated her determi- 
 nation. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 After the doctor had come, extracted a dangerous 
 splinter of glass from Sylvia's cheek and gone again, 
 and during the following period of relief and ease, the 
 Drews awoke to the disturbing realization that Merry 
 Andrew had " done Ambrosia," and in spite of argu- 
 ment and commands of the evening before, had left 
 for the schoolhouse. 
 
 Even more disturbing, to Grandfather's mind, was 
 the fact that, in hunting for the " other snow-shovel " 
 he had inadvertently opened the toolhouse door, 
 thereby turning loose two determined collies which 
 straightway left for school. He had whistled, he had 
 threatened, he had promised and pleaded until Boy had 
 shown symptoms of indecision by sitting down in the 
 snow and wabbling a hesitating tail. Twoboy had not 
 even wavered. Straight as the needle to the pole he 
 struck the trail of his mistress and set off to begin his 
 common school education. 
 
 Grandfather refrained from confessing his indiscre- 
 tion in the house, and for a time Sylvia was spared the 
 added anxiety. Grandmother was so sympathetic, so 
 constant in her attendance upon the invalid, that Sylvia 
 was heartily ashamed of her almost overpowering de- 
 
 i35 
 
136 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 sire to be left alone for a few moments to talk the 
 matter over with Mother. 
 
 The opportunity came when Grandmother put on 
 her over-socks and went to the barn with a basin of 
 soaked bread-crusts for the hens. 
 
 " Mother," groaned Sylvia, " I can hardly stand it! 
 To think of her there alone! They are like a pack of 
 hyenas ! And Merry Andrew will do the wrong thing 
 every time — trust her for that! She will probably 
 try to whip Earl Pudney. It will end in a regular 
 riot!" 
 
 "Well, well, dear; she would go — you can't help 
 it, neither can I, nor Grandfather. Your job now is 
 to get well as soon as possible and go back; and in 
 order to do that you must keep quiet and forget all 
 about school. After all, perhaps Merry Andrew can 
 manage them. You know how successful she was 
 with Ambrosia." 
 
 "Ambrosia is a cow — a poor, brainless animal! 
 Force and violence may work with Ambrosia, but it 
 will fail in District Number 3! And I started in so 
 well! I think I had the Anderson boys, two of the 
 Buttons, and at least as many of the Metzlaffs, won 
 over to my side; the promise of the entertainment 
 would have held the three big, plotting girls until I 
 could have really interested them in the school work. 
 I know I can teach, if only the pupils will give me a 
 chance to get them interested." 
 
MERRY ANDREW 137 
 
 " Of course you can ; your work with your music 
 pupils shows that." 
 
 "Oh, music is so different!" groaned Sylvia. 
 " You have but one at a time, and, somehow, you can 
 pin that one's attention. But to be locked in with a 
 cageful of roaring lions and ligers and — and — " 
 
 " There, there, forget your menagerie now, and try 
 to read something, or to sleep." 
 
 "Isn't it the irony of fate?" grumbled Sylvia. 
 " Sometimes it seems as if I must steal away from my 
 work and read a book; and now here I sit with a 
 chance to read and I can't bear the sight of a book! 
 I wish I could see Wully McNab coming or going 
 along the road ; I would coax him to visit the school. 
 At least he wouldn't let them tear Merry Andrew into 
 shreds. You keep your eye out for him, will you, 
 Mother?" 
 
 Mother promised, and then Grandmother came 
 steaming in from the barn. Her anxiety for Sylvia's 
 welfare was as great as Grandfather's, but her judg- 
 ment was not so good. She had discovered the ab- 
 sence of the dogs and made her discovery known with 
 loud and acrimonious comments. This added the last 
 touch to Sylvia's nervous misery. 
 
 " Mother, can't you manage to sight Wully Mc- 
 N'ab?" she complained, and then laughed at her own 
 peevishness. Neither Mother nor Sylvia succeeded in 
 sighting Wully McNab — at least not early enough in 
 
138 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 the day to be of any particular use. Instead, along 
 in the afternoon they saw a woman coming plunging 
 through the drifts along the front road, dragging a 
 child by one arm. It was Mrs. Pudney, and she was 
 headed for the Drew place. After a heaving voyage 
 through the lane she reached the back door which 
 Mother had already opened for her welcome, and 
 thrust Evangeline within. 
 
 " My! Ain't this tumble? "she demanded, stamp- 
 ing the snow from her stockinged shoes. " Stamp off 
 the snow, Evangeline! Stamp, I say, or your clothes 
 will be wet to your waist ! " 
 
 But Evangeline would not stamp. She seemed to 
 favor the idea of bringing in as much snow as would 
 cling to her immature shoulders and legs. 
 
 "They're a breakin' out down below our place, 
 though ; I seen a team down about Brown's. Looks to 
 me like a Bendon livery, but I couldn't tell so fur 
 down. And I'm so upset I couldn't put my mind on 
 figurin' out teams ! It wa'n't the McNab bays — I'm 
 sure of that; nor Woods' folks, and I don't know of 
 anybody else that would be fool enough to try to git 
 out such weather as this. I wouldn't uv come out, 
 you betcha, if I hadn't been druv out — My land! 
 Sylvia, you look funny! As if you had a chaw to- 
 baccer in your cheek ! " 
 
 Evangeline stared at Sylvia and then cackled in glee. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 139 
 
 " She got a piece of glass — " began Grandmother, 
 but Mrs. Pudney interrupted : 
 
 " I know all about it, and it's too bad, of course ; 
 but it ain't no more'n what everybody expected. As 
 I told Mr. Pudney, you should uv known that Sylvia 
 couldn't manage District Number 3 — Set down, 
 Evangeline, an' behave yourself or I'll swatt yeh! 
 You make me so nervous I'm ready to fly ! " 
 
 In place of " setting down " Evangeline stood up 
 and jerked herself loose from her mother's hold. 
 
 " It seems to me we pay enough school taxes to have 
 a good man teacher who could manage the school. 
 It's got us into a nice scrape — that's all I've got to 
 say!" 
 
 "Why, what is the matter?" demanded Grand- 
 mother, and Sylvia shrank among her pillows in fear- 
 some anticipation. 
 
 " My — my — poor darlin' boy — " sobbed Mrs. 
 Pudney, " has been chased and dog-chawed by that 
 snippet of a sister of yours — Boo-hoo — his clothes 
 torn — an' all black an' blue and mistreated — mis- 
 treated suthin' awful ! He couldn't — couldn't hardly 
 stagger home an' when he got there he — he — just 
 fell on the floor an' bellered ! ' Oh, ma,' he yelled, 
 ' I've been wolloped suthin' awful ! ' " 
 
 A horror-stricken silence fell over the Drews, broken 
 only by the sobs of the afflicted mother. It was so 
 
i 4 o MERRY ANDREW 
 
 dense that the howling of the mindless wind could be 
 heard tearing at the house-corners without. At that 
 tense moment the kitchen door opened and Grandfather, 
 snow-powdered and puffing, stuck a storm-reddened 
 face through the crack to inquire : 
 
 " Any of you women- folks had the big buggy whip? 
 I can't find hide nor hair of it ! " 
 
 " Grandfather, come in ! " commanded Grandmother 
 in a terrible voice. 
 
 Grandfather, realizing that some sinister matter was 
 afoot, began his preparatory stamping. Mrs. Pudney 
 swabbed her cheeks and nose, and crooked her neck for 
 battle. She had not removed her " nubia " ; it hugged 
 her sallow cheeks closely, and together with her thin, 
 beetling nose and little round, angry black eyes, gave 
 her something of the appearance of a bald eagle poising 
 to strike. 
 
 " As I told Mr. Pudney," she continued, as Grand- 
 father proceeded with his stamping, " old man Drew 
 and the old woman ain't to blame — they can't do 
 nothin' with Merry Andrew anyway; but I says, I 
 should think her mother oughta try to control her in 
 some way! It is simply awful that a neighbor's chil- 
 dern have got to be dog-chawed and pounded, an' 
 never a word to have it stopped ! But we ain' a gonta 
 stand for it — that's all ! Pudney's a comin' with Earl 
 just as soon as he can git his clothes changed ! " She 
 gave her face a final swab, rose and crossed the room to 
 
MERRY ANDREW 141 
 
 look from the north window for the remaining mem- 
 bers of her family. 
 
 " Oh, landy ! There comes that cutter in here ! It's 
 somebody from town, an' look at me — with this rag 
 tied over my head and — " 
 
 " Oh, I do hope it isn't anyone coming in ! " moaned 
 Sylvia, grasping her handkerchief and pressing.it to her 
 swollen cheek. 
 
 " Well, it is somebody comin' here ! " announced Mrs. 
 Pudney with a ring of triumph in her voice. " And it's 
 Mr. Bob Clyde, the minister's son ! " 
 
 Sylvia made a motion to escape, but her mother made 
 her lie still. If it had only been the minister in place 
 of his son how glad she would have been! He would 
 have seen nothing laughable in her twisted face. And 
 even Wully McNab she would not have minded in the 
 least, although, without wounding her as Mrs. Pud- 
 ney's senseless comment had done, he would have had 
 everybody in the room laughing at her. But Bob 
 Clyde was the last person in the world she would have 
 wished to see her in her present plight, or to hear 
 Mrs. Pudney's arraignment of Merry Andrew's meth- 
 ods of school-teaching. 
 
 " Good landy ! and me with this rag over my head ! " 
 mourned Mrs. Pudney again, but making no move to 
 rid herself of it. 
 
 " Take it off," breathed Sylvia faintly, wishing that 
 she might be rid of her own disfigurement as easily. 
 
142 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 .»i » 
 
 " Mum-um ! " grunted Mrs. Pudney, " I can't. 1 
 And Sylvia knew why. 
 
 Young Clyde. Grandfather, Mr. Pudney, and Earl, 
 all came in together; the last mentioned' showing un- 
 mistakable evidences of having passed through some 
 sort of crisis. Bob Clyde went over to Sylvia and 
 shook hands without the least show of mirth at her 
 appearance. 
 
 " Now, this is too bad," he mourned sympatheti- 
 cally, " and just when you were starting out so bravely, 
 too! What boy threw the snowball which broke the 
 window? " he demanded so suddenly and so fiercely of 
 Earl Pudney that Earl fairly jumped. 
 
 "I — I— "began Earl. 
 
 " You ? You did such a thing ? Look at her poor 
 cheek!" 
 
 "I — done it, but — I didn't mean to!" blurted 
 out Earl. 
 
 " Why, you ought to be whaled within an inch of 
 your life! " declared Bob angrily. 
 
 Earl dodged behind his father. 
 
 "I — have been ! " he breathed. 
 
 " I ain't got a word to say agin my boy bein' whaled 
 when he needs it," put in Pudney, " but I ain't a goin' 
 to stand havin' him hunted down by dogs just like a 
 black slave; and that's what your girl done! " 
 
 " Do you mean to say that Merry Andrew set the 
 dogs on Earl ? " demanded Sylvia. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 143 
 
 " Yes, ma'm, she did ! " snapped Mrs. Pudney. 
 " And I didn't raise my boy to be dog-chawed — not 
 much I didn't ! " She felt there was a chance yet to 
 get Bob Clyde's sympathy on the Pudney side if the 
 matter was worked right. 
 
 " Take off your coat, Earley," said Mrs. Pudney be- 
 tween sobs, " an' show 'em your back." 
 
 Earl wore a shirt which buttoned behind. It had 
 been donned for exhibition purposes. His mother un- 
 buttoned and flapped it open, disclosing a healthily 
 welted and reddened back. 
 
 " It — it's worse further down," she witnessed 
 chokingly. 
 
 " But there are no marks of dogs' teeth," objected 
 Sylvia. " These are the marks left by a smart whip- 
 ping." 
 
 " Yes, and even so his back is far from being in as 
 bad a condition as your cheek is," commented Bob 
 Clyde. 
 
 " Earl," said Sylvia kindly, " you know the dogs 
 didn't hurt you. Come now — tell the truth before 
 your father and your mother and all of us. You have 
 played ' Robber ' with Merry Andrew's dogs many a 
 time, and you know it. You are hurt — I'll admit 
 that — you've had an awful whipping — " 
 
 " Yes, the dogs did hurt me, too ! " mumbled Earl. 
 " They chawed me !" 
 
 "Chaw tobaccer — chaw tobaccer — " chanted 
 
144 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Evangeline. " Sylvia's got a chaw tobaccer in her 
 face—" 
 
 " Shet your mouth ! " admonished Mrs. Pudney, 
 thrusting out a long arm for her daughter. Evange- 
 line squealed and pounded out of reach on clumsy but 
 effectual feet. She stuck out her tongue as she ran 
 and climbed on a chair by the table under the south 
 window. From this point of vantage she discovered 
 and announced that " Wully McNab was comin' with a 
 whole sleigh-load of youngones from school," and that 
 Merry Andrew's dogs was " a wallopin' along behind." 
 
 This announcement proved correct in every par- 
 ticular. 
 
 "lam glad that Merry Andrew is coming, and that 
 this matter can be thrashed out now, once and for all ! " 
 exclaimed Sylvia fervently. 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Grandmother, " better settle it 
 right now. If Merry Andrew has exceeded her au- 
 thority she must be reprimanded ! " 
 
 " Well I should say so ! " breathed Mrs. Pudney. 
 
 " It is unfortunate that Sylvia was hurt," said 
 Grandfather. 
 
 " Well — of course ; but she couldn't teach District 
 Number 3 no better'n the other one has," reiterated 
 Mrs. Pudney. " We gotta have a man teacher to 
 handle growin' boys like Earl ! " 
 
 Grandmother shut her lips until they formed a hard 
 
MERRY ANDREW 145 
 
 line across her face. She grasped the broom and 
 stood ready to brush snow once more. 
 
 In they came, Patsy and Mame Kelley, the three 
 little Smith girls; Solomon and Lucy and Bengie 
 Franklin; Aggie Brown and her little brother Ray, 
 who, on the strength of Sylvia's rule, had been started 
 in again by his mother ; Dorothy Pudney ; Liz Wood ; 
 Merry Andrew, carrying the lost buggy-whip, her 
 head cocked at a new angle of dignified authority; 
 and the dogs, panting, snuffling, shaking — smilingly 
 certain of having done the right thing at the right 
 time, and very evidently delighted at seeing some- 
 thing so resembling a party at their house. Twoboy 
 went at once to pay his respects to Mrs. Pudney, but 
 bethinking himself of his snow-laden coat, shook it 
 effectually just before reaching her. 
 
 "Git eaout, you nasty thing!" she shouted, ward- 
 ing him off with her foot. Grandmother, who usually 
 ordered the dogs out of doors on such occasions, said 
 never a word. Instead she opened the door to Wully, 
 who had stopped to blanket the horses. 
 
 "Well, how is the smashed one?" he demanded; 
 and then, " Bob Clyde, what are you doing up here in 
 the country in this kind of weather? Sylvia, I believe 
 this is a put-up job. You've shirked District Number 
 3 off on to Merry Andrew so that you can sit at home 
 and play dominoes with Bob Clyde ! " 
 
146 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Mary Ann," began Grandmother solemnly, as 
 chairman of the meeting, " Mr. and Mrs. Pudney are 
 here to complain of your treatment of Earl. Now we 
 want to hear the whole story of what took place at 
 school today." 
 
 Merry Andrew turned haughty eyes upon Earl Pud- 
 ney, and he seemed to shrivel under their light. 
 
 " What happened ? " demanded Grandmother again. 
 
 " What happened was, that Earl Pudney was need- 
 ing a licking pretty badly, and this is the day — and 
 the date — when he got it ! " 
 
 "Good girl!" howled Wully. "Did you — did 
 you, Merry Andrew — Oh, Lordy, why didn't I 
 visit the school today, as I intended to do ! " 
 
 " I don't care anything about the licking," said 
 Pudney. " If my boy deserves one, and the teacher is 
 able to give it to him, why I'll never kick." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Pudney, he deserved it — and he got 
 it," announced Merry Andrew. " And if you are sat- 
 isfied, I am; and I can't see where the trouble comes 
 in." 
 
 Then Mrs. Pudney arose in her wrath. 
 
 " I won't have my youngones set on by dogs ! " she 
 cried. Her voice broke in a screech and she stamped 
 her foot in rage. " I didn't raise my boy to be dog- 
 chawed ! " 
 
 "Did Earl tell you that?" demanded Merry An- 
 drew, perching on the edge of the table and calmly 
 
MERRY ANDREW 147 
 
 removing her rubbers. " Did he tell you that my dogs 
 hurt him?" 
 
 " Yes, he did ! Come 'ere, Earl ; I want to show 'em 
 your back! " 
 
 But Earl refused sullenly. His father jerked him 
 into the center of the room and his mother forcibly un- 
 did the button at the back of: his neck and uncovered 
 Exhibit A. The welts were already softening into a 
 suffused rosiness which covered the entire back. 
 
 " I see," owned Merry Andrew, "his back smarts; 
 it is red and sore — it's awful sore, but it isn't sore 
 because of my dogs' teeth. It is sore because of my 
 grandfather's buggy whip." She took up the whip 
 from behind the door where she had set it when she 
 came in and snapped it smartly. 
 
 " Simon Lagre-e-e-e! " groaned Wully McNab, and 
 Bob Clyde smothered a laugh into a cough by the help 
 of his handkerchief. 
 
 " Earl knows the dogs would not hurt a rabbit," 
 went on Merry Andrew. " He knows their trick of 
 playing ' robber,' and Evangeline knows. She is al- 
 ways teasing me to make them play it. Will you play 
 now, Evangeline, to show your mother — " 
 
 Evangeline stood up to accept the invitation, but her 
 mother bade her " go 'long and set down ! " 
 
 " Wully McNab," challenged Merry Andrew, " will 
 you be the robber, to help me prove that my dogs do 
 not hurt anybody when they. play the game? " 
 
148 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Wully rolled a pair of mournful eyes at Grand- 
 mother. 
 
 " Isn't this awful, Mrs. Drew ? Leigh Hunt hasn't 
 anything on this, I'm sure — that time, you remember 
 when ' — ramped and roared the lions with horrid 
 laughing jaws,' and the lady made her lover jump 
 right down on top of 'em! Little did I dream when 
 I read that poem that I should ever consent to be 
 ' dog-chawed ' for the love of a lady ! But, here 
 goes ! " He snatched Grandmother's shawl from its 
 nail beside the hall door, threw it over his cap, and 
 caught up Evangeline as Bob Clyde threw open the 
 back door. 
 
 " Oh, heavings ! " cried Wully in tragic accents. 
 "The riv-ah is chunked with chokes of ice!" Then 
 he plunged forth. 
 
 The ends of the shawl flew out in the wind ; so, also, 
 did Evangeline's lank, white-stockinged legs and black 
 shoes. With all the strength she had left and with 
 some wavering shreds of her lately-acquired dignity, 
 Merry Andrew held her dogs in check until the gro- 
 tesque fugitive had floundered some twenty yards 
 up the newly-broken road. Then she let go with the 
 cry of "Robber!" 
 
 There was a spurt of snow, a yellow streak, and two 
 dogs, a young man and a girl rolling together in a 
 white mist. Bob Clyde yelped with laughter. Merry 
 Andrew leaped through the snow, relieved her depu- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 149 
 
 ties and brought in her prisoners, Evangeline riding 
 pick-a-back on the be-shawled shoulders of the pant- 
 ing Wully. She was squealing with delight, her 
 tongue lolling out of the corner of her mouth, her re- 
 maining features sadly in need of a handkerchief. 
 
 " I'm — not — dog-chawed," panted Wully, " but 
 I'm girl-chawed! Your daughter bit me, Mrs. Pud- 
 ney ! Do you know if there has ever been hydropho- 
 bia in your family? " 
 
 " My land," said Grandfather, speaking for the 
 first time, "our dogs wouldn't hurt anybody!" while 
 Grandmother wielded the broom to rid the returning 
 party of snow. 
 
 "How did we appear from the rear?" demanded 
 Wully with earnest anxiety. 
 
 " You appeared from the rear as you appear from 
 the front — a saucy fellow ! " declared Grandmother, 
 giving him a playful bat with the broom. 
 
 " Come on," commanded Mr. Pudney, " I guess 
 we've made fools enough of ourselves — let's git 
 home!" 
 
 " Pile into the sleigh," invited Wully, " I'm going 
 down as far as Woods'. By the way, Bob, how's 
 the drammer coming along? Write in a good part for 
 me, will you ? Dad has changed his mind again about 
 the military school. He says he has too much respect 
 for the army of his native land to introduce into it 
 any such material as I would make. He is trying to 
 
ISO MERRY ANDREW 
 
 think of something worse to do with me. I may be 
 sent to Wellesley, or Vassar. While he is thinking 
 up something I shall probably stay home and be here 
 when the show is pulled off. I want more practice in 
 the dramatic line. It may be my strong point — what 
 I am best fitted for, you know. Father doesn't think 
 so. He says the only thing in the world I am fit for 
 is hauling and spreading. But that's the way with 
 genius — always. Look at Watts and his teakettle! 
 — or — say, teacher ! " He addressed Merry Andrew 
 and snapped his fingers aloft — " was it Watts, or 
 Stevens, or Fulton who had the teakettle? Any- 
 how, Bob, I'll take a part in the show — any part 
 except that of George Washington; I'm facially and 
 spiritually unfitted for that part. Those little hatchet 
 stunts, Bob — you see — I can't do them, really. I 
 know, because I've tried 'em on dad." 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Pudney," quavered Sylvia, " that you 
 will send Earl to school." 
 
 Merry Andrew again pinned Earl with that mys- 
 terious, compelling stare. 
 
 " You are coming to school tomorrow and intend to 
 be a good boy ? " she demanded. 
 
 " Yes — yes, ma'am," he answered. 
 
 " You .bet he is ! " seconded his father. " And if 
 he needs another thrashing you give it to him, and I'll 
 put another atop of it when he gits home ! " 
 
 " There will be no need," replied Merry Andrew 
 
MERRY ANDREW 151 
 
 loftily, and began to help Mother and Grandmother 
 re-bundle the children for the remainder of their ride. 
 
 When they were all gone, and Grandmother had 
 swept out the last particle of snow and closed the door 
 with a bang; and Merry Andrew had laid aside her 
 school dress and with it her teacher's dignity and pre-_ 
 pared for her nightly tussle with Ambrosia, the Drews 
 gathered around her and demanded the facts in the 
 case. 
 
 " Girl alive," breathed her mother, " how did you 
 manage to whip a great boy like Earl Pudney — a 
 grown man, almost ? " 
 
 " I didn't," owned Merry Andrew, " and when I 
 finish with Ambrosia, if I'm still alive, I'll tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 " Sylvia's theory of love and persuasion and so on, 
 is all right," said Merry Andrew, putting her feet into 
 the oven, " if you work 'em on human beings ; but for 
 a critter like Earl Pudney you have to have a gad; 
 nothering else will answer ! 
 
 " Honestly, I knew the minute I stepped foot into 
 the school-house Monday morning, there would have 
 to be a battle. Whether on the girls' side, or the boys' 
 side, I couldn't make up my mind. But this morning 
 when I got there I knew it would likely happen before 
 night, and I braced myself for it. 
 
 "I was awfully put out when the dogs arrived; I 
 
152 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 didn't want them in the scrape. But as it turned out 
 it was just as well. 
 
 " I didn't make any speech ; instead I laid Grand- 
 father's buggy-whip across the desk and called school." 
 
 Grandmother sniffed. 
 
 " What did you expect to do, whip the whole school 
 at once ? " 
 
 " No, I expected to take 'em one at a time, but I in- 
 tended to be thorough. When I would begin to get 
 the shakes I'd think of Sylvia laid out here on the 
 lounge with her cheek full of glass. That would 
 brace me. Sylvia wouldn't use force, and there was 
 force needed, and I was the force candidate. 
 
 " Well, Earl Pudney wouldn't come into the house 
 when I rang the bell; instead, he stuck his head 
 through a crack in the door and drawled, ' M-a-r-y 
 A-n-n-n Come out an' lick me, M-a-r-y A-n-n.' If 
 I'd had a gun I'd shot him ! " 
 
 " Merry Andrew ! " cried the feminine portion of 
 the Drew family in shocked unison. But Grandfather 
 squirmed in his seat, chuckling : 
 
 " Couldn't blame her much ! Couldn't blame her 
 much!" 
 
 " Well, I didn't have a gun; I didn't take one with 
 me in the morning; but I had a whip and I knew it 
 was up to me to use it. I made my speech then. I 
 said, ' This school is no child's play. It's earnest 
 work. We Drew girls are going to teach it — one or 
 
MERRY ANDREW 153 
 
 the other of us — all winter. And I want to say, 
 right here and now, there is going to be discipline 
 maintained even if we have to punish every scholar 
 in school. I'm going to begin with Earl Pudney, who 
 deserves it the most.' Said I, ' He isn't bright, and 
 he isn't handsome ; and why you boys, who have more 
 brains than he has, let him lead you round by the 
 nose, and spoil your winter's work, is something I 
 can't figure out. But you seem to do it, just the 
 same.' 
 
 " Here Dorothy Pudney made a face and mimicked 
 me out loud. I took my whip and I walked down to 
 her desk, and, I tell you, the school held its breath. 
 It thought I didn't dare do it. 
 
 " I kept saying over and over, ' Not in anger, Mary 
 Ann Drew — not in anger, but in mercy and justice ! ' 
 
 " ' Get up ! ' I called to Hilda Swanson, and she got ! 
 Dorothy's hands lay spread out on the desk. I drew 
 the whip across them with all my might. It fairly 
 sizzed in the air." 
 
 " Oh, Merry Andrew ! Merry Andrew ! " cried the 
 three feminine voices again. 
 
 " That is what Dorothy yelped out," said Merry An- 
 drew soberly, " and I told her that while the real 
 teacher was sick, and I was acting as her substitute, I 
 was to be addressed as Miss Drew. 
 
 " Some of the little girls began to cry. Said I, 
 ' Nobody who is good in this school is going to be 
 
154 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 hurt; but — " and I glared around that room like a 
 she-hyena — ' everybody who is bad is going to get 
 hurt, and good and plenty ! Now,' I told them, ' I 
 am going out after the ring-leader; and I want order 
 kept in this room while I am gone. I appoint Charles 
 Wohoskey, Ray Brown, and Honoria Smith as mon- 
 itors. I want you three to remember everything bad 
 that is said or done, and who says or does it (You'd 
 'a' died laughing to have seen those three young ones). 
 Then I put on my hat and cloak and boots and sailed 
 out. I stopped at the door and took a look over the 
 room. Everything was still except that Dorothy Pud- 
 ney was nursing her fingers and sobbing. 
 
 " I didn't need to call the dogs ; they were at my 
 heels, of course. As I stepped out Earl Pudney was 
 just about to open the door again to start something. 
 He scooted off down the south road. I had expected 
 him to run toward home, and I intended to follow 
 and whale him if it had to be done behind his mother's 
 kitchen stove. 
 
 " I followed, with the dogs, until he had gone over 
 the crest of the little hill. That was what I wanted. 
 I knew it was going to be an awful fight, and I didn't 
 want the other children to see the battle. After he got 
 over the hill he started to leave the road and take to 
 the fields. He was intending to make a detour, get 
 back to the schoolhouse, and get in his work there be- 
 fore I could catch up with him ; but I whispers ' Rob- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 155 
 
 ber ! ' to the dogs and lets 'em loose. They had him 
 down in no time — kicking and swearing. 
 
 " Just then I sighted Mr. McNab — old Wully — 
 coming across the field toward the road. He climbed 
 the fence into the road and asked what the matter 
 was. I told him what Earl had been doing — how he 
 had hurt Sylvia, broken the window, and played up 
 generally ; and I wound up with : ' And I'm going 
 to thrash him ! ' 
 
 " Give me the whup," said Mr. McNab, " and call 
 off your dogs! ' " 
 
 Grandfather slapped his knee and gave vent to his 
 emotions in broken ejaculations of appreciation. 
 
 "That was a licking, I tell you!" went on Merry 
 Andrew. " That was a good job if ever there was 
 one! The beauty of it was, old — I mean Mr. — Mc- 
 Nab didn't seem to be doing it in anger; he was as 
 calm as a May morning — calm, but terrible ! 
 
 " Earl shrieked and begged for mercy, and prom- 
 ised everything under the sun. I began to get un- 
 easy. ' I think that will do now, if you please, Mr. 
 McNab,' I said. But old — Mr. — McNab said 
 'Whust! I know maire — (Whack, whack!) about 
 whuppin' (Whack, whack!) than you do — I've had 
 (Whack, whack) Wully to br-r-r-ing up!' 
 
 " After he had finished with Earl he told him not to 
 say a word to anybody about who had done the job. 
 'Let stahnd the schoolmom did it,' he warned him. 
 
156 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 He made Earl promise to obey the slightest inflection 
 of my voice; to come to school and study; and on top 
 of all he promised Earl that on the slightest turn to the 
 left or to the right from the path of rectitude 
 and virtue, he'd ' Get it over-r-r-r again an' 
 whor-r-r-r-s-e ! ' 
 
 " Earl didn't want to go into the schoolhouse, but I 
 thought best that he should on account of the — how 
 is it the war correspondents put it? — on account of 
 the morale of the rest of the boys ; I thought it would 
 be well that they should have a living, example of the 
 awfulness of a Drew licking. 
 
 " You never in your life .saw such a cowed school. 
 Ambrosia couldn't hold a candle to it for cow-dness. 
 Earl Pudney sat with his face in his arm, Dorothy 
 sobbed, while I called for the report of the monitors. 
 Charley Wohoskey was the only one of the three who 
 had anything to report. He said, ' Chorge, Stone he 
 blow his nose ! ' 
 
 " After awhile Earl saised his hand and asked, very 
 politely, if he might be excused; said he was sick, and 
 I couldn't doubt but that he was. I excused him, 
 of course. I suppose he got to thinking, as he sat 
 there smarting, how he could get back at me without 
 breaking any of his promises to Mr. McNab. He de- 
 cided that the easiest way would be to get his mother 
 going on the dog question." 
 
Just then I sighted Mr. McNab — old Wully — coming 
 across the field. See Page 155 
 
MERRY ANDREW 157 
 
 " Such works ! " exclaimed Grandmother. 
 
 " It had to be done," said Merry Andrew, " and 
 it turned out better than I expected. That was a hard, 
 sweaty job which Mr. McNab — bless him — took off 
 my hands; but unless I am awfully mistaken it has 
 cleared the atmosphere of District Number 3 for the 
 whole term. 
 
 " To cap the climax, Ambrosia had one of her spells 
 tonight. I never knew her to be more cantankerous. 
 How true it is that troubles hunt in crowds." 
 
 " The doctor says that Sylvia will have a scar on 
 her cheek," said Grandmother. Merry Andrew threw 
 a glance of commiseration at her sister. 
 
 " That reconciles me to the thought that Earl Pud- 
 ney will most likely have one or two on his back; I 
 don't see how it could be otherwise." 
 
 " He won't be back to school," chuckled Grand- 
 father. 
 
 " Yes he will," declared Merry Andrew. 
 
 " His father said today — " began Mother. 
 
 " Earl Pudney doesn't care very much about what 
 his father says or what his mother says; but Earl 
 Pudney won't care to break the promise he made to 
 Mr. Wully McNab, Senior — be sure of that ! " 
 
 " I should think you would have a little more re- 
 spect for Mr. McNab after this," said Grandmother; 
 and Merry Andrew took her stockinged feet out of 
 
158 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 the oven, went over and put an arm around Grand- 
 mother's neck as she answered : 
 
 " Nobody in this neighborhood can think more of 
 Mr. Wully McNab, Senior, than I do this day! " 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 It was the Tuesday after Sylvia had taken her be- 
 lated examination for her teacher's certificate, and 
 passed, that the most exciting event since the regen- 
 eration of Earl Pudney occurred in the McNab Dis- 
 trict. For two months school had been going on 
 smoothly, evenly and with less than the ordinary 
 amount of friction in country schools. 
 
 The Drew family often sat about the living-room 
 stove of an evening talking over the situation. 
 
 " The trouble was," Mother would say, " Merry 
 Andrew kept them in order; she ruled them, but it 
 took all her mind and energy. She taught them noth- 
 ing. See what has been accomplished under Sylvia's 
 management: They are so interested in decimal 
 fractions, The Critical Period in American History, 
 parliament, how pelicans feed their young, that they 
 have forgotten to be mischievous. And now they are 
 all alive over this question of building a new school- 
 house." 
 
 " That's all true enough," owned Grandfather. 
 " Sylvia has sown seed, but — Merry Andrew broke 
 the stubborn glebe ! " 
 
 " With the help of a good old Scotch arm and twa 
 dogs," laughed Mother. 
 
 159 
 
160 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 On this particular Tuesday afternoon Sylvia 
 squared the books on her desk, the bell, the ruler, the 
 tin " buzz " and knife-handle replevined from Charley 
 Wohoskey, and gazed out over the room with a crit- 
 ical eye. In the back seat Pete Swanson was vividly 
 pursuing the fate of the Constitution; William An- 
 derson was again triumphing over a problem in al- 
 gebra. (There on the back seat William could con- 
 centrate on his problems. Heretofore what with dig- 
 ging gum out of his hair and the back of his neck and 
 protecting himself from attacks in the rear, poor slow 
 William had been unable to get the slightest inkling 
 of algebra, and had blundered along, misjudged, mis- 
 understood and counted a blockhead all through his 
 school experience.) The buttermilk-eyed Sanderson 
 Anderson, a student by nature, had not expected to 
 be at ease paired off with Earl Pudney. Happily he 
 had been disappointed. Earl did not study — had no 
 capacity for it — but he behaved; which might have 
 been accounted for by the fact that he was ever in 
 the line of vision of a pair of stormy dark eyes which 
 shone out from seat number i on the girls' side. The 
 memory of that fifteen minutes with McNab, and the 
 warning that it would be duplicated with something 
 extra for good measure should anything happen, kept 
 him tractable and silent. Sylvia, looking down upon 
 his vacuity, pitied him greatly. To be incapable of 
 assimilating the fine, vivid things of life; to be alive 
 
MERRY ANDREW 161 
 
 to the coarseness only, was indeed a sorry fate. 
 When Sylvia remembered this, and remembered also 
 that Merry Andrew, for all her warm heart and quick 
 sympathies, had never softened toward him, she could 
 have patted his tousled empty head and wept for pity. 
 
 His sisters, on the other side of the room, were fully 
 as empty and as mischievous as he; and lacking his 
 incentive for rectitude, were at times trying, to say 
 the least, especially the younger, with her noisy, 
 clumpy shoes, her exposed tongue and untidy habits. 
 
 But to offset these were the shining faces of the 
 other little ones, the " betweens," happy, protected, in- 
 terested — adoring ; the apple-cheeked Buttons and 
 bullet-headed Metzlaffs and struggling Wohoskeys, 
 who had learned more during these two months than 
 in all the previous weary terms put together. With- 
 out undue egotism Sylvia knew this to be the truth, 
 and she groaned inwardly for fear it might be her 
 duty to give up her hopes of studying and teaching 
 music and stick to District Number 3. Well, if it 
 was, she would be brave — as Merry Andrew was 
 brave, always, in taking up disagreeable duties. At 
 least it did not need to be decided that afternoon. A 
 pleasanter task was at hand. 
 
 • She had an announcement of great importance to 
 make: 
 
 Robert Clyde had become so enthusiastic over his 
 play that he wished to give it on an adequate stage. 
 
162 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 The manager of the Bendon Opera House had sug- 
 gested his bringing it to town and paying for the hall 
 with a percentage of the door money. This arrange- 
 ment would make possible the " stately minuet " which 
 had been discarded with so much reluctance because 
 of the objection of some of the members of the church 
 where the entertainment was to have been held; also 
 a picturesque Indian dance, and other stage effects 
 impossible in a church. 
 
 Sylvia touched the bell for the pupils to put aside 
 their books. The signal came as a surprise, for school 
 had but just been called after the noon recess. 
 
 " This afternoon," announced Sylvia, " we are to 
 begin rehearsing for our entertainment. Mr. Robert 
 Clyde will be here at three o'clock to arrange and 
 assign parts. And hereafter every Friday afternoon 
 and three evenings a week will be given over to re- 
 hearsals. In place of in the church, the play is to be 
 given in the Bendon Opera House, and we must work 
 the harder to do ourselves and Mr. Clyde credit, con- 
 sidering the fact that not only our parents and friends 
 — who would overlook faults •- — but critical strangers 
 will see our play, and judge us according to our merits." 
 
 As yet no philosopher has adequately explained hu- 
 manity's passion for making a show of itself. The 
 little girl loves the thrill, the fright, even painful at 
 times, of going upon the platform to speak her piece; 
 the boy will walk miles through mud and slush carry- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 163 
 
 ing a banner the device of which is meaningless to 
 him; the young man would lecture and sway thou- 
 sands; the young woman would be an actress; the 
 elderly woman with quavering voice but delighted 
 heart rises to read the Sunday school statistics ; the old 
 man airs his political convictions before the town coun- 
 cil, or makes long prayers — surely, the play's the 
 thing, and never more than in a country school. 
 
 And to think! not in the church, but in the town! 
 In the opera house — it was like a fantastic dream ! 
 
 By the time Robert Clyde arrived with the manu- 
 script of the play and unlimited authority in the mat- 
 ter of assigning parts, the McNab District was noth- 
 ing less than a hotbed of feverish anticipation, min- 
 gled with some little apprehension. Those who had 
 not always measured up in deportment thought trem- 
 blingly of their sins, wondering if Sylvia would be 
 cruel enough to remember and nudge Bob Clyde when 
 the fat parts were being given out. 
 
 " Who want to be Continental soldiers and fight for 
 America ? " demanded Bob Clyde. Every boy in 
 school clamored to defend his country. 
 
 " You will be dressed in rags," announced Robert ; 
 " the Britishers will have fine red coats." All of the 
 Metzlaffs, two of the Buttons, Ray Brown and Charley 
 Wohoskey, immediately turned traitors and signified 
 their willingness to join the enemy. 
 
 " We'll see," promised Robert Clyde, and the drill- 
 
164 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ing began. Hilda Swanson was the lone Tory lady 
 in the play; Dorothy Pudney wavered between the 
 part of Martha Washington and the Spirit of Liberty, 
 who appeared in the allegorical interlude and sang a 
 solo, deciding at last upon the latter. (Gene McNab 
 secretly rearranged the solo, making of it an obligato 
 solo with heavy and obliterating chorus.) 
 
 Lizzie Wood chose to be the hypothetical Indian 
 maiden, an excusable and picturesque figment of the 
 dramatist's imagination, very much adorned with 
 feathers and beads, and always, always true to the 
 interests of the white people. This left the part of 
 Martha Washington to go begging, and Merry An- 
 drew " chinked in " with final and unexpected suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Perhaps the studious pupils lost ground a little dur- 
 ing the latter part of school, but the dull ones made up. 
 They awakened. The proceeds of the entertainment 
 were to go towards a new school library, and they were 
 quite certain this was the reason for their interest. 
 
 When Sylvia called school Monday morning she 
 begged the pupils to put aside all thoughts of the 
 entertainment during study hours. Of course she 
 knew this to be an impossibility, but she also realized 
 that she had taken the last trench; lowered the last 
 banner of revolt. When she looked down into the 
 eyes of Hilda Swanson, Elizabeth Wood, and even of 
 Dorothy Pudney and met glances of comaraderie in 
 
MERRY ANDREW 165 
 
 place of sullenness or treachery, she knew the victory- 
 was with the Drews. District Number 3 had some- 
 thing better to do now, something more exciting even 
 than baiting a harassed and helpless teacher. 
 
 Much against her father's will Gene McNab had her 
 piano moved into the big, hall-like room in the base- 
 ment. Around the sides of this room she ranged 
 benches and chairs, and here, during rests between 
 drills, opposing armies ate apples, scuffled, and knocked 
 each other off the seats with international good will; 
 where those who, upon the last great occasion would 
 be stately Colonial dames, hobnobbed with Tellamoosa, 
 the Indian maiden. Gradually the costumes began to 
 be evolved and donned at the rehearsals that the actors 
 might become familiar with them. The first dress re- 
 hearsal for Tellamoosa so startled Charley Wohoskey 
 that he had to be forcibly restrained from galloping off 
 to safety. 
 
 "Aye tank mabby she bite me!" he explained to 
 assistant stage-manager Wully McNab. 
 
 " Now, Sharley," soothed Wully, " Aye fix you oop 
 so you schare 'em all ! " And he kept his word. 
 Charley was cast for the colored page of the great and 
 only George. It was Robert Clyde's own idea, and in 
 carrying it out he dimmed — almost completely de- 
 stroyed — the effectiveness of his own part. Robert 
 played the part of George Washington himself, and 
 deserved to make a hit, with his unapproachable uni- 
 
166 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 form, sent expressly from a New York costumer's ; his 
 fine and stately carriage) his solemn, handsome face, 
 under its disguising, beribboned wig. He deserved a 
 triumph — would undoubtedly have enjoyed one, but 
 for his valet. 
 
 Charley was not made up until within the last half 
 hour before the curtain rose on the night of the play; 
 and was not even then allowed to see himself as others 
 — all Bendon, in fact — were to see him, for fear he 
 would get frightened at himself and refuse to take the 
 part. History gives Washington's body servant the 
 stature of a man; but what is art if it may not take 
 poetic liberties? 
 
 Wully McNab took Charley in hand and made him 
 up; and Charley took Bendon by storm. Wully saw 
 the advantage in that preternatural droop of Charley's 
 mouth, and accentuated it ; that barren plateau, where 
 scarcely any nose obtruded ; those frightened, frog-like 
 eyes, set wide apart upon the very edges of the plateau ; 
 those gangling, uncertain legs ; those arms, which hung 
 unnaturally long in skin-tight black sweater-sleeves; 
 those splattery hands, vainly wandering in search of 
 rest. 
 
 Charley's entire part consisted in keeping in the wake 
 of his magnificent master. When Washington stepped 
 upon the stage a flattering breath of admiration stirred 
 the audience until Charley appeared, which always 
 happened as soon as Wully could prod him forth. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 167 
 
 Then the breath would suddenly swirl into a howling 
 cyclone of merriment, startling and alarming Charley. 
 He would waver, turn bulging, frightened eyes toward 
 the boxes, press a slow black paw against his drooping 
 mouth, and then in response to Wully McNab's rattle- 
 snake hiss from the wings, suddenly return to his 
 part and canter off after his majestic principal. 
 
 When Bendon talked of the show — as it did for 
 months afterward — it agreed unanimously that it was 
 good ; that " those little country girls were just awfully 
 pretty ; especially the Martha Washington, who danced 
 the minuet so charmingly ! " But the one who elicited 
 the most comment was that " inhuman little nigger ! 
 Wherever did they get him ? And how did they man- 
 age to train him to be so screamingly funny, and he 
 with never a word to say ! " 
 
 After it was all over the children and their parents 
 were invited to stop, on their way home, at the Drews, 
 to partake of a light lunch and to talk over their tri- 
 umphs. 
 
 " I thought Bengie did real well," Mrs. Franklin 
 whispered to Grandmother Drew, balancing her cof- 
 fee-cup on the top of Solomon's head as he clung to 
 her skirts. 
 
 " I knew that flag costume would be becomin' to 
 Dorothy," purred Dorothy's mother to Mrs. Smith, 
 
i68 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 who replied absently that it was, but in her opinion the 
 little children's singing pleased Bendon folks more 
 than anything else in the whole show. The musical 
 little Smith girls had been conspicuous in the chil- 
 dren's chorus. 
 
 Maternal cares prevented Mrs. Wohoskey from at- 
 tending the entertainment; but Charley's father an- 
 nounced quite brazenly that " Sharley he take de 
 cake!" 
 
 Wully McNab complained that his lungs were hope- 
 lessly clogged with cotton-batting and face-powder. 
 Wully had appeared briefly as the pathetic Major An- 
 dre, and been sentenced to be hanged almost imme- 
 diately, to allow him to get back to his duties in the 
 dressing-rooms. 
 
 It was really one o'clock before the last sleigh-load 
 went jangling away from the Drew door, and a half- 
 hour later before Robert Clyde stood, coated, gloved, 
 and hat in hand, ready to drive back to Bendon. 
 
 " I don't know how we are ever going to repay 
 you," admitted Sylvia, her eyes drooping before his 
 smiling gaze. 
 
 " Repay me ? " he replied. " I've had the time of 
 my life. And I want you to promise me solemnly, 
 Sylvia, that if you take the school next summer you 
 will let me try again. I want to write myself a part in 
 which I need not always appear in company with a 
 
MERRY ANDREW n'69 
 
 rival star. I shall arrange the acts so that Charles 
 Wohoskey and I will not be on the stage together. 
 I'm intending to have him come on with Wully! " 
 
 " With my consent Sylvia shall not teach the Mc- 
 Nab school next summer," said Merry Andrew. 
 " But then, of course, my consent hasn't much weight ; 
 if it had she would not have taught it this winter." 
 
 " I shall never be sorry that I did it," replied Sylvia 
 seriously, " although no one knows better than I do 
 that if you hadn't all turned in and helped me, I should 
 have made a mess of it." She took Merry Andrew's 
 hand, and Robert's, and he would have taken Merry 
 Andrew's, thus completing the circle. 
 
 " United we stand," he laughed. 
 
 But Merry Andrew refused to complete the circle. 
 
 " We will leave a gap right here," she said, " for 
 Gene McNab and — Wully. They deserve to be in 
 the ring." 
 
 " And Wully McNab, Senior! " called Mother from 
 the, depths of the living-room. 
 
 " Ho ! " replied Robert, " old Wully hasn't had much 
 to do with the matter." 
 
 " More than you know, perhaps," chuckled Grand- 
 father, and got scolded after Robert had gone for 
 nearly revealing a secret which up to that time had re- 
 mained inviolate between the Drews, a McNab, and 
 one lone Pudney. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A passing year brings changes to every community ; 
 to the old an added weakness — another ache ; to the 
 young, experiences which they are sure have never 
 come to the human race before their day. Loves, for 
 instance, or heartbreaks. To Merry Andrew and 
 Sylvia, plodding steadily and rather hopelessly along 
 their individual lines of labor, change, although marked 
 in some quarters, had not seemed to affect their per- 
 sonal fortunes appreciably. Grandfather's strength 
 and courage ebbed a little more swiftly, and the bur- 
 dens and responsibilities of the farm bore with cor- 
 responding heaviness upon Merry Andrew's shoulders. 
 
 " It's a shame," mourned Sylvia, " that a young 
 girl, and a pretty girl like Merry Andrew should be 
 doomed to feed calves, drive mower, stack hay and 
 milk cows in all sorts of weather." The complaint 
 was made to Mother, but Merry Andrew, getting into 
 her moccasins and rubber boots in the shed-room, 
 overheard it. 
 
 "Am I pretty?" she called out impersonally, then 
 came in, took off her barn hat and stood before the 
 kitchen looking-glass inquiringly. She beheld a round, 
 highly-colored face, dark, thick-lashed eyes dominated 
 
 170 
 
MERRY ANDREW 171 
 
 by rather imperious brows, a decent sort of nose, and 
 a pair of wide, full, and very red lips; the whole 
 framed by dusky, rather coarse-textured hair of a 
 loosely-wavey tendency. That much as a bare can- 
 vas ; the different pictures wrought upon it by flashes 
 of mirth, passion, mischief or affection, the thousand 
 subtile variations of a most variable nature, Merry 
 Andrew could not see. Just that blank critical stare 
 made it a very commonplace face indeed, and she an- 
 nounced her decision accordingly : 
 
 " I'm rawther too red, and too sort of — bossy- 
 looking, ain't I ? " she acknowledged frankly. " But 
 it doesn't make much difference how I look so long as 
 I am stout, and as solid as a chunk of pin oak; that's 
 what makes me valuable on a farm where everything 
 has to be done without tools and without technical 
 skill — just by sheer bone labor and driving power." 
 
 " I should hate to have Grandfather hear you talk 
 that way," cautioned Mother. 
 
 " He hears me almost every day," returned Merry 
 Andrew. " I talk it to him all the time. I say, 
 ' Grandfather, you're too slow ; you are farming as 
 men farmed when you were a boy; you are paying 
 taxes on a lot of land that is shirking on you, and old 
 Wully McNab who holds the mortgage on it is going 
 to be the winner.' ' Grandfather,' I say, ' we are try- 
 ing to do something which other folks do better be- 
 cause they know more about it. ' " 
 
172 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 "Modern farming methods take money," sighed 
 Mother. 
 
 "Of course!" returned Merry Andrew, jamming 
 her hat upon her head until just a suggestion of dark 
 locks was to be seen in its shadow. " Of course it 
 takes money. We have none, and so we are planting 
 the same old crops in the same old fields year in and 
 year out, and they are growing scantier and poorer 
 and paler every season. And pretty soon old Wully 
 McNab will kindly relieve us of the farm, and then, 
 says I, you'll hear a rustle!" Merry Andrew threw 
 out shapely hands to illustrate — " Bur-r-r-r-r — rota- 
 tion of crops, fertilizers, lime for the low grounds and 
 cultivation for the high, a rich and valuable place — 
 with the Drews in the poorhouse ! " She swept out, 
 leaving Mother and Sylvia to talk the matter over care- 
 fully and think it over prayerfully. 
 
 The outcome of the interview was that Merry An- 
 drew went to an agricultural school for three months 
 during the winter, and came home with her head filled 
 with lore regarding legumes, silage, factory-farming, 
 and other up-to-date ideas which Grandfather said 
 were theoretical, impracticable and impossible of reali- 
 zation, especially under existing financial conditions. 
 There was no living in peace with her. 
 
 From the first, Grandmother had not approved of 
 her going and had small patience with her theories. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 173 
 
 But the girl dreamed, and while she dreamed she grum- 
 bled: 
 
 " It's all right for Grandmother, piecing a Star-of- 
 Hope bedquilt while Mother gets the dinner and Sylvia 
 churns, to gaze out across the field and see Grandfather 
 and me hoeing torn that never will amount to shucks 
 because the land is all worn out. If you should jog 
 her up about it, she would say it was not a woman's 
 business — to fuss about the growing of the corn; 
 that the woman's place was to learn to use the corn 
 economically after it was ground into meal; that was 
 what the Lord required of the woman. But look at 
 me ; I'm forced into the field to work, ain't I ? " 
 
 " Don't say that," expostulated Mother. 
 
 "But it's the truth—" 
 
 " I mean, don't say ' ain't I ' ; say, ' am I not? ' " 
 
 " Oh, shucks ! " retorted Merry Andrew with a fling, 
 " that don't express it ! " ' 
 
 During the year the electric road had been put 
 through from Bendon to the Corners, and although the 
 cars were not yet running, the latter place had begun 
 to take on the aspect of a village. The new school- 
 house had been built there, together with a general 
 store, a blacksmith shop, an I. O. O. F. hall, with a 
 moving picture outfit on the ground floor, and 
 with sundry other townlike innovations. As soon as 
 the community could agree upon a name, there would 
 
174 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 be a post office, and the church society was actually 
 contemplating a new building. Sylvia and Mother 
 were in a tremor of suppressed and surreptitious ex- 
 citement over this last fact; surreptitious because 
 women who had no time nor money to devote to a 
 cause must not serve on committees nor have much to 
 say. 
 
 As for Merry Andrew, her heart and mind were so 
 absorbed by home problems and financial questions 
 that she gave little heed to church matters, except to be 
 sorry that Mr. Clyde had gone to a better charge in 
 a larger place than Bendon; consequently a stranger 
 filled the pulpit of the little church at the Corners on 
 Sunday afternoons. 
 
 Robert Clyde had been, or rather, was to be, pro- 
 moted. The Bendon Bank, where he clerked, was one 
 of a chain of small banks, and the head of the con- 
 cern had selected young Clyde as manager of a branch 
 to be established in South America. Bob was busy 
 studying Spanish, it being necessary to be familiar wjth 
 that language in order to fill the new and responsible 
 position to which he had been assigned. 
 
 Wully McNab was, as usual, intermittently at home, 
 and his sister, Gene, in talking matters over with the 
 Drews, shook her head sadly. 
 
 " I don't know what is to become of the lad," she 
 mourned. " He doesn't seem to fit in anywhere. He 
 says, ' Gene, when once I get into the right place, I'll 
 
MERRY ANDREW 175 
 
 stick.' Mother wants him to study medicine. Wully 
 says he has more aptitude for the ministry — think of 
 it! — he's always joking, you know. Never serious 
 for five minutes together. Father wants him to study 
 law, and he did really start in to read. But he said 
 the books were really dryer than J. Fenimore Cooper's 
 novels; no surprise, no point, no denouement. Oh, I 
 don't know what will become of him when I go away 
 for good ! " Gene had a lover of her own and was 
 to be married soon. 
 
 Merry Andrew thought a great deal about Wully 
 McNab's problem. As she very well knew, under all 
 his frivolity was a vein of manliness, of generosity, of 
 tenderness. He had been over-disciplined by his 
 father and over-indulged by his mother, and between 
 them, they had spoiled a naturally sweet-dispositioned 
 boy. In the end he would go to the bad, of course; 
 such young men invariably did go to the bad, unless 
 someone should happen along who was witty and 
 brave and good enough to take Wully by the back of 
 the neck, figuratively speaking, and shake him into a 
 realization of the seriousness of life; into a conscious- 
 ness that it was not a joke. Look at Bob Clyde, now. 
 What a contrast ! Earnest, studious, sober, and grow- 
 ing more so every year; preparing himself by hard 
 work to fill responsible positions in the world, and such 
 positions already coming to meet him half way. 
 
 As a matter of fact, ever since that spindle and 
 
176 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 distaff sermon which Bob had preached at the time of 
 the opening of the church, he had taken a decided turn. 
 Surely, Bob had taken his own sermon to heart; he 
 had prepared his spindle and distaff and God was fur- 
 nishing the flax. 
 
 But poor Wully McNab's spindle was buried in his 
 father's inconsequential wealth, his distaff unprovided. 
 Perhaps, after all, driving poverty, like that suffered 
 by the Drews, was better for the soul. At least it 
 had a tendency to keep lazy people on the alert, and 
 if any little wisps of flax were wafted their way, they 
 would be ready for them. Merry Andrew felt very 
 sorry indeed for Wully McNab. 
 
 March that year came in like a lamb, and was now 
 — fully two weeks ahead of time — getting itself into 
 the proverbial attitude for a spectacular exit. Grand- 
 father's rheumatism had assumed, one after another, 
 all the disagreeable symptoms of which that sneaking 
 disease is capable. For three days he had not been 
 able to go to the barn, and Sylvia had been obliged to 
 take his part in the preparation of the seed wheat. 
 
 " And I'd about as lief have one of those white leg- 
 horn pullets turn fanning mill for me as to have Sylvia 
 do it ! " declared Merry Andrew ungratefully. " She's 
 afraid of getting her dress dirty, and she is afraid of 
 getting her hands scratched, and she flutters, flutters — 
 oh, pshaw ! — I wish we had a good hired man; one 
 even as good as Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg." Bar- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 177 
 
 tholomew had, the year before, bestowed his over- 
 whelming name upon a young woman of his acquaint- 
 ance and set up farming on his own hook. 
 
 But Merry Andrew was to learn that Grandfather's 
 slowness and Sylvia's flutterings were not the worst 
 things to endure. Fate had even harder trials in store. 
 
 She went to sleep one night lulled by the bugling of a 
 wild March wind to be awakened by her mother's voice 
 and the flare of a lamp in her face. In her night- 
 gown, her red hair hanging like a cloak about her 
 shoulders, the lamp held aloft in shaking hands, Mother 
 was a veritable Lady Macbeth. Her face showed an 
 unusual pallor and her eyes appeared black in contrast. 
 
 " Get up and dress as quickly as you can," she said, 
 " Grandfather is dying ! " 
 
 " Oh, Mother! " gasped the girls in unison, and were 
 out of bed in a moment, Sylvia quietly and swiftly get- 
 ting into her clothes, Merry Andrew fumbling at hers, 
 scolding and muttering as was her wont under stress of 
 feeling. 
 
 " Sylvia, come and help us as soon as you can," di- 
 rected Mother, " and you, Merry Andrew, run to Pud- 
 ney's and ask him to take our team and go to Bendon 
 for the doctor. And hurry, dear — hurry! Oh, if 
 only the doctor were here this minute something might 
 be done! Here's the lamp; bring it down with you 
 when you come." 
 
 Merry Andrew fairly flew. Out in the night with 
 
178 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 the wind buffeting her, and the rain cutting through 
 the little knitted shawl which Sylvia had thrown about 
 her shoulders, she fought the worst of enemies — re- 
 morse. Poor, patient old Grandfather! Poor, suffer- 
 ing, plodding Grandfather! And she had worried him 
 and badgered him and called him slow. Arid now he 
 was going away from her forever — forever ! And it 
 served her right; she didn't deserve a grandfather nor 
 a grandmother nor a sister nor any relatives at all! 
 And oh, if he would only get well again she hoped 
 she would know enough to be decent to him, to be Mov- 
 ing and tender! But he never would get well again; 
 hadn't Mother said he was dying? Oh, to see him 
 going stumblingly to the barn once more ! To see him 
 smile at her in his crooked, kindly, whimsical way! 
 Why couldn't she run faster! Why, she was as slow 
 as Grandfather himself! 
 
 Pudney's at last! She fairly threw herself against 
 the door, pounding with all her might. There was no 
 response. The Pudneys were in the first deep sleep of 
 the night. Merry Andrew ran down the steps, around 
 the house and beat a wild tattoo on the east bedroom 
 window. A thin female voice within cried, " Fire ! " 
 
 "Mr. Pudney! Mr. Pudney!" screamed Merry 
 Andrew. 
 
 " Fire ! Fire ! " piped the voice from within, and 
 somewhere in the house bare feet struck floor-boards, 
 
MERRY ANDREW 179 
 
 while a mingled murmur of feminine and masculine 
 tones proclaimed the Pudneys aroused at last. 
 
 " It is I — Merry Andrew ! Grandfather is — " 
 She could not bring herself to use her mother's words ; 
 there might yet be hope — there must be ! " Grand- 
 father is terribly sick! Will you take our team and 
 go for Dr. Ames ? Hurry ! I'll run back and harness 
 the mares." 
 
 " What seems to be the matter with the old man? " 
 
 " Oh, don't stand there asking — asking ! I don't 
 know what is the matter. Get ready. I'll run and 
 hitch up and bring the team while you are dressing ! " 
 
 When Merry Andrew reached the road again, she 
 saw far down beyond Brown's two gleaming eyes 
 which threw their rays ahead through the wet night. 
 In thankfulness she cried out, " Wully McNab ! " and 
 awaited the onslaught of the machine. The eyes 
 glared upon her as they approached and she swung her 
 shawl and called, " Wully ! Wully ! " and the car 
 stopped almost within its own length. 
 
 " It's Merry Andrew ! Grandfather is dying ! Will 
 you turn around and take Mr. Pudney for Dr. Ames, 
 oh, — just as quick as you can? " 
 
 Wully McNab uttered some forceful ejaculation un- 
 der his breath and then — " Look out, Andy ; I'm turn- 
 ing! " Around swung the car just as Mr. Pudney ar- 
 rived, still buttoning on his clothing. 
 
180 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Wully will take you — " began Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Pile in! " commanded Wully, and even before Mrs. 
 Pudney, who had followed her husband as fast as pos- 
 sible, could reach the gate, the car with a roar plunged 
 into the night, 
 
 " Is Pudney in that car ? " gasped Mrs. Pudney, but 
 Merry Andrew did not answer. She had crouched 
 upon the ground and was sobbing out a prayer of 
 thankfulness that Wully had been coming home at such 
 an opportune time. 
 
 " Is it a stroke? " demanded Mrs. Pudney. " Well, 
 whatever it is, I shall probably be a widder as soon, if 
 not sooner, than your grandmother is, with that car 
 goin' at that rate. And Pudney's never been in one. 
 I have, and Dorothy has, but he never has." 
 
 " I must run ! " exclaimed Merry Andrew, rising 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Wait an' I'll go over with you. But I got to go 
 in first and tell the young ones what's up. They're 
 frightened almost to death." 
 
 " I can't wait. And you'd better not come, Mrs. 
 Pudney; you can't do anything to help, and now that 
 the doctor will be here so soon — no, Mrs. Pudney, 
 don't come ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I will ; I've never seen anybody with a 
 stroke." 
 
 " It isn't a stroke." 
 
 " Why, what else could it be — so sudden like? " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 181 
 
 " It's his rheumatism gone to his heart we are 
 afraid." 
 
 " Well, if that's the case, he'll never git up. They 
 never do, and he's pretty old — " But Mrs. Pudney 
 found herself talking to the rain; Merry Andrew was 
 gone. 
 
 Sylvia met Merry Andrew at the door, her eyes 
 swollen, her hands shaking with cold and excitement, 
 but with an expression of hope on her face. 
 
 " Better ! " she called. " Breathing quite naturally 
 again and asking for you." 
 
 Without a word Merry Andrew ran by her sister 
 and up the stairs to her grandfather. She clasped his 
 cold old hands in her own burning ones. 
 
 " Now don't you worry a minute, Grandfather," 
 she scolded. " Don't you dare worry ! You just lie 
 right here and be sick like a good boy. Wully McNab 
 and Mr. Pudney have gone for Dr. Ames and by the 
 way they started off they'll be back in about two min- 
 utes, and Dr. Ames will know just what to do for you. 
 And don't you worry about things out doors ; I'll see 
 that things go right in the barn. You know that I 
 can do it. You just lie right here and take it easy 
 and get good and well again before spring's work 
 begins, will you? Wully McNab will have Doc Ames 
 here before you can say Jack Robinson, and the doc- 
 tor will give you something to straighten you out — " 
 
 "I — don't want to be straightened out," joked 
 
i8s MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Grandfather feebly, and Merry Andrew fondled his 
 hands and kissed them, and could not for the life of 
 her keep her tears out of sight. 
 
 They persuaded Grandmother to lie down on 
 Mother's bed until the doctor came, and before they 
 could get her persuaded, and down, and comfortably 
 covered, the doctor came, muttering hard words at 
 Wully McNab for his manner of driving an automo- 
 bile. 
 
 " I don't mind his swearing," Wully assured Merry 
 Andrew, " and what's one doctor, more or less ! You 
 ought to see how they're turning 'em out at the medical 
 colleges. But I did have a thought of Pudney, be- 
 cause he's the only bass singer in Rosedale County that 
 I know of. But didn't I get 'em here, though, Andy, 
 eh ? i The mud flew, let me tell you ! " He took out 
 his watch. " Best time I've ever made yet, and rain- 
 ing cats and dogs, too. Pudney says that he doesn't 
 like a machine ; that he'd rather walk. He suggested 
 walking two or three times on the way back, but I 
 wouldn't let him out, and he's here. He's back all 
 right without a scratch. Of course there's some risk 
 in driving as I did tonight over a country road, and 
 sometimes folks get smashed, but more often they 
 come through. How is your grandfather, now, Merry 
 Andrew ? " 
 
 In a shuddering fascination Pudney watched Wully's 
 departure for town with the doctor. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 183 
 
 " There he goes again," he commented, " and I'm 
 glad I ain't aboard. My wife says she'd ruther have 
 one of them things than a piano, but if any one should 
 give me one I'd smash it with the axe. They ain't 
 safe and nobody shall git me into one agin! So the 
 old man is f eelin' better, is he ? Well, then, I'll be git- 
 tin' back home. My laigs are a shakin' yet with that 
 ride." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 In the Rosedale neighborhood when there is sickness 
 in a house the neighbors call. The custom is not 
 always the comfort it is supposed to be; nor is it al- 
 ways actuated by the spirit of friendliness with which 
 it is accredited. Mrs. Pudney, for instance, insisted 
 upon making whispered suggestions in regard to 
 Grandfather's funeral. She favored holding it in the 
 church, as better form than a home funeral. She won- 
 dered if, when the street-car company got to running, 
 they would put on a funeral car. To Merry Andrew's 
 frenzied assertions that Grandfather was improving, 
 she shook a knowing head. They always went that 
 way — one day better and the next day worse, until 
 the end. 
 
 " Old Griggs went that way. And that old man 
 Mortland — you remember — lived over by the mill. 
 And what is the use of blinding your eyes to what 
 has to be ? You might as well make the best of it." 
 
 " And the most of it, I suppose you think ! " flared 
 Merry Andrew, who was immediately suppressed by 
 Mother and Sylvia and escaped to the barn in a tremor 
 of fear and anger. 
 
 Frequently Mrs. Pudney varied her mortuary con- 
 versation by a turn into economic paths: What did 
 
 184 
 
MERRY ANDREW 185 
 
 the Drew women think of doing when Grandpa Drew 
 was gone and old McNab took over the farm on the 
 mortgage, as he surely would? Of course, she sup- 
 posed Sylvia — and her mother, too, perhaps — might 
 teach music, if they could get pupils, although a wo- 
 man had told her that you couldn't throw a potato 
 in any direction in Bendon without hitting a music 
 teacher. They were as thick as spatter. Grand- 
 mother was too old to amount to much at earning her 
 keep, and Merry Andrew had always been just a farm 
 hand and nothing else; what could she do? 
 
 Merry Andrew would rush to the night's milking 
 with a brain seething with Mrs. Pudney's suggestions. 
 There among the sweet-smelling mows, while faith- 
 fully performing her heavy tasks, she fought out bitter 
 battles with her resentment at Mrs. Pudney's harpings, 
 and her own despairing forebodings that the predic- 
 tions might be verified. 
 
 Grandmother wilted visibly, and adjusted herself 
 with grim complacency to face the worst. To Merry 
 Andrew's horror she removed the bunch of pansies 
 from her toque and substituted a shapeless mass of 
 black ribbon. Sylvia and Mother scurried about like 
 pale, overwrought little ghosts, doing patiently and 
 efficiently the thousand and one duties which awaited 
 their hands, in the sick-room, in the kitchen, in the 
 living-room where the callers were received and their 
 questions answered. Occasionally Boy and Twoboy 
 
186 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 straggled in, to be broomed out immediately by Grand- 
 mother after having succeeded in leaving a muddy 
 trail across the kitchen floor. Once they had even 
 penetrated as far as the parlor bedroom where Grand- 
 father had been installed, and where their mistress had 
 crept before them, all odorous of rain, and hay, and 
 chopped feed. She had the forethought to boost them, 
 one after the other, out of the bedroom window, 
 thereby saving them much humiliation and some pain. 
 They enjoyed the proceeding immensely. They were 
 pleased to find Grandfather once more, and accepted 
 the boosting as a brand new game devised by Merry 
 Andrew for their especial amusement. 
 
 Mrs. McNab and Gene brought jelly and currant 
 wine, and the excitement of their coming and going 
 proved a beneficial diversion to Grandmother's gloom- 
 centered mind. 
 
 Bob Clyde drove, or walked, out from Bendon so 
 frequently that young Wully McNab complained he 
 could not get into the Drew house without stepping 
 on Bob Clyde either coming or going. Wully offered 
 his services and refused to be offended when Merry 
 Andrew bruskly declared that he made more bother 
 than he brought help, and that when there was any- 
 thing he could do she would not be backward about 
 calling on him. He even offered to milk Ambrosia if 
 Merry Andrew would hold the cow's tail and her hind 
 legs. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 187 
 
 Mr. McNab, senior, came also — just once, about 
 two weeks after Grandfather was stricken. On the 
 same evening young Wully, appearing suddenly in the 
 kitchen, found Bob Clyde already there, flushed and 
 disturbed-looking, and with him Merry Andrew, the 
 latter with the unmistakable evidences of a storm lin- 
 gering upon her telltale features. 
 
 "What's the rip?" demanded Wully. And al- 
 though Merry Andrew regarded him with an unwel- 
 coming gaze, she was softened by his evident fear of 
 hearing bad news from the sick-room. " Isn't worse, 
 is he, Andy?" 
 
 " He is getting along nicely," Merry Andrew as- 
 sured him icily. Bob Clyde looked if anything more 
 distressed than at first. Wully seated himself upon 
 the corner of the kitchen table, from beneath which 
 appeared a dog's welcoming nose accompanied by a 
 tonguey, tooth-trimmed grin. Wully fondled the dog. 
 
 " One member of the family glad to see me any- 
 how," he commented and sighed deeply. Merry An- 
 drew still regarded him stonily. Sylvia came from 
 the direction of the bedroom with an empty tray. 
 There was no room to doubt that Sylvia had been cry- 
 ing. 
 
 " How is the grandfather ? " asked Wully again, 
 evidently thinking he had misunderstood Merry An- 
 drew. 
 
 " He has been quite a little better all day," said Syl- 
 
1 88 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 via. " Grandmother is sitting with him now. Would 
 you like to go in and speak to him ? " 
 
 "Thanks, no; not to-night." 
 
 " Well," said Bob, rising and making ready to go, 
 " I'll see what I can do in regard to that matter, Merry 
 Andrew. Good night." 
 
 " Good night," said Sylvia, and Merry Andrew fol- 
 lowed Bob out, closing the door behind her with a 
 bang. 
 
 " Nice weather — for March," said Sylvia in a very 
 apparent effort to make talk. 
 
 "But cold!" shivered Wully. "Dreadfully 
 cold!" 
 
 " Why, do you think so ? The eaves were running 
 just before dark." 
 
 "Possibly; the eaves are out of doors. If you 
 should bring those eaves into this room they wouldn't 
 run. Bur-r-r-r! Terribly chilly in here." Sylvia 
 got up and began politely to stir the fire. 
 
 " Come closer to the stove," she invited. Wully 
 accepted the proffered chair. 
 
 " You are sure your grandfather is better ? " 
 
 " Decidedly better. He has quite an appetite to- 
 day." 
 
 " And your grandmother is well ? " 
 
 " As well as can be expected. She has worried a 
 great deal, of course." 
 
 " And your mother — ? " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 189 
 
 " Is upstairs lying down. She will sit up with 
 Grandfather to-night." 
 
 Merry Andrew returned and came and spread her 
 hands above the stove. 
 
 " Are the dogs all right ? " persisted Wully. 
 
 " You can see for yourself," replied Sylvia. 
 
 "Bur-r-r-r!" shuddered Wully. "How is Am- 
 brosia ? Let me se-e-e — she became a mother last 
 week, didn't she ? Bur-r-r-r — but it's cold ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew's mood seemed to be approaching 
 some sort of crisis. 
 
 " Bob Clyde boarding out here now? " asked Wully 
 politely. Nobody answered and nobody smiled; the 
 air remained charged with gloom. 
 
 " I thought possibly he was," went on Wully. 
 " Every time I come in I meet Bob just coming out. 
 So nice and near his place of business I thought he 
 might be boarding out here." 
 
 " I wonder, Wully McNab, if you will ever get old 
 enough to find out that life isn't a joke ! " burst out 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
 " There, there," soothed Wully, " now it's begin- 
 ning to seem natural again. It's showing signs of 
 life. Perhaps now one may inquire what in thunder 
 the trouble is here ! " 
 
 Sylvia broke in hastily. 
 
 " There isn't any trouble — at least, not any that 
 we can talk about, Wully — " 
 
190 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " A moment, please." Wully held up a hand in a 
 mock ministerial manner. " Haven't I galloped across 
 the wastes a good deal lately bearing jellies and hot 
 water bags and saltpeter and senna and so on ? " 
 
 " You've been just as good as you could be, Wully," 
 acknowledged Sylvia gratefully. 
 
 " Well, doesn't such angelic goodness entitle me to 
 some sort of confidence when trouble is afoot in the 
 Drew family? When your grandfather was taken 
 sick, you didn't hesitate to tell me about it. But now, 
 by your own admission, all is well, or at least getting 
 better, yet when I step inside the door Andy bats her 
 eyes at me like a little black gamecock." 
 
 " A family may have troubles which they can't talk 
 over with outsiders — " began Sylvia. 
 
 " A moment, my young friend," expostulated Wully 
 with the drawl which usually broke the ice where Merry 
 Andrew was concerned, " answer just one more ques- 
 tion and I will adjourn the session: Were you, or 
 were you not, talking over this mysterious trouble with 
 Bob Clyde when I came in ? " 
 
 The girls looked at each other guiltily. 
 
 " If so," continued Wully, still in his character of 
 exhorter, " since when did Bob Clyde become so much 
 more of an insider to this family than is Wully Mc- 
 Nab?" 
 
 " That depends on which Wully you refer to ! " 
 Merry Andrew thrust forth the words like a dagger. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 191 
 
 " Merry Andrew ! " warned Sylvia. 
 
 " I'm going to tell him the whole thing ! " declared 
 Merry Andrew suddenly, standing up straight and 
 " batting her eyes " at Wully again. 
 
 " Merry Andrew, don't ! " pleaded Sylvia, but Merry 
 Andrew was started and nothing could stop her. 
 
 " You've been good, Wully, and your mother has 
 been good, and your sister Gene has been an angel; 
 but your father has been as mean as pusley ! " 
 
 Wully ceased suddenly to be a minister or an ex- 
 horter, and became just Wully McNab with his mouth 
 sagging ajar in astonishment. 
 
 " He knows Grandfather has had a hard pull, and 
 in all probability won't be able to work at all this 
 spring — if ever again — " Her voice trembled — 
 " so he drops in friendly like to tell us that he doesn't 
 intend to renew the mortgage. He has offered to take 
 the farm over for the face of the mortgage and fifteen 
 hundred dollars cash — Think of it! Fifteen hun- 
 dred dollars for eighty acres of the best kind of 
 land—" 
 
 " The land is worn out," broke in Sylvia. 
 
 " — and this dear old stone house — mind you, not 
 matched boards like Pudney's — " 
 
 " The house is all out of date," pleaded Sylvia. 
 
 " — and a barn — " 
 
 " It will cost five hundred dollars to put the barn 
 into usable shape, Mr. McNab says," witnessed Sylvia. 
 
192 MERRY, ANDREW 
 
 " And Grandmother has accepted his offer ! " went 
 on Merry Andrew in a stormy tremulo. " Three thou- 
 sand dollars for this property; think of it! Grand- 
 mother says a thousand dollars will buy us a little 
 house in Bendon, and five hundred will keep us going 
 until we girls can find work ! She's thinking of some 
 nice snug place in somebody's kitchen for me, I pre- 
 sume ! " 
 
 " But, Merry Andrew, dear, what do you want to 
 do? " cried Sylvia. " I don't believe Grandfather will 
 ever be able to work the farm again — " 
 
 "Of course he won't; but I could work it! I was 
 bred to it; why shouldn't it be bread to me? I don't 
 know enough to cook, nor to teach, nor to clerk, but 
 I could run a farm, and I know it ! Dorothy Pudney 
 couldn't do it. Neither could Gene McNab nor Sylvia 
 Drew. Mary Ann Drew could, if she had the chance ! 
 But now the chance is to be taken away from her, she 
 can scrub kitchen floors, or work in the glove factory 
 in Bendon ! " 
 
 " What do you want to do ? " reiterated Sylvia. 
 
 Merry Andrew strode to the door and flung it open 
 for the collies, who were panting from the effects of 
 Sylvia's extra fire. They plunged out joyously. 
 Even in her highly-wrought mood Merry Andrew re- 
 membered Grandfather and closed the door noise- 
 lessly. 
 
 " I want the mortgage renewed for a year. That 
 
MERRY ANDREW 193 
 
 would give me a chance to break the colts and have a 
 new, strong team to help out the old one. I want two 
 or three thoroughbred cows to put in with our fifteen 
 grade cows. I want a cream separator, so that we 
 can sell our cream and milk as other farmers do — 
 for good money, instead of slopping it into common 
 pigs and then selling the pigs in the fall for whatever 
 some old stock buyer pleases to give us, as we always 
 have done. I want a silo — oh, I want a silo!" 
 Suddenly the emotions which had been seething in 
 Merry Andrew's soul burst all bounds and culminated 
 in sobs. She tumbled upon the calico lounge in a pal- 
 pitating heap. 
 
 Wully, who had not uttered a word since the accu- 
 sation launched at his father, still sat perched like an 
 owl on the corner of the kitchen table. Mrs. Drew's 
 pale face appeared at the hall door. 
 
 " What is the matter with Mother's little girl? " she 
 demanded, sitting down on the lounge at Merry An- 
 drew's head and caressing the tumbled locks. 
 
 " She's crying for a silo," said Wully gently, and 
 as if that were the commonest thing in the world for 
 girls to want. The shoulders upon the lounge heaved 
 anew, but Mother and Sylvia judged by the accom- 
 panying gurgle that, at last, Wully's fooleries had 
 struck a vulnerable spot in Merry Andrew's armor of 
 grief and despair, and that her tears were mixed with 
 hysterical laughter. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The day after Merry Andrew's brainstorm was 
 quite a notable one in the Drew family. In the morn- 
 ing they brought Grandfather out into the parlor, 
 where he sat, all pale and trembly, but cheerfully anx- 
 ious to take hold on life once more. He asked that 
 his chair be placed near the east window where he 
 could see " down the road to Bendon." He said 
 weakly that he must have Pudney go to town to look 
 for a hired man for him, as spring's work would begin 
 soon now, and he was afraid he would be but a poor 
 stick at it for awhile. 
 
 Out in the shed-room an earnest consultation took 
 place in regard to telling or not telling Grandfather 
 about McNab's offer. 
 
 " It would kill him to tell ! " declared Merry Andrew. 
 
 "It would relieve his mind of anxiety!" breathed 
 Grandmother through pursed lips. 
 
 " But think of having to move, this kind of 
 weather," said Mother, " for, of course, Mr. McNab 
 would want to get a tenant into the house and settled 
 before spring opens." 
 
 Merry Andrew groaned. 
 
 " We must manage to keep him from seeing Pudney 
 194 
 
MERRY ANDREW 195 
 
 for a few days if we can without making our effort 
 too conspicuous," warned Mother. " He will ask 
 Pudney to hire a man for spring's work, and there is 
 no use in hiring a man if — " Again Merry Andrew 
 groaned. Mother, too, had given up, then. Appar- 
 ently there was nothing to be done. 
 
 " Mother " — Merry Andrew tried to speak calmly 
 — "what are we going to do in Bendon?" Grand- 
 mother answered : 
 
 " In Bendon we shall have to do what we have al- 
 ways done here — work ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew saw Sylvia telegraphing a warning 
 above Grandmother's head, and having reached the 
 limits of her self-restraint she stalked majestically out 
 of doors, where Sylvia presently followed. 
 
 Around the corner came Evangeline Pudney, canter- 
 ing bovinely. She was making for the back door, her 
 tongue flapping in the breeze, when Merry Andrew 
 stayed her flight. 
 
 " What's wanted, Evangeline? " 
 
 " Pa sent me to get his everyday mittens. He left 
 'em over here." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Just now." 
 
 " Where is your pa? " 
 
 " Gone to town." Merry Andrew relaxed her hold 
 and Evangeline disappeared within the house. 
 
 " Wouldn't that scotch you! " demanded Merry An- 
 
196 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 drew tragically. "Just while we were out there in 
 the shed-room Pudney comes like a thief in the night, 
 gets Grandfather's order for a hired man and hikes 
 for Bendon!" Sylvia ticked her despair with her 
 tongue. 
 
 " I'm afraid we ought to have told Grandfather 
 what Mr. McNab said about the farm — " 
 
 " We won't have to ! " broke in Merry Andrew bit- 
 terly; "here comes the little bird who will tell him 
 in spite of us ! " 
 
 A dust-colored cap was visible above the top board 
 of the orchard fence. Its owner, Wully McNab, Sen- 
 ior, was unmistakably making for the Drews' back 
 dqor. As he approached, Merry Andrew sent forth a 
 stormy glance to meet him. 
 
 " Wouldn't you know by the way his ears flange 
 out that he was the meanest man on the footstool? " 
 
 " Oh, I do wish he would let Grandfather alone for 
 a few days !" lamented Sylvia. " Just until he gets a 
 little stronger. It's going to be a terrible shock to him 
 at best; but in his weakened condition — but there, 
 Merry Andrew, don't — don't look that way. Don't 
 ' bat your eyes like a game chicken,' as Wully McNab 
 accused you of doing ! " 
 
 " You go on in and let me tend to him ! He shall 
 not bother Grandfather today." 
 
 " Don't be saucy to him, Merry Andrew, for Wully's 
 sake, and for Gene's, and for Mrs. McNab' s. And 
 
MERRY ANDREW 197 
 
 remember, he himself has done nice things for us in 
 the past — " She had time to say no more; Mr. Mc- 
 Nab was already grunting a good morning. She 
 slipped within to tell Grandfather that Mr. McNab 
 was coming to see him. 
 
 " I'm glad of it," said Grandfather, " I want to see 
 McNab. Ought to have seen him before about that 
 interest money. He will have to wait awhile for it, 
 I'm afraid. And the mortgage will have to be renewed 
 this spring, too. I hope McNab will understand how 
 it is; and I guess he will." 
 
 Sylvia's lips trembled and she turned to the window 
 to hide her emotion. Out in the path which led to the 
 barn she could see a corner of Merry Andrew's skirt, 
 and, now and then, a vigorous hand circling in a dra- 
 matic gesture. Could it be that Merry Andrew was 
 taking Mr. McNab to task in such a reckless manner ? 
 Sylvia slipped into the bedroom. From the bedroom 
 window she could see, all too plainly, Mr. McNab stand- 
 ing silent, hands in his pockets, old weather-beaten ears 
 slanting outwards to support his cap, eyes squinted, 
 thin, stubbly-bearded lips close shut, listening in what 
 appeared to Sylvia stubborn silence to Merry Andrew, 
 who might have been making a Fourth-of-July oration. 
 Now she spread both hands towards the cornfield as if 
 she might have been declaiming, " Our Glor-r-r-i-o-u-s 
 land of the f-r-e-e-e ! " Now she swept one palm up- 
 ward in the direction of the roof of the barn. " Our 
 
198 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 beloved flag-g-g!" Sylvia found herself fitting the 
 oration to her sister's gestures. Whatever the nature 
 of Merry Andrew's declamation she was certainly hold- 
 ing her audience. " In yonder miserable prison where 
 our bra-a-ave boys died — " supplied Sylvia — 
 
 " I've sent to town for a hired man, Sylvia," called 
 Grandfather from the parlor. 
 
 "Yes, Grandfather." 
 
 " Pudney may bring one out with him tonight." 
 
 " Oh ! We — I'll get his room ready, then," replied 
 Sylvia faintly. What was Merry Andrew doing? 
 Trying to hold off Mr. McNab ? And what could be 
 the nature of the speech she was delivering? What- 
 ever it was she was drawing it to a close with a final 
 all-embracing sweep, a churning motion of the hands, 
 a final folding of her arms across the front of her 
 blouse. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you ! " murmured 
 Sylvia, and would not have been surprised to see Mr. 
 McNabb clap his old chapped hands in applause. 
 
 She had no opportunity of seeing, for Grandmother 
 had come in and was trying to persuade the invalid to 
 go back to bed. 
 
 "You must not waste your strength, Lyman," she 
 was pleading mournfully, " for you are going to need 
 every thread of it in the next few days." And he 
 was trying to tell her how, fortunately, he had seen 
 Evangeline in the lane, and had tapped on the window, 
 
MERRY ANDREW 199 
 
 and had told her to call her father over, and Pudney, 
 luckily, was all harnessed for town and — " But 
 Grandmother broke in : 
 
 " Oh, dear, we shan't need any hired man, Ly- 
 man — " and then Sylvia interrupted before Grand- 
 mother had a chance to explain why they should not 
 need a hired man. 
 
 " Mr. McNab is coming in the back way," she an- 
 nounced, and Grandmother was all in a flutter at once. 
 
 " Dust up those ashes in front of the stove, Sylvia," 
 she commanded. " I must slip upstairs and get a 
 fresh apron ! " 
 
 Grandmother returned with a fresh apron and a var- 
 nished smoothness upon her front hair, yet Mr. Mc- 
 Nab had not appeared. They put Grandfather to 
 bed in spite of his protest that he would rather be sit- 
 ting up when McNab came in. Grandmother straight- 
 ened the sheets, changed the bureau cover and made 
 sundry other fidgety preparations before she stepped 
 to the bedroom window to peer out. She turned a 
 mildly accusing glance upon Sylvia. 
 
 " I thought you said Mr. McNab was coming? " 
 
 " He was," responded Sylvia, and gazed out of the 
 parlor window. No McNab, no Merry Andrew in 
 sight. 
 
 " I must see McNab," reiterated Grandfather from 
 the bed. " I must make arrangements about the in- 
 terest on the mortgage. The four heifers coming into 
 
200 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 milk this spring must be sold to pay that interest. I 
 thought maybe McNab would take 'em on the interest 
 debt ; they're fine animals, and ought to bring — well, 
 they ought to bring thirty dollars apiece. But if Mc- 
 Nab will take the four of 'em for the interest, I'll let 
 him have them. Then I won't need to worry about 
 debts until I get a little stronger." 
 
 " Lyman," said Grandmother, as if under pressure 
 of a sudden resolution, " I think you ought to be told ! 
 When a person is getting up from a bed of sickness 
 good news is often a benefit. You won't have to 
 worry over that mortgage any more. Mr. McNab 
 thinks best to take over this place and pay us fifteen 
 hundred dollars in cash for our equity — I think that 
 was the word he used — equity — " Grandmother 
 went no further. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! " moaned the sick man piti- 
 fully. " It's come — it's come, then ! Just what I 
 have been afriad of ! Oh, to lose it — after — strug- 
 glin' all these years — to lose it at last ! And without 
 my farm what can I do to earn a living? And what 
 can Merry Andrew do ! Oh, dear — o-h — dear ! " 
 With a long fluttering wail he turned on his pillow and 
 lay very still. 
 
 Sylvia ran into the hall and screamed frantically to 
 her mother. 
 
 " Oh, come quick, Mother ! It's all back again — 
 the sickness — the terrible lack of breath ! " Mother 
 
MERRY ANDREW 201 
 
 came running down stairs as Merry Andrew came iri 
 at the back door. 
 
 "What is it?" cried out Merry Andrew, but she 
 knew before Sylvia answered. They all rushed to- 
 gether to the sick-room. Grandmother was support- 
 ing Grandfather, who sank heavily in her arms. Both 
 old faces were pallid, the woman's if anything the 
 more so. Merry Andrew ran forward and snatched 
 her grandfather's shoulders into her own embrace. 
 It really seemed to be death which was claiming him, 
 but she dragged him back. 
 
 "Grandfather! Grandfather!" she wailed, "you 
 must not — you must not look like that! You must 
 get better and help me save the farm! Here is Mr. 
 McNab — come to renew the mortgage — oh, Grand- 
 father, come back ! Come back ! " 
 
 He opened his eyes and smiled feebly. The girl 
 reiterated her news and her frantic appeal. The re- 
 iteration caught and held the dimming intelligence of 
 the sick man. His eyes wandered beyond the faces of 
 his family to that of McNab, who stood in the bed- 
 room door. 
 
 "I — don't — care — to sell," whispered Grand- 
 father. 
 
 " Why — ceairtinly, I don't want to buy if you 
 don't want to sell, Dhre-e-w. Your gr-r-randdaughter 
 has just been tellin' me she thinks she can r-r-run the 
 fairm, an' I've no doot she can; she seems able to 
 
202 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 carry oot whatever she put her hawnd to. Br-r-r-ace 
 up, Dhr-r-ew — brace up ! " 
 
 For an hour Merry Andrew sat on the bed, holding 
 her grandfather's shoulders, chafing his hands and 
 chattering, chattering constantly, of silos and thor- 
 oughbreds and barns and seeders. It was going to be 
 a picnic ! A long, lively picnic ! He lying around tak- 
 ing things easy, she, with things all her own way, 
 making money like dirt! Just like dirt! Now he 
 mustn't go and kick it all over by getting worse — no, 
 indeed ! She needed, not his work, but his advice and 
 oversight. 
 
 Afterwards, Grandmother said it was the medicine 
 which the doctor left which brought him through. 
 
 " No," said Mother gently, " it was Merry Andrew's 
 talking business which brought him through." 
 
 " But it was talking business which seemed to bring 
 on the spell," insisted Grandmother, herself white and 
 drawn and pitiful. 
 
 " Different sort of business," said Merry Andrew. 
 " Yours, Grandmother, was the business of failure ; 
 mine, of success. More men go to their death through 
 purse failure than the doctors will admit. They call 
 it heart failure, and hardening of the liver, and so on, 
 and, of course, I suppose those are as good names as 
 any for the finish, but the beginnings are in discour- 
 agement and lack of hope. And I want to read the 
 riot act right here and now, folks: Unless we can 
 
MERRY ANDREW 203 
 
 keep Grandfather chirked up and hopeful, we're going 
 to lose him ! " She glared at Sylvia as though it had 
 been she who had toppled Grandfather over, and Syl- 
 via bowed her head meekly and said never a word. It 
 was not the first time she had acted as buffer between 
 the belligerent members of the family. They were 
 upstairs in Grandmother's room where Mother had 
 persuaded her to lie down. Mother was watching 
 with Grandfather, who seemed to be sleeping quietly 
 and naturally. 
 
 " And so you expect to keep your grandfather alive 
 by telling him falsehoods," accused Grandmother from 
 the bed. 
 
 " No falsehood about it," boasted Merry Andrew. 
 " Mr. McNab has decided to renew the mortgage. 
 Not only that, but, if I have my way, he is going to 
 double the mortgage ; he is going to make it three thou- 
 sand instead of fifteen hundred, and then, a year from 
 now, he can take over the whole enduring thing and 
 we can move to the poorhouse in a bunch. But I be- 
 lieve it is going to save Grandfather." 
 
 " Nice silly business ! " breathed Grandmother, and 
 waived further comment in view of the fact that, what- 
 ever Merry Andrew's scheme, Mr. McNab seemed to 
 sanction it. 
 
 " Now you go to sleep if you can," Merry Andrew 
 made a feint of tucking her grandmother up. 
 " Grandfather is better and after you have had a good 
 
204 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 rest we'll talk things over and I'll tell you what Mr. 
 McNab said." 
 
 In the sitting-room Sylvia faced her sister. 
 
 " Well, McNab isn't the heartless old pirate you be- 
 lieved him to be after all, then, Merry Andrew ? " 
 
 " Yes he is ; he's heartlesser ! " 
 
 " But he is going to renew the mortgage." 
 
 " He is going to take up the mortgage, and if I can 
 coax Grandfather into it, he is going to hold one double 
 the size." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I'm going to run this farm for a year, but — I've 
 got to have something to run it on. He is going to 
 lend me fifteen hundred dollars more. Then the mort- 
 gage will be three thousand, and he says a year from 
 now he will take up the slack — farm, stock and all." 
 
 " Mary Ann Drew ! " 
 
 " Yes, that's what he said. He says no woman 
 knows enough to run a farm, let alone a sprig of a 
 ga-i-r-r-1 — , that's what he called me. But he says 
 the farm and stock will still be worth three thousand 
 dollars, even after I've fuddled with 'em a year. If 
 Grandfather consents, and I know he will, I'm going to 
 try it anyhow." 
 
 " How did you ever have the courage to broach the 
 subject, Merry Andrew ? " 
 
 " I didn't. He did it himself. He said he had 
 changed his mind about taking up the mortgage. I 
 
MERRY ANDREW 205 
 
 mentioned that I had money in sight with which to buy 
 some more stock — you know — what Bob Clyde 
 thought he could do for us in that line — but he seemed 
 to want to hold all the mortgages himself. He asked 
 me what I would do with the farm if I had my own 
 way and — say — fifteen hundred dollars to do with. 
 I told him. Then he said he stood ready, provided 
 Grandfather was willing, to lend that much more on 
 the farm and stock. He said I must not for a minute 
 get the idea that he was lending money through chari- 
 table motives, or because he thought I could run the 
 farm. He was certain I wasn't as smart as I thought 
 I was, and he was certain that he should be obliged to 
 take over the place next spring. 
 
 " He said he supposed I was too set in my way to 
 take any advice from a man who had farmed it all his 
 life—" 
 
 " When did he get a chance to say all that? " broke 
 in Sylvia. " Whenever I looked out I saw you talking 
 like a Fourth-of-July speaker, and he looking sort of 
 — well — overwhelmed, you know." 
 
 " That was when I was telling him what I would do 
 if I had the farm and fifteen hundred dollars to work 
 with; but when we went to the barn to look over the 
 stock he said all he had to say and I listened. As I 
 was telling you, he intimated that I was too young to 
 appreciate advice from those older and more experi- 
 enced than myself. I told him that, under the circum- 
 
206 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 stances — his having all the money at stake — I would 
 be a gump not to weigh his advice pretty carefully. 
 And I shall, too. Mr. McNab is the best farmer and 
 all-round business man in Rosedale. His advice is 
 worth something." 
 
 " I'm awfully frightened for you, Merry Andrew." 
 
 " I'm frightened, too," admitted Merry Andrew. 
 " I feel as you said you did about the church that time, 
 that I have set some great machine going which can't 
 be stopped until it runs down." 
 
 " But think how much more is at stake, Merry An- 
 drew ! Why, think of three thousand dollars ! " 
 
 " But that isn't the first thing I must think about. 
 I really needn't think about that for a year. The thing 
 uppermost in my mind is fixing the barn ; getting four 
 head of blooded stock to tone up our old-grade outfit — 
 you see, Sylvia, the farm as it stands is neither fish, 
 flesh, nor fowl ; it's just a place to work hard and earn 
 nothing. I'm going to specialize. I'm going to make 
 it a dairy farm. That is all you can do with eighty 
 acres. Butter- fat! Butter- fat! That's the word 
 which shall be inscribed on my banner." 
 
 " It's a dreadfully sordid motto for a young girl 
 who, by good rights, ought to be dreaming of moon- 
 light and music and — lovers," sighed Sylvia. 
 
 " Perhaps it is," owned Merry Andrew. " Yes, I 
 dare say it is. Yet when I think of the life of a 
 trained nurse, say, in a small-pox hospital, or being 
 
MERRY ANDREW '207 
 
 lady foreman in a bomb factory, or any one of the ten 
 thousand difficult and dirty jobs women do now-a- 
 days, and do well, I would much rather be a farmer. 
 It isn't any worse and it isn't any more indelicate. 
 Funny part of it all is, that neither you, nor Grand- 
 mother, nor Mr. McNab, took any exceptions to my 
 working in the fields and among the stock with Grand- 
 father, so long as Grandfather was the boss and I did 
 the labor. But when I aspire to the thinking and plan- 
 ning and scheming — the part Grandfather has failed 
 in — why, everybody cries out indelicate. Dentistry 
 isn't a pleasant profession; not on account of the tooth- 
 pulling, but because of the washing up afterwards. 
 But dentists don't do the washing up ; attendants do it, 
 and those attendants are always girls. The dentist 
 draws the tooth and a good-sized fee ; the girl does the 
 repulsive work, and gets enough to buy her shoes while 
 her parents furnish her board. It isn't any more in- 
 delicate to raise cattle and hogs which run into money 
 than it is to breed chickens, yet the chicken industry of 
 the farm has for generations been handed over to the 
 women folks because there isn't much profit in it. 
 
 " Let Grandmother take care of the turkeys in her 
 usual ladylike way, while I tackle the stock, whole hog 
 or none ! Who is this driving into the lane ? " 
 
 " It is Mr. Pudney with our new hired man," said 
 Sylvia. 
 
 Merry Andrew bent a piercing gaze upon the top of 
 
S2o8 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 the jaunty cap which appeared beside Pudney's old 
 battered felt hat. 
 
 " Hired man ! " she ejaculated. " I would sooner 
 think it was a fugitive prince from some one of the 
 tottering monarchies of bleeding Europe ! " And as 
 she followed Sylvia downstairs she realized that her 
 tremendous struggle was about to begin. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 Philip Starr was the name of the new hired man. 
 He was an American, and wore a ring on his little fin- 
 ger. Merry Andrew viewed him with disfavor from 
 the very first. 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that bit 
 of machinery," she prophesied to Sylvia, after Starr 
 had eaten a most comprehensive supper and lighted a 
 cigarette. " I wish Grandfather hadn't been quite so 
 prompt about detailing Pudney to get us a man. 
 Hired men are scarce, I know, but I should have looked 
 around pretty thoroughly before I settled on this speci- 
 men." 
 
 " You never can tell," encouraged Sylvia, " he may 
 be a splendid hand ; he's big and strong enough, mercy 
 knows." 
 
 " He's strong, but awful smart. He's going to be 
 one of the know-it-all sort. He might get along all 
 right with old McNab, but the question is, will he 
 tackle when I say sic ! You must realize, Sylvia, that 
 it is quite difficult for the average hired man to be 
 bossed by a woman, say nothing of a girl." 
 
 Unfortunately Merry Andrew brought about the 
 very condition she wished to avoid by trying to steer 
 
 209 
 
Sio MERRY ANDREW 
 
 clear of another, and more embarrassing one. Mr. 
 Philip Starr, who, according to his own modest con- 
 fession, had cut quite a figure in Bendon society, was, 
 at first, inclined to be flirtatious with the Drew girls. 
 He did not relish Merry Andrew's brusk way of put- 
 ting him in his place. To complicate matters, Dorothy 
 Pudney spent the evening at the Drews'. " Phil " was 
 an acquaintance of hers. They had met at a Bendon 
 dance not so long ago. She was in a whirlwind of 
 giggles and repartee all the evening, and went home at 
 a late hour convinced of the Drew girls' jealousy of 
 herself. Merry Andrew waited up for some time, but 
 went to bed at last without getting a chance to talk with 
 her assistant. 
 
 At breakfast " Phil" inquired if " the old man " was 
 able to see him. 
 
 " Of course," he added, " there ain't much to do at 
 this time of the year." 
 
 "Nothing to do at this time of year!" burst out 
 Merry Andrew, but choked back her indignation. 
 This was not the proper time to enlighten Mr. Starr. 
 He would soon find out, however, what was to be done 
 at this time of year. 
 
 " Pudney says you've got a team of colts to break. 
 I thought I'd start in an' break 'em." 
 
 Merry Andrew arose from her seat at the table, and 
 Mother saw a row of white knuckles across the little 
 hand gripping her napkin. But with the self-repres- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 211 
 
 sion of a person assuming new and arduous responsi- 
 bilities, she only announced that she would go in and 
 see if Grandfather could talk business this morning, 
 She was absent from the room for ten minutes ; then 
 she came back to say that Grandfather was ready for 
 a conference. 
 
 " Either throw that away, or finish it before you go 
 in," she commanded curtly, pointing at Philip's ciga- 
 rette. " You mustn't smoke it in Grandfather's 
 room." 
 
 " Gosh! is he as bad as that? " asked Starr, balanc- 
 ing his cigarette on the window sill. Merry Andrew 
 showed him the way and returned, closing all three 
 doors behind her. 
 
 " It's just as well to let Grandfather have this talk 
 with ' it ' alone," she told Mother and Sylvia. 
 " Grandfather is to tell him, good and plenty, who is 
 to be the boss around here for the coming year. Then 
 if he doesn't take a tumble — " 
 
 She finished by blowing into the air an imaginary 
 something — either thistle-down or hired man — from 
 the tips of her thumb and forefinger. 
 
 " I'm glad you restrained yourself so well," her 
 mother told her approvingly. " I was just afraid you 
 were going to fly all to pieces when he mentioned 
 breaking the colts." Merry Andrew made a mow of 
 disdain. 
 
 " Break the colts ! I nearly choked ! But I held in, 
 
212 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 didn't I, Mother? Oh, indeed I must learn to govern 
 my own temper if I expect to be the foreman on a 
 farm. If you can't run yourself, you're not fit to run 
 other folks." 
 
 " What a pity you didn't learn that in your child- 
 hood ! " breathed Grandmother in her hollow, tone 
 which always meant reproof. 
 
 Merry Andrew shut her lips tightly. She prided 
 herself now-a-days upon her ability to " hold herself 
 in," at least where Grandmother was concerned. The 
 years had added much to her own dignity in the house- 
 hold, at the same time robbing Grandmother of a por- 
 tion of her active authority. In fact, Grandmother 
 was in something of a maze in regard to Merry An- 
 drew's captaincy. A heart-to-heart talk with Merry 
 Andrew's mother, and another with Sylvia, failed to 
 convince her that it was possible for a girl of Merry 
 Andrew's age to run a farm. More than all, she was 
 dazed at Mr. McNab's change of attitude, as, indeed, 
 were the rest of the family. 
 
 After Philip Starr had finished a rather unsatisfac- 
 tory interview with " the old man," one that convinced 
 him that Mr. Drew was in the last stages of mental in- 
 capacity; and Merry Andrew had conducted him to the 
 pigsty and instructed him in regard to the building of 
 a separate pen which would be needed soon, she came 
 back to the house to find her relatives talking matters 
 Over, 
 
MERRY ANDREW 213 
 
 " I never knew of Mr. McNab giving in that way but 
 once before," said Mother, " and that was in the mat- 
 ter of the church." 
 
 " Well, that showed that he could give in," laughed 
 Sylvia. 
 
 " But why did he ? " breathed Grandmother, giving 
 full utterance to her own bewilderment. " He said he 
 would buy if we were willing to sell, but that if we 
 were not willing to sell at his price, he should be 
 obliged to foreclose and let the sheriff do the selling. 
 He said that, in his opinion, it was good business for 
 us to sell — " 
 
 " Good business for him — yes ! " broke in Merry 
 Andrew. 
 
 " He said for us ! " repeated Grandmother decidedly. 
 Mother upheld Grandmother. 
 
 " It may be that it would have been better for us to 
 sell for a certain fifteen hundred dollars, than to take 
 chances on a year of hard work and losing the stock 
 and machinery in the end." 
 
 " This farm as it stands today is worth eight thou- 
 sand dollars if it is worth a cent ! " blustered Merry 
 Andrew, " and McNab was planning to take it over for 
 three!" 
 
 " Don't forget the interest," prompted Mother. 
 " Don't make it any worse than it is. But the mystery 
 is, what changed Mr. McNab's mind." 
 
 " His natural sense of justice," said Grandmother 
 
214 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 solemnly ; " with all his — his — thrift, Mr. McNab is 
 at heart a just man." 
 
 " Merry Andrew's eloquence," suggested Sylvia. 
 "If you had seen her as I did — sweeping the horizon 
 with both arms — What did you say to him, Merry 
 Andrew; and what did he say to you? Were you 
 really delivering a Fourth-of-July oration at him out 
 there in the path as you swept your hands first to the 
 blue vault of heaven and then out over the green 
 reaches of the pasture ? " 
 
 " Exactly. That was what I was doing, Sylvia ; I 
 was drawing Mr. McNab's attention to the land of 
 the brave and the home of the free, namely the Drew 
 farm. I told him a few pretty plain truths as we 
 stood there in that path. I said, ' This place is worth 
 pretty nearly three times three thousand dollars.' I 
 said, ' Look at that lovely old stone house ! A few 
 shingles on the roof and it will be as valuable as it was 
 the day it was finished — more so, for the stones are a 
 fine old color now.' I said, ' And that barn; why, for 
 two hundred and fifty dollars I could fix that barn so 
 that it would outrank a good many barns in Rosedale 
 County which pose for perfectly up-to-date dairy 
 barns.' I said, ' If I had a little money I could run 
 this farm and make a good living on it, not only for 
 myself, but for my sister, my mother, my grandmother 
 and my grandfather ! ' " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 215 
 
 " That's what did it, you see," nodded Mother ad- 
 miringly. 
 
 " But that's the funny part of it," owned Merry An- 
 drew, " that wasn't what did it, for that conversation 
 all took place after Mr. McNab had announced that he 
 had come over to tell Grandmother that he was willing 
 to renew the mortgage. My harangue might have in- 
 fluenced him to lend me — us, I mean — the added fif- 
 teen hundred dollars. But listen to my theory: Old 
 McNab knows that this place is well worth nine thou- 
 sand dollars, and that it won't be worth any less after 
 we have put in another year of hard labor on it. He 
 thinks that in the spring he will get, not only the land, 
 but the stock and the machinery as well. And he 
 stands a good chance, of course, of doing it if it 
 wasn't for one fact that he doesn't know anything 
 about." 
 
 " And that is," prompted Sylvia, her eyes shining, 
 "that is—" 
 
 " Bob Clyde's offer to get the money from somebody 
 else with which to take up the mortgage," finished 
 Merry Andrew with triumph. " Wully McNab 
 doesn't own all the money in the world, thank for- 
 tune — " She paused with arms outspread as the door 
 swung open to admit Mrs. Pudney. 
 
 "What's up?" demanded the caller. "You folks 
 havin' a fight ? I could hear Merry Andrew a talkin' 
 before I got round the corner of the house." 
 
216 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Sylvia set a chair and Mrs. Pudney dropped into it. 
 She was not in her usual morning attire. Indeed, her 
 state of tidiness amounted almost to a disguise. 
 Merry Andrew reflected how; much younger a woman 
 looks in a clean collar and with her hair combed. 
 
 " I come over to ask after Gran'pa Drew, and how 
 you liked the new hired help." 
 
 " Grandfather is a great deal better," said Mother, 
 " and as to the man, we haven't had him long enough 
 as yet to know how we are going to like him." 
 
 " Well, you're lucky to git him. I didn't s'pose 
 Phil Starr would come down to doin' farm work. 
 He's a A number one pitcher, you know. I bet you 
 lose him when the baseball season opens. He said 
 over to our house last night that he wouldn't have 
 hired only he knew old man Drew was bedrid, and he 
 would have the runnin' of the place. He said it would 
 be like ownin' the place — havin' the whole say, that 
 way." 
 
 In a sort of cold horror the eyes of Sylvia and 
 Mother sought those of Merry Andrew. They found 
 her " holding in " valiantly. 
 
 " Phil is one of the best dancers I ever took the 
 floor with," sighed Mrs. Pudney, a reminiscent smile 
 of pleasure curving her mouth. 
 
 " That won't be of much advantage at milking time," 
 said Merry Andrew, " Ambrosia doesn't dance." 
 
MERRY ANDREW 217 
 
 " Well, I just thought I'd let you know what sort of 
 a fellah Phil is," Mrs. Pudney continued. " I thought 
 it would be just as well for you women-folks to know 
 that he won't stand any petticoat bossin'. He's all 
 right, Phil is; he's awful smart, and he'll run the 
 place, you betchyeh, up to the queen's taste; but he 
 won't stand no bettyin' around — he says so himself. 
 He says Drew is too old a man to run a farm like this 
 anyhow; and I guess he's right. He says it needs a 
 strong young man to boss a place like this. Pudney 
 says he thinks that things are just goin' to whizz round 
 here." 
 
 " I think, myself, that there is every indication that 
 things are going to ' whizz ' round here," confessed 
 Merry Andrew, with a straightening of the lips which 
 Mother and Sylvia always dreaded to see. 
 
 " And now I've got some real news to tell you." It 
 was easy to see " the real news " was much to Mrs. 
 Pudney's liking. " I guess we're goin' to sell out and 
 go to town to live." 
 
 " To sell out ! " echoed all the Drews together. 
 
 ,: Uh-huh. Mr. McNab has made us an offer, and I 
 tell Pudney he'd better accept it. I'm sick and tired 
 of workin' for the interest on old McNab's mortgage. 
 I tell Pudney we can take what little there is left after 
 payin' up our debts and start into some other busi- 
 ness." 
 
2iB MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " What other business? " demanded Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Phil says he knows where there is a dandy res- 
 taurant for sale — " 
 
 "You and Dorothy to do the cooking?" inquired 
 Merry Andrew, and although her face was sober and 
 her manner all that could be desired, both Sylvia and 
 Mother shot secret glances of warning at her. 
 
 " We should employ a chef, of course," Mrs. Pud- 
 ney informed them with a twirk of the neck. " Dor- 
 othy and I are both sick of bein' hayseeds. Out here 
 in the country you don't see nothin' and you don't 
 know nothin'." 
 
 " But now that we are to have a streetcar right by 
 our door," ventured Mother, " doesn't it almost seem 
 as if the town were coming out to us? I hear of quite 
 a number of Bendon families who are coming to live 
 on this line where they can have a little more room." 
 
 " The truth of the matter is," said Merry Andrew 
 after the caller had gone home, " old McNab has his 
 clutch on 'em and they are obliged to get out. He is 
 surrounding us, you see, but he hasn't vanquished us 
 yet!" 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Things began to whizz at the Drew farm, even as 
 Mrs. Pudney had foretold, although in a somewhat 
 different way from that outlined by Phil Starr. In 
 place of " running the business " and taking the long 
 periods of rest so essential to a good pitcher when re- 
 cruiting for a hard season, Philip found himself driven 
 to a degree of labor he had not deemed possible. 
 
 " That little black vixen " (so he spoke of Merry 
 Andrew to his friends across the road) " was every- 
 where with her ' Hurry, hurry, hurry ! ' She don't 
 stay in the house at all! Hangs around me all the 
 time. One of these days I'm goin' to tell her what's 
 what!" 
 
 Mrs. Pudney conveyed this threat to the Drews. 
 
 " You'll have to be a little careful of Phil or you'll 
 lose him," she cautioned. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder a bit if we lost him! " flashed 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
 " You just can't git hired help this spring," Mrs. 
 Pudney added, and Merry Andrew, knowing the truth 
 of this statement, continued to " hold herself in." 
 
 Now and then she failed utterly; as on the day she 
 caught Philip chastising Boy because the dog had re- 
 
 219 
 
220 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 fused to " tackle " the Pierce cat who sometimes saw 
 fit to hunt in the Drew barn. 
 
 " You ! You whipping my dog ? " raged Merry An- 
 drew. Her color was gone, her face that of a little 
 white fury. "If you ever dare touch one of .my dogs 
 again I'll send you packing ! " 
 
 " I guess I can't get along here," returned Phil 
 loftily. " I don't know as I care to spend my time on 
 a farm where a woman is always bettyin' around ! " 
 
 " No, you aren't fit ; you're not enough of a gentle- 
 man! You ought to be at work somewhere with a 
 ball and chain on your leg ! You ought to be a nigger 
 teamster's mule with a gad over your back and no oats 
 in your box — " She stopped short, for there was 
 Sylvia gazing at her sorrowfully, pityingly, as one 
 whose faith in a leader had been shaken. 
 
 Merry Andrew went into the house and up to her 
 room. She shut the door behind her. An hour later 
 she came down, still pale, still shaken and very much 
 ashamed, but once more mistress of herself and there- 
 fore of the world. 
 
 Phil Starr, on the other hand, could not rise above 
 the quarrel. 
 
 " I never saw a livin' critter with a temper like that 
 girl's got ! " he complained one day to Wully McNab. 
 
 " Well-well ! " mocked Wully. " What's given you 
 such an idea ? " 
 
 " Talk about men swearin'," said Starr. " I've be- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 221 
 
 longed to a Bush League, and walked the fourth man 
 when the bases were full, but, by Jinks! I never was 
 abused in my life as I was abused the day I licked that 
 dog! I've never been called such names as she called 
 me that day ! " 
 
 "Oh, ho!" howled Wully. "What did she call 
 you? You licked one of her dogs, you say, and then 
 she called you — say, sit down here on this board and 
 tell me what she called you." 
 
 " She called me ' a nigger's mule ' ! " confided Phil, 
 and waited for Wully's burst of indignation. 
 
 " Served you right," said Wully, " only it wasn't 
 bad enough. Don't you know any better than to whip 
 a collie ? " Then Wully strolled away, leaving Phil 
 with his mouth hanging open in astonishment. 
 
 Afterwards he told Dorothy Pudney that he had had 
 two minds to " wipe up the barnyard with Wully Mc- 
 Nab." But when Dorothy informed Wully of Phil's 
 threat, Wully said that he had not noticed any such 
 forward movement on Phil's part. 
 
 " Funny part of it is," added Wully, " that he could 
 have done it without half trying. He has some biceps, 
 has that big stiff, and a hand like a ham." 
 
 " And a head like one," added Merry Andrew. " I 
 don't know how I'm going to stand it all through the 
 summer." 
 
 In spite of the hired man trouble, things continued 
 to " whizz." Lady Duroc Jersey had been installed in 
 
222 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 the new sty. She and Lord Blessington, the full- 
 blood Holstein-Friesian head of the herd, and the 
 three new Holstein-Friesian cows, had swept away five 
 hundred and forty dollars of the fifteen-hundred-dollar 
 reserve. 
 
 " But they're worth it," triumphed Merry Andrew, 
 viewing her new possessions with appraising eyes. 
 
 The day that the new stock came Grandfather, 
 swathed like a Turkish Pasha, made his first trip to 
 the barn. 
 
 " They're beauties," he owned, " but I'm awfully 
 afraid, girl — awfully afraid. Live stock is uncer- 
 tain!" 
 
 " Nothing ventured, nothing won," Merry Andrew 
 threw back, but nevertheless went about with a bad 
 case of the blues all day, and at night, after everybody 
 was supposed to be in bed, stole out to the barn and 
 listened fearfully to the placid chanking of her new 
 possessions, patting their sleek rumps lovingly, where 
 they stood in their stanchions. 
 
 Under Grandfather's and Merry Andrew's super- 
 vision, Pudney broke the colts, and Merry Andrew 
 bought them their spring outfit, a strong new harness, 
 thereby completely spoiling another hundred dollars, as 
 she complained to her mother. 
 
 " We ought to have a new cultivator, and a breaking- 
 plough; but these will have to wait until next year. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 223 
 
 They will come with the silage-cutter and the gas en- 
 gine. The year after that we shall have a tractor — " 
 
 " The year after next we shall be in the poorhouse ! " 
 groaned Grandmother. Grandmother groaned con- 
 stantly now, and, as she often asserted, felt her reason 
 tottering at the goings-on. Grandfather was in his 
 dotage, Merry Andrew criminally reckless, " daughter- 
 in-law " and Sylvia steeped in besotted ignorance — or 
 carelessness, she didn't know which to call it. 
 
 " No," returned Merry Andrew, " I shall never 
 bring up in the poorhouse; I shall head for jail. In 
 fact, I'm headed that way now. Some day when I 
 happen to have a pitchfork in my hand and Philip Starr 
 is entirely unarmed, the fit will come upon me and I 
 shall do the deed. Of course I shall regret it after- 
 wards ; I always do regret my sins when it is too late. 
 If, on the other hand, I can stick it out until the end of 
 summer, I shall be something approaching the angelic. 
 On the west-road forty I am sowing seventeen acres of 
 wheat, and on the east forty seventeen acres of clover ; 
 I am also going to put in hard corn and corn for silage, 
 and in the orchard there shall be corn for soiling in the 
 fall when the pasture gets short; there are to be cow 
 peas and soy beans where they will do the most good ; 
 but more than all these, I am cultivating a great, great 
 stock of patience in my own soul. I haven't found 
 Philip much good at ploughing, or sowing, or milk- 
 
224 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ing, or minding what I tell him to do ; but in helping 
 along with this soul crop of mine he is a prize-winner. 
 Maybe that is why he was sent to this farm." 
 
 " What's he been doing now ? " asked Mother in an 
 absent-minded way. Mother's faith in Merry An- 
 drew's management was growing stronger every day. 
 She was beginning to feel that Merry Andrew knew 
 somewhat of the plan she was trying to work out, and 
 her own responsibilities and labors were so exacting 
 that she was only too glad to be let off with a vicarious 
 responsibility in the matter of outdoor affairs. She 
 recognized Merry Andrew's imperative need of dis- 
 creet ears into which she might pour her whimsical, 
 half-jesting, half-earnest complaints. When Merry 
 Andrew came in declaring that she could not wait to 
 buy a tractor but must have it at once, armored like 
 the war tanks, a car of Juggernaut, with which she 
 might run down Philip Starr and utterly annihilate 
 him, her mother merely giggled and went on with her 
 bread-mixing, her chamber-sweeping, or her radish- 
 planting, merely asking as on this occasion, " What's 
 he been doing now ? " 
 
 " Everything I tell him not to," accused Merry An- 
 drew. " He has a perfect craze for doing my chores 
 and letting his own go undone. He'll sit up nights to 
 feed the thoroughbred calves, and because I warned 
 him never to go near Ambrosia, he took a notion to 
 milk her. Of course she kicked him sky high, busted 
 
MERRY ANDREW '225 
 
 his hat and his thumbnail and stepped on his corn. He 
 up with the milking-stool and was just going to lam 
 her when I appeared and took the center of the stage. 
 Says I, ' Philip, wait a minute ; don't go on with that 
 sermon you are preaching. You are using the words 
 all in the wrong places anyway, but answer me this : 
 Did you ever work for Smither's folks ? ' He said he 
 didn't blank — blank — blank know whether he had 
 or not, and what difference did it make? What did I 
 want to know for? 'Well, I bet you have,' said I. 
 ' Grandfather bought Ambrosia of Smither, and the 
 minute you sat down at her flank she recognized you. 
 Ambrosia knows that she has met you — or one like 
 you — before. Ambrosia is merely paying old scores.' 
 Says I, ' Philip, my king, after this you keep strictly 
 away from that cow, arid remember this: In the 
 Drew barn a milking-stool is not a Zeppelin — a thing 
 to fly in the air and destroy. I prefer that you use it 
 for the purpose for which it was designed. Notice: 
 it has three legs and is well adapted for sitting upon, 
 but in the air it is uncouth and dangerous.' Oh, that 
 Philip makes me sick ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew spent her daylight hours in farm 
 work of the roughest and hardest kind, not the least 
 onerous that of prodding Philip Starr to a realization 
 that his wages were to be earned; her evenings she 
 passed at the living-room table scowling over long col- 
 umns of figures; adding, subtracting, erasing, scowl- 
 
226 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ing, and going all over again. Often the figures were 
 supplemented by sketches of a round, high building. 
 " Leaning Tower of Pisa," Wully McNab named it. 
 Merry Andrew referred to it respectfully as The Silo. 
 
 One Sunday morning the minister gave out his text 
 — St. Luke, Chapter XIV — 28th and 30th verses: 
 " For which of you intending to build a tower sitteth 
 not down first and counteth the cost, whether he have 
 sufficient to finish it? Lest haply after he hath laid 
 the foundation and is not able to finish it, all that be- 
 hold it begin to mock him, saying, this man began to 
 build, and was not able to finish." 
 
 Wully McNab, who had just distributed the anthem 
 books, smothered a sudden burst of mirth in a cough 
 and solemnly drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, 
 holding it behind the organ in plain view of the 
 choir. It was a sheet of silo elevations, surrounded 
 by scattered figures which flew and circled about its 
 towering top like homing birds. Whenever the min- 
 ister repeated any portion of his text Wully unfurled 
 Merry Andrew's drawing and Sylvia and Gene stuffed 
 their handkerchiefs into their mouths to restrain their 
 untimely emotions. 
 
 Merry Andrew succeeded at last in recovering her 
 property and crumpled it into her coat pocket while 
 Mr. Pudney looked on in uncomprehending scorn. 
 
 The wonder of the neighbors was Merry Andrew's 
 first-aid cabinet. It occupied one whole side of the 
 
MERRY ANDREW '227 
 
 tool-house and contained simple and effective remedies 
 to serve in case of illness or accident among the ani- 
 mals. 1 Even Charley Wohoskey, who had been sent by 
 his father with the reversed instructions, " to lend a 
 pitchfork from Drews' folks," was impressed by the 
 arrangement. On his way home, proudly bearing his 
 agricultural trophy to his father, he had met Wully 
 McNab. In the evening Wully told of the ensuing 
 conversation. 
 
 " ' Dat Merry Andy she is a funny feller. She got 
 a doctor-house for de cows, by gosh ! ' " 
 
 But even doctor-houses do not always avail. A 
 tragedy, sudden and mysterious, descended upon the 
 Drew barn. Lady Duroc Jersey, who had three days 
 before become the mother of ten promising little 
 Duroc- Jerseys, was found stiff and cold in death, her 
 ten little orphans squealing and nuzzling for their 
 breakfast. 
 
 Merry Andrew was in despair. It was not only the 
 monetary loss of Lady Duroc Jersey herself, nor even 
 the impending demise of ten little thoroughbred Duroc 
 Jerseys which shocked her; it was the unexplainable 
 mystery surrounding the taking off which baffled and 
 discouraged her. At dusk the night before, Merry 
 Andrew testified, the animal to all appearances had 
 been well and happy; yet at the autopsy held by Pud- 
 ney, Grandfather and Merry Andrew, the conclusion 
 was reached that, judging from the rigidity of the 
 
228 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 body and the starved state of the pigs, the death had 
 occurred at least twelve hours before it was discov- 
 ered. 
 
 " Must have been sunstruck," suggested Wully Mc- 
 Nab, who, as was his habit, had dropped in on his way 
 to Bendon. Merry Andrew had just arisen from a 
 minute examination of the defunct's head and neck. 
 
 " More likely Starr struck ! " she muttered, and 
 stalked away to the house. She was struggling with 
 a desperate sense of defeat. If those ten pigs were 
 lost it would make a difference of two hundred and 
 fifty dollars in the fall business statement. She had 
 figured that statement a hundred times. Those hogs, 
 each and every one, sold through newspaper adver- 
 tisements for breeding purposes, were to have brought 
 gilt-edged prices. 
 
 Merry Andrew's look of dazed discouragement cut 
 her grandfather to the heart. 
 
 " Farmer's luck! " he muttered. " Drew luck! " 
 
 Mother tried to find some bright side to the situa- 
 tion; some little glimpse of silver at the edge of the 
 cloud. 
 
 " Perhaps we may be able to save the pigs after all," 
 she chirruped. " We may be able to find a mother for 
 them." 
 
 " But that would take a week running around over 
 the country, and long before that time they will have 
 slept with their fathers ! " declared Merry Andrew bit- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 229 
 
 terly. "There aren't many little pigs at this early 
 date." 
 
 Wully, from his favorite perch on the corner of the 
 kitchen table, tried to extend some comfort. 
 
 " If you keep 'em alive until tomorrow night I'll take 
 the machine and cover every inch of Rosedale County," 
 he promised. 
 
 " You might not find what you were looking for in 
 three counties," declared Grandfather, " and after you 
 did, she might not be willing to mother these pigs. 
 Animals are queer that way, you know." 
 
 " Well," said Merry Andrew, " I'll warm some milk 
 and spoon it down them once around anyhow." 
 
 She set about her task and Wully wheeled away after 
 admonishing her to " buck up " and watch out for the 
 wet nurse. 
 
 Merry Andrew had promised to see a carpenter who 
 was building a silo over at Stone's. She hitched the 
 colts to the light wagon and drove away, her courage 
 at low ebb. In her ears were the squeals of ten starv- 
 ing Duroc Jerseys, and in her heart the unwelcome sus- 
 picion that Philip Starr, either purposely or in one of 
 his unreasonable tempers, had killed the pig. If her 
 suspicions were borne out Philip must go. Better do 
 two men's work herself than have the sneak about. 
 
 The interview with the carpenter on the subject of 
 silos was more bewildering than enlightening, and at 
 chore time Merry Andrew drove the colts into the 
 
230 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 farmyard and got out of the wagon feeling as Grand- 
 father sometimes looked upon his return from unsuc- 
 cessful missions. Out from the barn to meet her 
 stepped Wully McNab with the expression on his face 
 of one who had accomplished what he had set out to do. 
 
 "You didn't find one, did you, Wully?" Merry 
 Andrew was hoping in spite of herself. 
 
 " No." Merry Andrew's feeble hope expired. " It 
 seems that you were right about its being early for pig 
 families. I didn't find one, but I've built one. Come 
 on in. You will be astonished to see how they take to 
 their stepmother. She isn't pure-bred, you under- 
 stand ; she's pure board ; not Duroc Jersey, but Buroak 
 Mercy. Sylvia and your mother are out here laughing 
 themselves into spasms. But the scheme works all 
 right." 
 
 Merry Andrew hitched the colts and followed Wully 
 to where, under the admiring eyes of Mother and Syl- 
 via, ten little Duroc Jerseys standing on their hind 
 legs, wiggling ten appreciative tails, partook of warm 
 milk through the nipples of ten nursing-bottles held in 
 a wooden rack which Wully had made. 
 
 " This one is an awful goose," chuckled Sylvia, 
 swooping to lift and rearrange a contrary, grunting 
 infant. " He will not keep his place! " 
 
 " Now don't think to invite me over to a pork roast 
 next Thanksgiving and serve me with a slab off that ! " 
 
MERRY ANDREW '231 
 
 warned Wully. And then he dramatized : " ' Let me 
 help you to a little piece of the siding — just a shav- 
 ing.' ' Thanks, not any more, Miss Drew ; the last 
 time I dined on a flying buttress it made me feel quite 
 buildingous. So much sap and pine-pitch doesn't 
 agree with me.' " 
 
 " Oh, Wully! " breathed Merry Andrew ecstatically, 
 " did you think it up and make it ? " 
 
 " I made it," confessed Wully modestly, " but I did 
 not design it. I saw the plan of it — of her, if you 
 please — in one of father's farm papers. My passion- 
 ate love of music caused me to take up the paper for a 
 closer examination of the picture of a man behind 
 something which, at first glance, I took to be an accor- 
 dion. Ever since the dawnssants we used to have over 
 in Swanson's granary I. have loved an accordion, and 
 if ever I have a house of my own it's the only musical 
 instrument I shall allow in it. Yes, I took it for a pic- 
 ture of my favorite instrument, but instead, it was a 
 hickory piggie, or an emergency hawg, as you might 
 say. I threw the paper down in disgust, never dream- 
 ing of the hour when I should be chasing madly 
 through dad's files of literature hunting for it again. 
 When Wully Senior looks over his papers he'll think 
 the thing came to life and rooted its way out. But I 
 found it, and I made it, and if I do say it, the critter 
 is absolutely pitchfork proof." 
 
2 3 2 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Everybody in the barn, including Philip Starr, 
 looked sharply at Wully, whose face was simply a 
 placid mask of innocence. 
 
 " I think you are just as good as you can be, Wully," 
 murmured Merry Andrew. She was almost in tears. 
 All that dreary day she had imagined her little Duroc 
 Jerseys succumbing, one by one; but now, thanks to 
 Wully's powers of assimilating ideas, linked with 
 promptness and industry, they had, at least, a fighting 
 chance. " I do hope that I shall never be mean to you 
 again, Wully." She was giggling now, in a shame- 
 faced effort to keep from weeping. 
 
 " Oh, I do hope so ! " breathed Wully with exag- 
 gerated earnestness. "And meanwhile, my young 
 friend, would you mind leading me to your justly- 
 celebrated doctor-house for a drop of antiseptic for 
 this thumb? Take a slant at it, will you? Is it 
 broken, or just merely smashed ? I'm not a good shot 
 with a hammer." 
 
 Eventually Grandmother dressed the injured 
 thumb; everybody helped with the chores; Wully 
 stayed to supper, and through the evening, as was apt 
 to happen after a period of depression, Merry Andrew 
 experienced a relapse into reckless hilarity. Dorothy 
 Pudney and her mother came over, and while Mrs. 
 Pudney engaged Philip Starr in an innocuous, one- 
 sided flirtation, the remainder of the company (barring 
 Grandmother, who, because of the saving presence of 
 
MERRY ANDREW 233 
 
 a McNab, endured the hubbub) tried to see how witty 
 and silly and noisy they could be. Afterwards Wully 
 was in the habit of speaking of the occasion as " the 
 night of the pig party at your house when we had such 
 a good time." Wully taught the three girls to dance 
 the Highland Fling; Grandfather told some early ex- 
 periences of his own which were vaudevillian in their 
 funniness. At a late hour — late for farmer folk — 
 they went in a body to take a reassuring look at the 
 pigs before Wully started for home. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Grandfather, although much better and, despite 
 Mrs. Pudney's predictions, seemingly on the way to 
 health, was not able to walk as far as the church and 
 back; therefore, against the Drew practice, the old 
 grays were called into service to carry the family to 
 the Corners. Merry Andrew had remained behind to 
 help Philip with the chores. After his usual request 
 to be allowed to drive the colts, and Merry Andrew's 
 usual refusal to let the colts be driven, he had swung 
 off afoot towards Bendon, and Merry Andrew had 
 turned churchward. 
 
 She loitered along the west road. The way was 
 sweet and she had plenty of time ; it was April and the 
 sun was shining — she resolved to put Philip Starr 
 completely out of her mind; to forget the farm, the 
 stock, all her daily cares and responsibilities; to get 
 into a Sunday frame of mind and to remember only her 
 " marries," the blue sky, the smell of newly-turned fur- 
 rows, the robin chirruping on the fence. She envied 
 Sylvia her ability to drop quickly into a poetic mood. 
 It took time for Merry Andrew to climb from the mun- 
 dane into the fanciful, and it needed but a slight jar 
 
 234 
 
MERRY ANDREW 23S 
 
 of the thought-ladder by which she climbed to throw 
 her back to earth again. 
 
 Just as she determined stubbornly to think of the 
 sky, the robin, the perfume of the furrow, instead 
 of Philip Starr and his overpowering desire to drive 
 the Drew colts before the Pudney covered buggy, the 
 jar came in the guise of Wully McNab Senior at the 
 corner. Merry Andrew wondered if the sight of her 
 was as unwelcome to Mr. McNab as was his appear- 
 ance to her. He nodded bruskly. 
 
 " You're late," he remarked. " They'll be singin' 
 without yeh." 
 
 " I think I shall be in time." She accelerated her 
 step. So did McNab. 
 
 " Hoo's the f airm ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Coming along nicely so far as I can judge." 
 
 " Good help ? " Merry Andrew winced. 
 
 " Not as good as some I've read of." She smiled 
 up into the old man's face. 
 
 " Umph ! " he grunted. " There's the thruble now- 
 a-days; everybody — man an' maid — too lazy to 
 fairm it!" 
 
 " I could get along with plain laziness," admitted 
 Merry Andrew. " Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg used 
 to be lazy enough, but I wish I had him in place of 
 this Philip Starr. I prefer a little laziness to so much 
 smartness. Philip is quite a society man, according to 
 his own account. He has gone to Bendon this morn- 
 
236 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ing as mad as a March hare because I wouldn't let 
 him take the colts. Mr. Pudney has a buggy — I 
 wish he hadn't — but he has, a buggy. It is quite a 
 nice-looking buggy, but Pudney's old horses don't fit 
 it very well. Phil thinks that our colts hitched to the 
 Pudney buggy would make a ' swell turnout.' But he 
 sha'n't drive our colts, especially on Sunday. To my 
 thinking he isn't fit to pull a rein over a horse's back. 
 Do you let your hired men drive your teams on Sun- 
 day?" 
 
 " Not while I'm awake ! " replied McNab. " Not 
 while I'm in my recht mind ! The Sawbeth is for rest 
 for beast as well as man. I would na let my own son 
 dhr-r-ive my teams on the Sawbeth." 
 
 " Oh, well, it's different with your own son. Wully 
 would not drive a horse to death, nor slash at him, nor 
 jerk his mouth tender to make him * show life.' " 
 
 " Humph ! " returned McNab. " Wully likes to go 
 fast. He has everything his own way now with the 
 gas-wagon. I never-r-r drive it myself; I'm afeard 
 o't. But Wully dhr-r-ives it as if the very Auld Nick 
 was after him. Abominable, say I! Next he'll be 
 doin' hurt to somebody, an' his auld dad will have the 
 damage to pay ; for Wully has nathing, an' never wull 
 have ! Wully is a whufflin' failure ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew was distressed and looked it. She 
 could not altogether deny Mr. McNab's accusation, and 
 yet she felt tenderness and pity in her heart for young 
 
MERRY ANDREW S37 
 
 Wully. And so she walked on in silence, the old man 
 stubbing along by her side. 
 
 " He's altogether a good-for-naught," broke out 
 Mr. McNab again. 
 
 " No, no, Mr. McNab, you're wrong there ; Wully 
 just hasn't struck his gait yet — " 
 
 " Man o' mighty ! when is he goin' to str-r-rike his 
 gait, as yeh call it? He'll never str-r-rike his gait as 
 long as he has his mother and sister to r-r-un to ! Why 
 isn't he away lookin' for a gait to sthr-r-rike ? But no, 
 away he goes an' in two months or so he's back again. 
 An' now he's quit goin' altogether. An' after prom- 
 isin' this spring to get oot and be somethin' for 
 good, either doctorin' or lawyerin' or something ! He 
 promised faithfully — ' Faither,' he says, ' if you wull ' 
 — well — do somethin' he'd set his mind on my doin' 
 — ' if you will cough up for it ' — that's the way he put 
 it — ' if you will cough up, I'll get at the doctor busi- 
 ness or the law, or — anyhow, some old job.' And I 
 coughed up to please him, an' still he's just hangin' 
 aboot, jumpin' an' skedaddlin' oop the hills and down 
 the hills wuth that old steam kettel o' ours, an' never 
 airnin' a cent nor savin' a cent ! " 
 
 " He saved me a good many cents this spring." At 
 last Merry Andrew was awake to defend Wully the 
 best she might. McNab regarded her from the cor- 
 ners of his squinting eyes. 
 
 "Hoo'sthat?" 
 
238 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Didn't he tell you about the wooden mother he 
 made for my little Duroc Jerseys — ten of them, left 
 orphans, and would surely have died if Wully McNab 
 hadn't made a mother for them out of wood and nurs- 
 ing-bottles — didn't he tell you about it?" 
 
 " Never a wor-r-rd! " 
 
 " Well, there you have it. You see," went on Merry 
 Andrew eagerly, resolved to put forth whatever slender 
 testimony there was available in Wully Junior's behalf, 
 " Wully shows you all the bad there is in him and none 
 of the good." She went into details about the Duroc- 
 Jersey affair, and old McNab listened attentively, al- 
 most eagerly, Merry Andrew thought. Before she had 
 finished they reached the church steps, and she left Mr. 
 McNab there talking to a neighbor while she hurried 
 in to take her place in the choir, which she reached 
 barely in time. Sylvia was already at the organ. 
 
 All through the first hymn Merry Andrew was won- 
 dering what boon old McNab had granted in exchange 
 for Wully's promise to " be at the doctor business " 
 without further delay. 
 
 When the hymn was done Wully wrote something on 
 the margin of a Sunday-school paper and motioned 
 his sister to deliver it to Merry Andrew. Instead, 
 Gene read it herself, smiled broadly and rubbed it out 
 with the top of a little pencil which she took from her 
 bag. Wully pretended to be very angry. He tch- 
 tched softly with his tongue and wagged his head hope- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 239 
 
 lessly ; then after a thorough search through his pock- 
 ets, ostensibly for his handkerchief, in reality for an- 
 other piece of paper on which to write another note, he 
 snatched Gene's handkerchief, and in spite of her 
 futile efforts to regain it without the knowledge of the 
 minister or congregation, scrawled upon it in pencil, 
 " I'm hungry. May I go to your house to feed? " 
 
 Failing to reach Merry Andrew, he tendered his 
 message to Sylvia, who smiled and nodded an invita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Awfully good of you folks to awsk me to dinnah," 
 he gushed on the way home, as he and Merry Andrew 
 bumped along on an improvised seat at the rear of the 
 farm wagon. 
 
 " For once I'm glad to have you," Merry Andrew 
 assured him with uncomplimentary frankness. " I 
 want a chance to give you a good going-over! " 
 
 " Oh, dear! I'm scared almost to death! " declared 
 Wully in a quacking voice of simulated terror. "If 
 Mr. Drew would only stop those careening hosses I'd 
 climb out over the end-board of the wagon and get 
 away ! " He threw his feet over the board seat as if 
 to escape. Merry Andrew would not giggle at his 
 fooleries. 
 
 " Can't you — won't you, ever be serious, not for 
 one moment, Wully McNab? Isn't there anything — 
 why — solid about you — down somewhere under- 
 neath all your silliness ? " 
 
2 4 o MERRY ANDREW 
 
 "Oh, my! This is horrible!" quacked Wully. 
 " Oh, if your grandfather would only slow up a little 
 so that I could get out — Whoa ! Whoa ! " he 
 breathed. 
 
 "What's the matter, Wully?" demanded Sylvia, 
 turning an appreciative face over her shoulder. She, 
 at least, was in the mood for Wully's fun. 
 
 " I'm frightened at the speed we are making. Don't 
 you think, Sylvia, we ought to labor with your grand- 
 father for driving like this on Sunday? " 
 
 Grandfather, on the front seat, all unconscious of 
 being laughed at, gave the reins sundry little encourag- 
 ing jerks over the backs of the dreaming team while 
 the wheels of the wagon barely turned. The corner of 
 Grandmother's neck-shawl rose and fell gently in the 
 fresh April wind as she and Grandfather talked over 
 the sermon they had just heard. 
 
 " A ride like this — safe and slow — is good for 
 you," joked Mother. " You are in the habit of riding 
 too fast, Wully." 
 
 Arrived at the back door, Wully insisted on Merry 
 Andrew accompanying him to the barn to see the stock. 
 He declared his anxiety as to whether or no she was 
 taking proper care of the wooden pig, or if there was 
 need to communicate with the Bendon branch of the 
 S. P. C. A. Much to his surprise Merry Andrew ac- 
 ceded to his request at once. 
 
 The barn doors, back and front, stood open, and the 
 
MERRY ANDREW S41 
 
 breeze from the sweet south meadow sucked through, 
 catching an added bouquet from the haymows as it 
 passed. 
 
 " Your father says that you promised him to do 
 something in return for something you wanted him to 
 do, and then failed to keep your part of the bargain," 
 accused Merry Andrew abruptly. " What makes you 
 do that way, Wully? Your father thinks just oodles 
 of you — " 
 
 " Humph ! He must let concealment like a worm in 
 the bud feed on his damask ears, then," and Merry 
 Andrew, remembering the chewed appearance of Wully 
 Senior's auditory organs, was decoyed into unwilling 
 laughter which rather spoiled the effect of her ha- 
 rangue. 
 
 " When did you interview father on the subject ? " 
 
 " We walked to church together this morning. He 
 said you promised if he would let you have your way 
 about some certain matter that you would go at some 
 kind of work — " 
 
 " Did — he say what it was I made him promise to 
 do if I promised to get to work? " 
 
 " No, but he said you hadn't kept your agreement 
 and naturally he has lost faith in you." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " I ? Oh, I smoothed the matter over the best I 
 could. I couldn't say much in your defense because 
 what he said about you was more or less true. You 
 
242 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 do just flare around, and come, and go, and get sick of 
 things, and — " 
 
 " So you hadn't a word to say to dad in my defense." 
 
 " I told him about your making that." Merry An- 
 drew indicated the outgrown wooden arrangement 
 which had saved her cherished drove, where it stood 
 against the mow. 
 
 " She's about ready to kill, isn't she ? " he remarked. 
 " Tender and juicy old thing ! But don't invite me. 
 Saw her up and feed her to Philip. Or, I might touch 
 her up a little, add legs and a pedal attachment — harp, 
 you know — and music rack, and you could pass her 
 off on the Historical Society as a heirloom spinet 
 handed down from Colonial times — " 
 
 " No," broke in Merry Andrew, " your father is 
 right ; there is positively nothing to you, Wully, save a 
 pack of nonsense! And, as he says, whatever in the 
 world is to become of you ? You won't talk sense nor 
 do sensible things ! " 
 
 " Well, what in thunder do you and father want me 
 to do? Speak right up, little one; don't be afraid." 
 
 " We want you to go away somewhere — " Wully 
 started down the path so briskly that Merry Andrew 
 cast a fearful glance behind her, thinking that Ambro- 
 sia might be attacking in the rear. 
 
 " And what shall I do when I get ' somewhere ' ? " 
 Wully paused to inquire. 
 
 " Why, amount to something ! Be a doctor, a law- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 243 
 
 yer, architect, surveyor — anything useful! Your 
 father seems to favor the medical profession, but I 
 don't think he would mind, just so you begin to show 
 some signs of life! " 
 
 " Miss Drew, did you ever do preparatory work in 
 a medical laboratory? No? Well then, let me tell 
 you, I have! There is one old gray tomcat that will 
 stalk beside me to my dying day! And, thinks I, if 
 the ghosts of patients hover round doctors that way 
 how do they manage to keep their appetites ! Nix for 
 me on the doctor business! If half the population of 
 the U. S. should be stricken with the measles I could 
 not lay my healing hand upon 'em. I thought of 
 osteopathy, but that's too hard work for a delicate 
 thing like me ; a surveyor, I understand, carries a chain 
 for miles and miles ; architecture and civil engineering 
 I haven't investigated to any extent as yet. I may 
 give them a whirl later on — after the fall rains begin 
 and the car won't run, but now — why, in eight weeks 
 it will be vacation time anyway ; would you and the old 
 man be heartless enough to cut me out of my summer 
 vacation ? Everybody takes 'em ! " 
 
 " Oh, well," ended Merry Andrew impatiently, 
 " I've done my best. I've laid the case before you. 
 I felt I owed your father that much for all he has done 
 for me." 
 
 " My dear young friend, you have did noble ! " 
 soothed Wully, patting the top of Merry Andrew's 
 
244 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Sunday hat. "You have did noble! And, honest, 
 one of these days I'll take your advice and wing hence. 
 You'll see me shoot through the atmosphere like a 
 homing crane, and later, you and my folks will hear 
 almost unbelievable tales of my exploits out in the 
 great cold world." 
 
 "Oh, nothing will be too wild for us to believe 
 about you ! " sniffed Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Hark ! " cried Wully, striking an attitude and 
 grasping Merry Andrew's wrist. " Heardst thou not 
 the summons ? " Then he plunged forth, dragging 
 Merry Andrew squealing behind him to the back door, 
 where Sylvia stood calling them in to dinner. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Work on the Drew farm had now assumed a busi- 
 nesslike regularity and hopefulness unknown under 
 Grandfather's management. Under his rule there 
 had been a good deal of haphazard hard work — hope- 
 less hard work. There was still plenty of hard work, 
 but already returns were coming in. In place of turn- 
 ing over the young heifers to pay the interest money, 
 the new cream separator had been put in and the prod- 
 uct of it used to pay the interest. Promptly at the 
 end of the month Philip received the first installment 
 of his wages and hurried to Bendon to relieve himself 
 of it. 
 
 Sylvia bravely assumed her portion of the labor. 
 She taught twelve piano pupils and a singing class, and 
 whenever possible helped Merry Andrew with the 
 out-of-door work, and Mother within doors. Grand- 
 mother enlisted to look after the poultry ; the only part 
 of farming operations which she considered fit for fem- 
 inine hands. Always and ever, Merry Andrew con- 
 sulted her grandfather, and, so far as Sylvia or Mother 
 could see, never went contrary to his advice. If Mr. 
 McNab hung over the line fence and fired a warning 
 at her she heeded it, for she had come to understand 
 its value. 
 
 245 
 
246 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " The only dark spot in the spring's work is Philip 
 Starr," Merry Andrew complained. 
 
 " You'll have to stand that," her grandfather assured 
 her ; " that's always the weak spot in farming — hired 
 help. But poor help is better than none. He knows 
 enough to git the horses and cultivator around from 
 one row to another, to take the cream to the station 
 and to feed the pigs ; that's all you can expect of a hired 
 man." 
 
 " But ne can't get it through his skull that what I say 
 amounts to anything. He will walk a mile out of his 
 way to do what I have told him not to do," complained 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
 This state of affairs reached its climax one night 
 after choir practice. The Drew girls and Mr. Pudney 
 had parted with Gene and Wully McNab at the south 
 road corner, and were making their way leisurely to- 
 wards home. Choir practice had been shorter than 
 usual, it being one of the occasions when Mr. Pudney 
 was contrary and would not stay to give the anthem the 
 work it needed. Of late this constitutional contrari- 
 ness had grown on Pudney. 
 
 " And who can wonder? " declared Merry Andrew, 
 " knowing what the poor man is married to, and what 
 his children are." Mother had suggested that a kind 
 Providence blinded the eyes of parents to the defects 
 of their own children, and married folk to the short- 
 comings of their partners. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 247 
 
 " Doesn't work on Mrs. Pudney that way," retorted 
 Merry Andrew ; " she is always finding fault with Mr. 
 Pudney." 
 
 Whatever it was on Mr. Pudney's mind this particu- 
 lar Saturday night it did not incite to sociability, and 
 the Drews felt a certain relief when the McNabs left 
 them at the corner. Three several and distinct times 
 pleasant relations had been on the point of being broken 
 owing to Wully McNab's joyous hilarity and Pudney's 
 moroseness. The tact and soothing influence of the 
 girls alone avoided the trouble. Once Merry Andrew 
 had drawn Wully apart and warned him to curb his 
 spirits. 
 
 " You may be married yourself some day," she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " I expect to be," owned Wully ; " I have the lady 
 picked out already." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " sighed Merry Andrew, " does she 
 know it ? But I presume not. It doesn't matter how 
 she feels about it. Girls have to take what is thrown 
 to them nowadays or be old maids. But really, 
 Wully, I do wish you would be a little more discreet 
 where Mr. Pudney is concerned. Say your funny 
 things to me or to Sylvia, but let him alone. You can 
 see with half an eye that he is in no mood to-night to 
 be badgered." 
 
 " I haven't badgered him." 
 
 " Well, he thought you were badgering him when. 
 
S48 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 you suggested adding a rudder and a plane to his 
 buggy and bringing it up to date as a means of locomo- 
 tion." 
 
 " That was a joke," sighed Wully. 
 
 " But an awful poor one when cracked by a man who 
 owns an automobile at one who owns a poor old buggy 
 and no team fit to draw it." 
 
 " That did come into my mind the minute after I had 
 said it, and I changed the subject at once — " 
 
 " Yes, asked him how Earl was getting along ! " 
 
 " Well, what was the matter with that? " 
 
 " Why, Earl ran away from home last week ! " 
 
 " Good gracious ! I hadn't heard of it. But I can't 
 seem to please Pudney nor you either the best way I 
 can fix it." 
 
 " Why, Wully, you always please me. Ever since 
 you made that wooden pig I have just thought every- 
 thing of you — " 
 
 " Oh, darn ! Here we are at the corner," groaned 
 Wully, as Gene fell back and took her brother's arm 
 at the parting of the ways. " Have a heart, Gene ; 
 must we head for home? You have no idea what 
 corking things Andy was just getting round to say to 
 me ! " He bent and whispered in Merry Andrew's 
 ear. " Do you suppose it would be safe for me to say 
 'Good night, Mr. Pudney.' Eh? — just that way — 
 soft and repentant like ?•" 
 
 " Better cut it out," giggled Merry Andrew as Gene 
 
MERRY ANDREW 249 
 
 dragged her irrepressible brother off down the road to 
 the south. 
 
 Pudney and the two girls trudged on in silence for 
 awhile. The windows of the stone house, and far- 
 ther down the road still, those at Pudney's, blushed 
 faintly with the afterglow. A gentle peace brooded 
 over the fields, the long-stretched road, the widely scat- 
 tered homesteads. A far-off sound broke the stillness 
 — a terrible sound. First the staccato pounding of 
 horses' feet on the hard roadbed ; the clatter of flying 
 wheels accentuated and focused by a girl's high, pene- 
 trating shriek of fear. Something took shape in the 
 dusk ahead, something looming and swaying and fear- 
 some. 
 
 " It's our buggy, by snakes ! " yelled Pudney, at the 
 same time making a frantic and futile effort to get over 
 the fence to safety. 
 
 Merry Andrew's very soul crinkled with horror. 
 
 " Oh, Sylvia ! " she gasped, her tongue dry and cling- 
 ing to the roof of her mouth. " The colts ! " Sylvia 
 uttered a cry. 
 
 " Oh, get over the fence, Merry Andrew ! Get over 
 the fence ! " 
 
 " No, no ! The colts will try to turn in at our gate ! 
 They'll try — they'll try — Oh, my poor Nell ! Oh, 
 poor Charley ! " 
 
 Again the agonized squeal of despair from the girl 
 ing the swaying vehicle. Then the crash came. 
 
250 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 As Merry Andrew had predicted, the colts, blind 
 with terror, or liberty, or whatever it is which makes 
 horses fling themselves on to death, recognized the 
 home gate and attempted to make the turn a fence- 
 length too soon. Down they went in the cruel wire, 
 a crumpled, crippled, tumbling heap. The splintering 
 of spoke and tongue and buggy-body was like the dis- 
 charge of firearms; the terrified squeals of the lone pas- 
 senger like the cries of the wounded on the battle field. 
 But for these latter Merry Andrew had no care. They 
 roused in her only a fierce rage as she ran gasping to- 
 ward the wreck. She gathered strength and poise as 
 she flew. She set her teeth and prepared for the 
 worst ; prepared to see her darling colts — one or both 
 — tortured, torn, broken beyond all help save the mer- 
 ciful assistance of Grandfather's rifle — it was there, 
 in the " doctor-house," together with gauze bandages, 
 absorbent cotton, iron, laudanum, mustard, tar, tur- 
 pentine, trocar, and yarn. She had left Sylvia and 
 Pudney far in the rear, and without stopping to sur- 
 vey the disaster, she plunged straight for her first-aid 
 and home. 
 
 Before Sylvia reached the gate she heard Merry An- 
 drew's voice, high, clear, soothing her tortured ani- 
 mals, she heard the clip of wire cutters, and she saw the 
 dark head in fearful proximity to struggling hoofs. 
 
 " Get a rope ! " called Merry Andrew desperately, 
 " Two ropes — oh, hurry ! " Sylvia tottered to do her 
 
MERRY ANDREW 251 
 
 bidding. Her feet seemed to stick to the road. 
 Grandfather, Grandmother and Mother came running 
 from the house, Mother crying out that Merry Andrew 
 would be killed. 
 
 The colts were already somewhat quieted by the 
 sound of their mistress's voice, soothing, reassuring 
 them. The belated Pudney had ignored the Drew part 
 of the tragedy to ascertain the extent of his own. He 
 had raised his daughter from the ground and was 
 shaking her soundly, apparently under the delusion 
 that, if injured, she would drop apart. 
 
 With the ropes which Sylvia dragged to her, Merry 
 Andrew tied the beating hoofs of the colts as best she 
 could. By the light of the lantern which Mother had 
 brought, Merry Andrew ruthlessly slashed the new 
 harness wherever necessary to allow the colts to regain 
 their legs, if legs they still possessed intact. 
 
 " Go into the house, Grandfather ! " she called out 
 suddenly. " Take him and go in ! " this to Grand- 
 mother who was praying tremblingly. 
 
 Dorothy Pudney's wails still rent the air. Mrs. 
 Pudney and Evangeline were running from the Pud- 
 ney gate. Merry Andrew felt hot blood gushing over 
 her hands and dyeing her skirt. 
 
 " The — rifle ! Sylvia — Mother — bring the 
 rifle ! " she gasped. With a plunge Nelly gained her 
 feet, followed immediately by her mate. I 
 
 " Whoa, dears ! Whoa, Charley ! " soothed Merrjj 
 
252 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Andrew tremblingly. " Step out, old boy ; step out a 
 little—" 
 
 Charley " stepped out," shaking like the poor driven 
 leaf that he was. Merry Andrew gave a little crow of 
 ecstasy. 
 
 " He's hurt, Mother — lie's cut pretty badly — but 
 his bones are all right ! They're all right, aren't they, 
 old darling ! Old darling boy ! Whoa, boy ! Whoa, 
 Charley. Now — well — Grandfather, if you won't 
 mind me and go into the house as I told you to, take 
 Nell and lead her away. She seems to be all right; 
 it's Charley who is winged. Dare you hold him, 
 Mother ? Here, at this side. He won't run away any 
 more — poor trembling old goose! Now — that's 
 right ! I must run ! He is bleeding awfully ! " 
 
 She was back from her doctor-house in a moment 
 with a bottle of tincture of iron to stop the flow of 
 blood. Poor Charley shrank from the remedy and 
 snorted suspiciously, but Pudney, having by this time 
 ascertained that, beyond a badly cut face and a 
 wrenched elbow, Dorothy was unhurt, now came to as- 
 sist with the colt. Merry Andrew adjusted the ban- 
 "dages herself, Grandfather holding the lantern. The 
 dark had come in earnest now, and the lantern light 
 cast hobgoblin shadows of man and beast along the 
 road. 
 
 " Mr. Pudney, will you run to Brown's and tele- 
 phone for a veterinary to come right out? Right 
 
MERRY ANDREW 253 
 
 away, mind ! Tell him not to wait until morning ; it 
 is an urgent case — or — wait, here comes a team. 
 Perhaps I can send by them." 
 
 A buggy stopped and a welcome voice called out, 
 " Hello, folks; what's the matter? " Both Drew girls 
 cried out in thankfulness, " Oh, it's Bob Clyde! " 
 
 Bob had driven over to Cooperstown on banking 
 business, and had come home by way of the Rosedale 
 church thinking to " overtake some of the choir " on 
 his way. 
 
 He stopped only for a quickly-told story of the acci- 
 dent, then set out for Bendon and the veterinary sur- 
 geon. 
 
 " Ask Mr. Pudney if he would like to send for the 
 doctor for Dorothy," suggested Mother. 
 
 " I won't! " snapped Merry Andrew. " What's the 
 use of putting it into the poor man's head; then he'd 
 be obliged to do it just for the look of things. She 
 walked home, and she never could have screeched like 
 that if there had been anything very serious the mat- 
 ter with her. I never want to see her again ! I can't 
 bear the thought of her — " 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! My dear," whispered Mother, " it 
 is when the battle is on that a soldier must show his 
 mettle — not on dress parade ! " 
 
 " I'll be up tomorrow ! " Bob Clyde called back, as 
 he urged his horse into a lively gait and disappeared 
 in the gloom. 
 
554 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Grandmother, who had gone with the Pudneys to 
 help dress Dorothy's wounds, returned. Pudney, she 
 told them, had gone to look after that unfortunate 
 young man who had either jumped or been thrown 
 out somewhere between Bendon and the eastern edge 
 of Brown's marsh. 
 
 " Think of it ! " stormed Merry Andrew, " that poor 
 Pudney, so tired he could hardly drag home from 
 choir practice, to have to go traveling off three miles to 
 pick up that — that — " 
 
 "Look out — look out, dear; Charley is half in- 
 clined to think you are scolding at him— Whoa, 
 Charley, old fellow!" 
 
 They drove Grandfather and Grandmother off to 
 bed, and, later, Mother; but the girls waited with 
 Charley for the veterinary to come. 
 
 The surgeon was loud in praise of Merry Andrew's 
 prompt treatment. She had, he assured her, saved the 
 beast. Charley would not be fit for work for awhile, 
 but he would come out as right as a trivet. It had 
 been a close squeak, all right. No, he had seen noth- 
 ing of the missing Phil Starr on his way out ; and he 
 certainly would have seen him if he had been lying very 
 close to the road or on the car track. They need not 
 worry ; he had either been picked up, or had made his 
 way back to Bendon by himself. Young Clyde had 
 warned the surgeon to keep an eye out for Starr as he 
 himself had done while driving into town, 
 
MERRY ANDREW '255 
 
 " You'll never see the chap again," he added. 
 
 " We'll see him again," growled Merry Andrew. 
 " He has nearly another month's wages due." 
 
 An hour later, when the lantern had ceased to bob 
 about the Drew barn, and the others had gone to rest, 
 Merry Andrew and Sylvia stood awhile on the back 
 doorstep while Merry Andrew braided her damp hair. 
 Her battle-stained clothes were in the shed-room and 
 she was sweet once more in a worn but clean old dress- 
 ing jacket of Sylvia's. The jacket was blue, tangled 
 over with fady roses, and Sylvia laughingly presented 
 her palm to have her fortune told. 
 
 " With your hair down, and in that rig, you look like 
 the veriest, wildest, wickedest gipsy of the roads — " 
 she paused, startled at Merry Andrew's action, who 
 dropped her hair and clutched Sylvia's arm with a grip 
 that hurt, crushing her close against the clapboards of 
 the house. 
 
 " Listen ! " she whispered. Sylvia listened but 
 heard nothing. But she saw distinctly a dark figure 
 moving towards the barn. Merry Andrew saw it also, 
 and noiselessly opened the house door to disappear 
 within. 
 
 She returned with Grandfather's rifle. She was 
 worse than a wicked gipsy now; she was Medea, the 
 embodied spirit of vengeance. 
 
 " Stay here ! " she commanded, and ran lightly to- 
 ward the barn, her rifle at present, like an attacking 
 
256 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 soldier fresh from a trench. Sylvia trembled, but 
 followed. She was defenseless, and so frightened that 
 her feet would scarcely obey the mandates of her will ; 
 but not for a moment did her heart falter in its loy- 
 alty to that furious little sister running there so vin- 
 dictively with her death-dealing weapon. Of the two 
 she was the braver, for Merry Andrew, under the 
 impulse of anger, the primitive passion of battle, 
 bounded forward in a fierce sort of pleasure. Sylvia 
 alone knew the terror, the awful sinking of the spirit, 
 which might come upon Merry Andrew also after some 
 fearful and irrevocable event. Merry Andrew had 
 said rightly that her repentance came always after the 
 sin had been committed. 
 
 Merry Andrew moved swiftly, and before the fear- 
 weighted feet of Sylvia overtook her she had disap- 
 peared around the east end of the barn and reached 
 the south side. As Sylvia rounded the southeast cor- 
 ner she saw a picture which she will never forget. 
 
 A tongue of flame spiraled from a mound of straw 
 piled against the barn. Its light illumined the features 
 of Philip Starr who had turned at the instant to gaze 
 into the barrel of Grandfather's rifle, held in the hands 
 of a veritable young fury. 
 
 "Stamp it out, or I will kill you! Stamp — and 
 stamp fast ! " 
 
 Philip began to stamp. 
 
MERRY ANDREW '257 
 
 " More ! Scatter the straw ! " Philip dragged the 
 straw from the barn. 
 
 " Now put up your hands and march for the house ! " 
 Merry Andrew advanced upon him. He threw up his 
 hands and began to retreat, still facing her. She called 
 to Sylvia to run and open the back door and light a 
 lamp. 
 
 " Oh, Merry Andrew, and leave you alone with — 
 him? " remonstrated Sylvia. 
 
 " Don't you worry about him! If he gives me the 
 chance I'll be glad to shoot — to kill ! I'll be glad to ! 
 I'll be glad to!" 
 
 Starr was now thoroughly alive to his peril. 
 
 " You wouldn't shoot a man — to kill, would you ? " 
 he whimpered. 
 
 " I'd be glad to! I'd be glad to! " Merry Andrew 
 repeated, and Sylvia's horror mounted. Merry An- 
 drew was surely mad, or she could not say those words 
 over and over in that fiendish manner. Sylvia ran 
 past the two, captor and captive, in the direction of 
 the house. 
 
 " Step to the left ! " commanded Merry Andrew and 
 the hope of escape died in Starr's bosom. With Syl- 
 via straight behind him, Merry Andrew would not 
 have dared put her threat of shooting into execution. 
 But the girl behind the gun had recognized the thought 
 in its inception. 
 
258 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " I'd be glad to ! " she repeated with the same terri- 
 ble intonation, and Philip Starr realized that the words 
 were true. He wilted visibly. His really fine form 
 seemed to shrivel into weakness as he backed cautiously 
 before that steady muzzle. Lights flashed up over 
 both floors of the house. The back door flew open and 
 Grandfather, in his trousers and bare feet, came run- 
 ning out followed by the rest of the family. 
 
 " Don't get in range," called Merry Andrew, " be- 
 cause if he doesn't do as I tell him to I'm going to kill 
 him ! I'd be glad to ! Now turn around, march into 
 the kitchen and sit down ! " she commanded. Philip 
 obeyed. He marched hurriedly up the walk, through 
 the open door and dropped into the chair indicated. 
 " For once you are doing as I tell you, I notice. Now, 
 Grandfather, will you tie him — tie his hands? If 
 you don't, and he tries to break and run, I shall kill 
 him!" 
 
 " I ain't goin' to run," muttered Starr sullenly. 
 Now, in the lamplight, he was an object to excite pity 
 in any save a wholly ruthless mind. In his leap from 
 the Pudney buggy he had received a cut across the 
 temple from which the blood had run and dried upon 
 his cheek. There were smirches of smoke there, also, 
 acquired while stamping out the fire he had built ; and 
 in his eyes the cringing fear of the coward as he glared 
 at Merry Andrew with her rifle. But with all, his face 
 was pleasant to look upon compared with the face of 
 
MERRY ANDREW 259 
 
 his captor. Sylvia remembered that she had once 
 dreaded to see Merry Andrew look like Grandmother. 
 Now she saw in that savage, beautiful face an expres- 
 sion of which Grandmother's would have been incapa- 
 ble. Once Boy, in a puppyish and wholly innocent 
 curiosity, had faced a half-grown gray kitten. In 
 place of running for life, as Boy obviously believed it 
 her nature to do, the cat had crouched, her eyes yellow 
 with battle, her tail lashing in an inherited fury, then 
 sprang and fastened herself on Boy's shoulder in a 
 life and death grip. Whereupon Boy had done the 
 running act himself. 
 
 When Sylvia looked at Merry Andrew she thought 
 of Pierce's wicked little gray cat. 
 
 As Grandfather obeyed Merry Andrew's commands 
 to the letter Grandmother employed the time by de- 
 manding to know what everything was all about. 
 Mother merely shook with a veritable agony of fear; 
 not of the vindictive hired man, but of the demon of 
 hate looking out of the eyes of her girl. 
 
 At last, there sat Philip Starr with a trunk-strap 
 hugging his wrists until his hands were swollen and 
 purple ; and there stood Merry Andrew in her flowered 
 gown, her black hair in a cloud about her anger- 
 smitten face; a face unbearably, cruelly beautiful. 
 
 " Now ! " she said, and set her weapon carefully 
 against the wall behind her. " Now we will listen to 
 what you have to say for yourself ! " 
 
260 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 At once Starr went all of a mush of self-pity. He 
 began to make excuses for taking the colts against 
 " the boss's " orders. Merry Andrew cut him short. 
 
 " You can't excuse yourself there ! Go on — tell 
 about the runaway, and why you were going to burn 
 my — " She paused and pressed her two brown hands 
 against her throat as if to stifle that horrible spirit 
 which arose within her at the thought of what he had 
 really tried to bring about. He, however, did not see 
 her struggle. He was wallowing on, growing almost 
 tearfully sentimental at the state of his own feelings, 
 winding up at last with a slobbery prayer for mercy — 
 he dreaded state prison ! 
 
 "Are you quite through?" demanded his captor. 
 He nodded. 
 
 " I will tell you, then, what we will do : You have 
 confessed before witnesses that you intended to burn 
 our barn in order to be revenged on the poor colts for 
 running away with you and smashing you up. It is 
 in our power to send you to jail any time we see fit. 
 But if you will walk out of this house, and out of this 
 yard, and down the road to Bendon, take the first train 
 out and never show your face in this part of the coun- 
 try again, we will let you go. Is that all right, Grand- 
 father ? " Grandfather nodded. 
 
 " Ain't you goin' to give me what wages is comin' 
 to me ? " demanded the prisoner. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 261 
 
 " No. They will be needed in part payment of the 
 veterinary's bill." 
 
 " Then I can't take a train out of Bendon. I ain't 
 got the price of a ticket." 
 
 Merry Andrew went into the best bedroom and 
 brought out five dollars. 
 
 " That will take you to Chicago ; and you won't need 
 a return." 
 
 Grandfather untied the prisoner and he walked 
 forth, Merry Andrew, rifle in hand, keeping him in 
 view until he disappeared on the dusky road to Bendon. 
 
 Presently she came in again and set the rifle behind 
 the door. Her face was white and empty-looking, like 
 a lamp when the flame has been blown out. A silence 
 brooded over the family. Usually, after some hap- 
 pening, grave or gay, they talked it over, but tonight 
 there seemed nothing to do or to say. 
 
 " He may come back," whispered Sylvia at last. 
 
 " He will not come back," returned Merry Andrew, 
 " but I shall stay in the barn tonight, just the same. I 
 want to look Charley over again anyhow — " 
 
 " You shall do nothing of the sort — " began Grand- 
 father, but Mother interposed. 
 
 " Yes, let her go, Grandfather ; it will do her good." 
 
 " Then I shall stay with you," said Sylvia. 
 
 " No, I would rather stay alone. Leave your win- 
 dow open, and if I should need help I'll fire the rifle." 
 
26a MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Then she took her gun and the lantern and bade them 
 good night. 
 
 " Don't you see," sighed Mother, " she's just 
 driven! She must go somewhere alone to be rid of 
 that white heat of anger. I pray that out there among 
 the poor creatures she has saved from a fiery death she 
 may find herself again — her own good, sweet self." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 It was a week, however, before Merry Andrew 
 "found herself." For days she went about saggingly, 
 unhappily, with an age-old expression on her face 
 which had never been there before. She ate so little 
 that even Grandfather was alarmed. 
 
 " Just as I prophesied," breathed Grandmother, " a 
 child cannot do a man's work. A little girl cannot run 
 a business which would tax a man. She's breaking 
 under it ! And all this expense incurred — men com- 
 ing tomorrow to begin building the silo — and Grand- 
 father obliged to take the brunt of things again, as of 
 course I knew he would, and he not able, and never 
 will be able to run the place again — oh, when will 
 young folks learn to profit by the wisdom of age ! " 
 
 As usual, neither Mother nor Sylvia replied. 
 Grandmother knew they would not. But she recog- 
 nized the trouble iri her daughter-in-law's face. -She 
 threw out another feeler to touch, if possible, the sen- 
 sitive spot in the younger woman's heart : 
 
 " It's going to be a terrible day ! Bad enough for 
 men to have to work in the fields under such a sun ! " 
 
 " But she has worked many a. day like this before," 
 expostulated Mother. 
 
 263 
 
264 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " She used to be so hearty, though," said Sylvia, 
 " but now, for a week she has been a sick girl ; anyone 
 can see that." 
 
 " She hasn't been herself since the runaway," said 
 Grandmother. " The feminine frame is not fitted to 
 cope with the rough happenings of a farm." 
 
 " I don't think it was the runaway," ventured 
 Mother timidly ; " it was what happened afterward 
 which is troubling Merry Andrew." 
 
 " She was awfully stirred up," owned Sylvia. 
 
 "If the child had been controlled in her early years 
 she might have been able to control herself in later 
 days," said Grandmother. 
 
 " Perhaps that is true," agreed Mother sorrowfully. 
 
 " I don't see what else she could have done," ob- 
 jected Sylvia stoutly. " She saved our barn and our 
 stock." 
 
 " Like a Western outlaw ; by the quick handling of 
 a gun ! " groaned Grandmother. 
 
 " None of the rest of us could have done it," re- 
 torted Sylvia, " and although I was literally paralyzed 
 with horror at the time I realize now that nothing but 
 a gun would have answered the need. If you could 
 have seen the vindictiveness in that big brute's face — 
 it was horrible. He was absolutely reckless." 
 
 " He will burn the barn yet," said Grandmother 
 hollowly. 
 
 " I think it is that fear which is working on Merry 
 
MERRY ANDREW 265 
 
 Andrew," said Sylvia. " Instead of rolling into bed 
 and falling asleep at once and lying like a little stone 
 image until I pull her out in the morning, as she always 
 has, she rolls and groans, and creeps out of bed almost 
 every hour to stare out over the yard." 
 
 " You see — she is breaking ! " Grandmother ut- 
 tered the last word as if it had been " dying." 
 
 All three women went about their separate and in- 
 dividual tasks a little more worried than before they 
 had talked over their anxieties. Interviews with 
 Grandmother were apt to end this way. She was one 
 of those who exhale discouragement naturally. Per- 
 haps this was the reason of her being excluded from 
 so many family conferences. Perhaps this accounted 
 for Grandfather's habitual attitude of hopelessness 
 toward the battles of life. By nature he was of a 
 cheerful turn of mind — given to jokes and sly 
 chucklings. 
 
 There was extra work in the kitchen that day; 
 bread and pies and cake to be made for the silo build- 
 ers. Mother and Grandmother worked mostly in 
 silence, Mother wiping the perspiration from her pale 
 little face, Grandmother stepping every half hour to 
 the front of the house, where the thermometer hung on 
 the oak tree in the shade, and always returning more 
 hopeless than before her investigation. She would 
 announce the rising mercury and a sense of added heat 
 would roll over the other inmates of the kitchen with 
 
266 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 an almost unbearable pressure. Merry Andrew, driv- 
 ing the old team, was going through the corn for the 
 last time. Grandfather was weakly pottering about 
 the barn trying to round things up and lighten the 
 night chores as much as possible. It was " church 
 day " and Sylvia must clean the lamps, sweep, and dust 
 the pews. In the afternoon she had many music les- 
 sons to give. The dogs had started valiantly in the 
 morning to do their feckless duty — follow the team 
 up and down between the wilting corn rows, but their 
 mistress had ordered them home, and now they lay in 
 the shade of the barn, snapping flies, or taking lifeless 
 journeys to the horse-trough for water. 
 
 " Some of us ought to go over to Pudney's and in- 
 quire about Dorothy," said Mother. " We haven't 
 seen a sight of her, nor of any of the family since the 
 — accident." 
 
 Mother had spoken prematurely. At that moment 
 Evangeline drifted around the corner of the house and 
 came to anchor at the pump. 
 
 " Why, here is Evangeline now," said Mother. 
 " How do you do, Evangeline ? Come in." 
 
 " Um-umm ! " grunted Evangeline, and swung on 
 the pump-handle. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like a couple of cookies ? " Mother 
 extended them, warm and brown and luscious. Evan- 
 geline advanced coyly and possessed herself of the 
 
MERRY ANDREW 267 
 
 bait as a stray dog accepts a bone, expecting poison, 
 but too hungry to avoid the risk. 
 
 " You had better come in out of the sun," suggested 
 Mother. " Not in here ; it is very warm in this kitchen, 
 but it is nice and cool in the living-room. Go in there 
 and sit down and eat your cookies." 
 
 " Um-umm," repeated Evangeline, " I can't. Ma 
 don't want me to come to your house any more. We're 
 mad at your folks." 
 
 With great difficulty Mother kept a twinkling smile 
 from the corners of her mouth. Grandmother, on her 
 half-hourly trip to the thermometer, was lingering a 
 pleasant moment in the northerly shade. 
 
 "Why, is that so? I'm sorry," said Mother. 
 " Have another cookie." Evangeline accepted two 
 with reluctance. Her fingers were very dirty. 
 
 " What are your folks mad at us for? " Evangel- 
 ine wriggled and grinned and stuffed a cookie into her 
 mouth. 
 
 " Who is it that is mad ? " 
 
 " Ma 'n' Dorothy." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 " Merry Andrew is so mean ! " 
 
 " Is she ? Well, if Merry Andrew has been mean 
 her mother ought to be told ; don't you think so, Evan- 
 geline? She ought to be punished, and her mother is 
 the one to do it. Don't you remember that time you 
 
268 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 came over and broke all the eggs under the old turkey 
 hen who was almost ready to hatch them? I didn't 
 punish you, Merry Andrew didn't punish you, but we 
 told your mother what you had done, and that we 
 thought you ought to be punished, and I presume, as 
 she was the proper person to do it, I presume she did 
 punish you." 
 
 Evangeline grinned sheepishly and mined a caraway 
 seed from a cookie with a slate-colored finger. 
 
 " She didn't, though." 
 
 "Didn't? Well. Then, after all, you were never 
 punished." 
 
 " Yes I was, too." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 " Merry Andrew." 
 
 " Why, Evangeline, I never heard of that." 
 
 " She kitched me in the barn and — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " — made me eat one of them turkey aiggs — 
 Waugh! I can taste 'er yet!" Evangeline laid the 
 small remnant of a cookie on the top of the pump and 
 left it there. Mother was shocked and showed it. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me, Evangeline ? " 
 
 " I didn't dast. Merry Andrew said if I told any- 
 body she'd make me eat another. She saved one an' 
 laid it on the beam in the barn." 
 
 Grandmother came back from the oak to announce 
 thermometer returns. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 269 
 
 " There must certainly be a storm before night. It 
 can't go on this way! How do you do, Evangeline? 
 How is Dorothy? " 
 
 " She's got a cut in the face." 
 
 " I know — of course. How is her face getting 
 along?" 
 
 " I d'know. Pa says serves 'er right ; maw says she 
 won't hear such talk." 
 
 "But what are you folks mad at us for?" ques- 
 tioned Mother as Grandmother turned away to seek 
 cooler quarters. Evangeline fell into another twist- 
 ing, grinning silence of such provoking duration that 
 Mother was about to go back to her baking without 
 the explanation when it was vouchsafed : 
 
 " Merry Andrew wanted Dorothy's beau, and when 
 he wouldn't have Merry Andrew she wouldn't let him 
 work here no more." 
 
 Mother was taken so completely by surprise that she 
 said nothing, and Evangeline announced that she was 
 " awful hot " and must go home — and went. 
 
 When Sylvia came from her janitor work at the 
 church Mother told her of Evangeline's disclosure. 
 
 " Which goes to show," said Sylvia, " that Mr. 
 Philip Starr is still in the neighborhood, or how should 
 Dorothy know that Merry Andrew had discharged 
 him? None of them has been over, at least not near 
 enough to find out about Philip's leaving. I saw poor 
 
270 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 old Pudney gathering up the sad remains of the buggy 
 out of the road the day after the runaway." 
 
 They debated the advisability of telling or not tell- 
 ing Merry Andrew the new complication with the Pud- 
 neys, but decided at last to await developments. 
 
 At four o'clock thunder clouds began piling up in 
 the west, but the storm did not break until after the 
 Drews were all in bed. Then it swept in fury across 
 the land. The oak at the north side of the house hissed 
 and groaned in the blast. Mother, with her red head 
 completely enveloped in the bed coverings to shut out 
 the lightning and the sharp cracks of thunder and the 
 awe-inspiring assaults of the wind, thrilled with fear 
 at the realization of a presence in the room. She sat 
 up in bed and demanded sharply, " Sylvia, is that you? 
 Are you afraid, too ? " 
 
 " It isn't Sylvia, Mother." 
 
 " Why, Merry Andrew, dear ; come right here and 
 climb into bed with mother ! You never used to waken 
 in thunder storms." 
 
 But Merry Andrew threw herself on the floor be- 
 side her mother's bed, moaning and sobbing in utter 
 abandonment. Mother, stilled and steadied by this 
 greater storm in a human heart, was down beside her 
 in a moment, soothing, caressing, and begging her to 
 tell her own mother the trouble. 
 
 " You know, Mother ; you know very well ! I am a 
 terrible girl ! If you were not my mother you would 
 
MERRY ANDREW 271 
 
 hate me ! You know — and God knows, that at heart 
 I am — a murderess ! Think of it, Mother — a mur- 
 deress! I wanted a chance to kill him, I hated him 
 so ! When I thought of my poor patient cows, and the 
 old mares, and Nell and Charley — whom he had al- 
 ready nearly killed — writhing and burning — and me 
 all powerless, just standing to watch their agonies — 
 and he sneaking leering away, everything that is bad 
 in me leaped and stung and took possession of me — 
 I fairly ached with wickedness — " 
 
 " Merry Andrew," breathed Mother solemnly, " let 
 us pray ! " 
 
 Outside, the wind tore at the old stone house like 
 mad ; the lightning seemed fairly snapping through the 
 rooms searching for somebody — somebody who was 
 beyond pardon ; at every cracking thunderbolt the house 
 shivered. But through it all Mother's voice was audi- 
 ble praying for her little girl, thanking the good Lord 
 that the spirit of hatred which had for a time actuated 
 the child at her side had not, after all, brought about a 
 tragedy. Hate, at this present time, seemed to be per- 
 meating the world ; it was leaving great heaps of dead 
 upon the harvest fields of Europe ; it had crept into the 
 heart of a young girl out here among the quiet spaces 
 of Rosedale, and had led her toward the red road of 
 murder; it had put the desire to kill into her heart. 
 But only for a little hour. She had been saved. She 
 had been spared the doing of an awful deed, and now, 
 
2J2. MERRY ANDREW 
 
 realizing her peril, knelt humbly before her God pray- 
 ing to be forgiven and strengthened in the future 
 against recurring temptations. 
 
 Doors opened and shut in the stone house. Grand- 
 mother, carrying a lamp, came to Mother's room and 
 saw two white figures kneeling side by side. 
 
 " Amen ! " finished Mother, and, " Amen ! " echoed 
 Merry Andrew, and they rose together. 
 
 " It's a fearful storm! " quavered Grandmother. 
 
 " Yes," answered Mother, looking tenderly at Merry 
 Andrew, " it was a fearful storm, but — I'm think- 
 ing it is over, and I am hoping that we shall never have 
 another like it." 
 
 As long as she lives Merry Andrew will remember 
 that night as one of the sharp angles in her life; one 
 of the stations where she faced another direction. She 
 might in the future feel the same white heat of pas- 
 sion, but never again should it control her and drive her 
 to frenzy as it had in the past. For she would think 
 of Mother kneeling there amid the crashing storm, for- 
 getting her own fear in her appeal for help for her girl ; 
 that little white, night-gowned figure with its red hair 
 about its shoulders, would stand like an angel with a 
 flaming sword between Merry Andrew and her tempta- 
 tions; that prayer would come to her always — that 
 prayer ! Why, that was the first prayer she had ever 
 really heard ! When the ministers prayed her thoughts 
 were always straying to her work, her jokes, her every- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 273 
 
 day life; but that prayer of Mother's had been vital — 
 had been real. Mother was not praying "Lord, 
 Lord," in a perfunctory manner; Mother had prayed 
 for something she wanted more than anything else on 
 earth, and if Merry Andrew had any will-power, any 
 shadow of self-control left, that prayer should be an- 
 swered royally and perceptibly, please God, so that 
 Mother could know that it was answered. 
 
 The storm, as is the way with Mid-West storms, 
 disappeared entirely before the first robin piped in the 
 apple-trees. The morning came gloriously and shone 
 upon a world somewhat beaten, but refreshed, cooled 
 and made comfortable once more. And the wind in 
 the night seemed to have carried away the vapors from 
 the entire Drew family. Even the dogs felt the 
 change. They cavorted about, panting and grinning 
 and playing canine jokes on Grandfather and Merry 
 Andrew on the way to the morning milking. The 
 silo men were coming, and the call to work was insist- 
 ent on every hand. 
 
 Merry Andrew was glad. She felt like a life pris- 
 oner who had been given another chance. Work? 
 Who dreaded work ! It was great ; it was glorious — 
 when one had been reprieved. 
 
 There were the regular chores to be done, the feed- 
 ing, the milking, the putting to pasture and the shut- 
 ting up; the work in the cream room, the going to 
 market, the gentle exercising of Charley on his injured 
 
274 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 leg, the starting of the silo men, and, afterwards, the 
 long day afield. It was glorious — when one had 
 been reprieved; given another chance to be a human 
 being instead of — a killer ! 
 
 " I believe I'll stop at Pudney's when I get back from 
 taking the cream," said Merry Andrew, " and see if 
 I can't get him to help us for a day or so until I can 
 find a man — " 
 
 "Oh, no; I wouldn't!" expostulated Sylvia and 
 Mother in one breath. 
 
 " Why not ? " Merry Andrew's curiosity was 
 aroused by the earnestness of their objections. Then 
 Mother told the reason, and Merry Andrew laughed 
 until she wept. It was very funny. 
 
 " Here I've been hating him so that — that — and 
 here Dorothy thinks that — oh, me oh my, but this is 
 awful funny! I'm going over just the same. I'm 
 going to tell Dorothy and her father and her mother 
 the reason I fired that man. They ought to know the 
 truth. She might get mixed up with him in some 
 way." 
 
 " I'll go with you," offered Mother, and they went 
 across the road together. 
 
 Pudney was eating his breakfast alone. In answer 
 to the rap on the kitchen door he called out, " Come 
 in," and was so startled when he saw who his visitors 
 were that he jumped up, overturning the chair in which 
 he had been sitting. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 275 
 
 Merry Andrew waded into her errand at once. 
 
 " I came over to see if you could help us a few days, 
 Mr. Pudney." Pudney snarled like a dog : 
 
 " No, I can't ! I don't intend ever to set foot on 
 your place again, and I don't know as I care to have 
 you f oolin' round my place ! " 
 
 " What's the matter, Mr. Pudney?" 
 
 "You know well enough what's the matter! " 
 
 " No, I don't," declared Merry Andrew stoutly. 
 
 " Go an' look at my buggy and see if you can't re- 
 member ! " 
 
 " I don't see what your buggy has to do with the 
 matter. If it comes to that, what's the matter with 
 your coming and looking at our colts. They're pretty 
 badly banged up, and worse than that, they will never 
 get over the effects of this runaway to their dying day ; 
 you know that, Mr. Pudney, as well as I do. When a 
 colt once runs away there is an untrustworthy horse to 
 pay for it." 
 
 " And whose fault is it ? " yelled Mr. Pudney. " It's 
 your'n ! Your'n ! " he accused, wagging a rusty fore- 
 finger very close to Merry Andrew's shapely little nose. 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Pudney," interposed Mother, speaking 
 for the first time, " Merry Andrew had nothing to do 
 with the runaway." 
 
 " Didn't you tell Phil Starr to snuck over here, hitch 
 onto THE BUGGY " (Mr. Pudney alluded to the de- 
 parted vehicle in capital letters) " and wait around till 
 
•2J6 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 I'd git in from choir practice, and then pick you and 
 your sister up and go off fur a ride? " 
 
 " Mr. Pudney," — Merry Andrew was almost un- 
 naturally calm — " your good commonsense ought to 
 tell you that such a story — I don't care where you got 
 it — is altogether untrue. You know well enough that 
 I never allowed Philip Starr to draw a line over the 
 backs of our colts. There have been a good many 
 mornings when I should have been glad to have him 
 use the colts to take the cream to town, but I never let 
 him drive them." 
 
 There was the sound of feet — six of them — com- 
 ing down stairs. Pudney strode forward and threw 
 open the stair door and called : " Dorothy, you bring 
 that there letter of Starr's down with yeh." 
 
 "If it's fur any of them Drews, I won't do ut!" 
 returned his filial daughter, and presently appeared, 
 followed by her mother and Evangeline. Mrs. Pud- 
 ney did not spar for an opening, but began the fracas 
 at once. 
 
 " I should think you folks 'ud be ashamed of your- 
 selves ever to show up over here after what you've 
 handed us! An' after all our kind an' neighborly 
 feelin's towards you, too. An' lendin' an' borrowin' 
 an' all! An' Pudney gittin' you a man — it's fierce, 
 that's just all there is to ut ! " 
 
 " Fierce! " echoed Dorothy. 
 
 There had been times when Dorothy had appeared 
 
MERRY ANDREW ^n 
 
 to better advantage. Having one eye closed and swol- 
 len, one cheek crossed with a band of adhesive plaster 
 and an arm in a sling did not add to her attractiveness. 
 
 " Just look at that poor child ! " invited Mrs. Pud- 
 ney. Not so long ago Merry Andrew would have 
 looked, and laughed. Her own recent advance in the 
 humanities forbade that ; she looked, and was compas- 
 sionate. 
 
 " I am truly sorry," she said, and meant it. " But I 
 say again, I am not at all to blame, and Dorothy knows 
 it." 
 
 " You broke our buggy, an' you fired Dorothy's 
 beau — " began Evangeline, but stopped suddenly to 
 attend to a serious concussion of the ear. She had 
 miscalculated the distance between herself and her 
 mother and had suffered in consequence. Mrs. Pud- 
 ney returned to business : 
 
 " No neighborhood can git along with a person like 
 you in it, Merry Andrew! You jest want to run 
 everything; and when you can't, you kick over the 
 traces! Pudney's allers a jawin' about the McNabs 
 and the Pierces, but says I, ' You want to know where 
 all the trouble starts? It's with the Drews that you 
 think is so allfired nice ' Says I, ' You can run around 
 and wait on 'em — sing in their old choir after they've 
 just actually insulted your wife and daughter,' says I, 
 ' just because your daughter takes with the boys and 
 is prettier than they are ! ' " 
 
278 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Mother began to wither under these accusations. 
 She also began to fear for the strain of this interview 
 on Merry Andrew's new resolutions as that young per- 
 son interrupted Mrs. Pudney's resume of family argu- 
 ments. 
 
 "Of course she is prettier than we are — we know 
 that, Mrs. Pudney, and have always acknowledged it. 
 But now come to the point. About this runaway: 
 You think I was to blame, and I think Philip Starr 
 was to blame. He stole my colts, and your buggy and 
 your pretty daughter, and went off for a ride. He is 
 not a good hand with horses ; you know that, Dorothy, 
 and he let them get away. He nearly ruined the colts, 
 quite ruined your buggy, and got both himself and 
 Dorothy badly smashed up. After all, I have suffered 
 more than anyone else — " 
 
 " It was an underhanded, jealous trick to fire Phil, 
 though," blurted Dorothy, " just because he didn't 
 want to go with you, and did want to go with me." 
 
 It is almost impossible for one not subjected to the 
 temptation to know how hard it is to look squarely into 
 the face of an accuser who is all awry from a swollen 
 cheek and a closed eye, and not to smile. Merry An- 
 drew may have felt the inclination, but she did not 
 yield to it. Possibly the seriousness of the open con- 
 fession she was about to make had some restraining 
 influence. 
 
 " You are away ®ff, Dorethy," she asserted almost 
 
MERRY ANDREW '279 
 
 sadly. " I didn't like Philip Starr any better than he 
 liked me, which was not at all. I fired him, not be- 
 cause he disobeyed me and took my colts out of the 
 barn without my knowledge, which was bad enough 
 — and I think I should have fired him for that later — 
 but he didn't wait to be discharged, he quit. But be- 
 fore he left he sneaked back and to be revenged on 
 the poor dumb colts who had smashed him up, set fire 
 to our barn. Sylvia and I caught him in the act. No, 
 it isn't love for Phil Starr which has pretty nearly 
 killed me; it is hate for him! I had Grandfather's 
 rifle, and — well — Phil Starr pretty nearly made a 
 murderess out of me ! " 
 
 " By snakes ! " ejaculated Pudney, " is that straight, 
 Mis' Drew?" 
 
 Mother nodded gravely. 
 
 "Yes, it is so — pretty nearly made her kill him; 
 but, thank God, not quite." 
 
 " Set fire to your barn — you caught him — had 
 your grandfather's rifle and didn't let her go? I'd a 
 shot him at the drop of the hat ! I would, by snakes ! " 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it!" snapped Dorothy. 
 But her father's grimy forefinger was now pointed at 
 her long-suffering nose : 
 
 " Don't ever let me hear of that there feller hangin' 
 round, or by turnips, he'll find out there's more fire- 
 arms than what belongs to the Drews in this neighbor- 
 hood; you hear me? Nor you nuther, you old 
 
2 8o MERRY ANDREW 
 
 dummy ! " This term of endearment he bestowed 
 upon his wife. 
 
 " Isn't it queer," reflected Merry Andrew as she and 
 her mother were on their way home, " that a man can 
 court a person and tell 'em how he loves 'em, and still 
 sees the day when he can call that selfsame person a 
 ' dummy ' ! I'm glad I'm never going to marry." 
 
 A little sensitive flutter showed at the corners of 
 Mother's mouth ; a faraway look came into her eyes — 
 her ' over-the-river look,' Merry Andrew had once 
 called it. 
 
 " It is a pity," she owned. " Yet still, that man 
 loves that woman; I know he does. Poor old Pud- 
 ney!" 
 
 " Perhaps," admitted Merry Andrew, " but, do you 
 know, these domestic love-scenes where the husband 
 calls the wife ' a dummy,' and the wife fondly hits him 
 over the head with a skillet, don't seem, somehow, to 
 appeal to my sense of the romantic ! " They laughed 
 together, and Merry Andrew ran away to attend to her 
 silo-builders, while Mother went in to her kitchen work 
 well content that Merry Andrew had got back to jok- 
 ing in the old familiar way. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Merry Andrew was going through the silage corn in 
 the orchard. The weather, having behaved itself for 
 over a week, was once more working back to a state of 
 unbearable heat, to be followed, undoubtedly, by an- 
 other almost unbearable thunderstorm in the way of 
 midsummer weather. For the first time, Charley was 
 again taking his regular portion of toil. He favored 
 the injured leg a good deal and Merry Andrew allowed 
 him protracted rests at both ends of the rows. It had 
 been a queer week ; full of excitements and happenings 
 of all kinds. Gene McNab's fiance had come on from 
 New York very unexpectedly, and the McNab young 
 people had taken him up to one of the northern lakes 
 on a fishing trip, with Mrs. McNab as a most reluctant 
 chaperone. 
 
 Merry Andrew reflected, as she rode along to the 
 pleasant purr of loosening soil, that without either the 
 Pudneys or the McNabs, and with a crowd of strange 
 workmen in the living-room every evening, it had been, 
 to say the least, a strange week. In consequence of the 
 absence of the McNabs from the choir she considered 
 that the music had been almost a failure. She and 
 Sylvia had made a whispered arrangement for a duet 
 
 281 
 
282 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 when she had glimpsed Pudney's battered old felt hat 
 at the church door. They had welcomed him joy- 
 fully, having feared that the quarrel would keep him 
 from the choir. But he had allowed himself to be per- 
 suaded into rendering a bass solo, and the flattering 
 comments he received after service had sent him home 
 much puffed up and pleased with everybody, himself 
 included. Since Sunday Merry Andrew had not seen 
 him nor any member of his family. She wondered 
 what Wully would think of the silo. His father had 
 seen, and approved it ; had, in fact, been rather struck 
 with its complete up-to-dateness in comparison with its 
 cost. Merry Andrew congratulated herself that there 
 were other surprises awaiting Wully McNab after his 
 absence of nearly two weeks. 
 
 Boy and Twoboy paced solemnly behind the culti- 
 vator, or took short side excursions to investigate pos- 
 sible mole burrows. The air was heavy with the 
 breath of clover. It was like heaven there in the or- 
 chard; so still, so fragrant, so altogether soothing. 
 Over in the south lot the grays could be seen working 
 steadily and soberly. When Merry Andrew remem- 
 bered who was driving the grays — all steadily and so- 
 berly that way — she could hardly restrain her im- 
 patience to tell Wully McNab. Wully would be sur- 
 prised, sure enough, when he heard the news. Yes, 
 indeed, Wully and Gene would be somewhat surprised. 
 
 Now, when Merry Andrew thought of it, it had been 
 
MERRY ANDREW 283 
 
 lonesome without Wully. No quips and quirks and 
 fooleries ! She had tried to imagine at times that she 
 did not care for so much nonsense ; but after all, non- 
 sense — a certain amount on the side, so to speak — 
 lightened the tiresome everyday march of labor. 
 
 " ' As we journey through life, let us live by the 
 way/ " she quoted, and pulled Charley off the row of 
 young corn which, he had evidently determined, should 
 not have that advantage. Suddenly, actuated by a 
 common impulse, the dogs shot forward with a bound, 
 the colts pricked their ears, and there, in the edge of 
 the orchard under the Petofskey apple tree, stood 
 Wully McNab grinning at her. 
 
 He was all in white, and as he stood fanning him- 
 self with his hat, for the first time in his life he looked 
 very handsome to Merry Andrew, very chic and gen- 
 tlemanly and up-to-date. 
 
 With the usual inconsistency of feminine nature, 
 Merry Andrew resented his white suit, his coolness, 
 his air of the world. She had two minds to make him 
 tramp along the length of the row with the dogs to 
 the house end of the orchard before she stopped to 
 " visit." She might have done so if it had not been 
 for the budget of news — some good, some bad — 
 which she had to communicate. She was, also, grati- 
 fied by the fact that Boy and Twoboy, in their frantic 
 efforts to express their pleasure at his return and their 
 general approval of him, had somewhat modified Wul- 
 
284 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ly's immaculateness. Boy had left generous samples 
 of the orchard mold on the front of Wully's negligee 
 shirt, and Twoboy, heedless of his recent mole inves- 
 tigations, nuzzled inanely over Wully's hands, thereby 
 improving his own cleanliness at the expense of that 
 of his friend. Wully did not mind. 
 
 " You look as if you were honestly glad to get back," 
 said Merry Andrew, " geeing " the colts, and anchor- 
 ing them for their regular period of rest. She de- 
 scended from the cultivator and shook hands with 
 Wully, still somewhat resenting his lazy freshness in 
 such marked contrast with her own workaday unkempt 
 condition. " Geewhillikins, but you are dressed up ! " 
 
 "If you think I'm dressed up you ought to see 
 Gene's man," chuckled Wully. 
 
 " I don't care to see him. You are plenty dressed 
 up for me. Had a good time ? " 
 
 " Bully. Awful storm, though." 
 
 " Wasn't that an awful storm ! " Merry Andrew 
 fell silent for a moment, remembering all that hap- 
 pened on the night of that storm. 
 
 " It's over, though," she sighed, lifting her face and 
 drawing in a long breath of sunlight and perfume. 
 " It's over, and everything is serene." 
 
 " Come on, Andy, and loaf a minute or two under 
 the tree here." 
 
 " Mercy ! Are you going to sit right down on the 
 
MERRY ANDREW '285 
 
 grass in those clothes ? Anyhow, push those dogs off. 
 Come away from him, you pups! Can't you distin- 
 guish between a common laboring person and a dressed- 
 up one who has been cawmping with a pawty from 
 Ne'Yawk?" 
 
 " Quit fooling," demanded Wully, " and tell us the 
 news." 
 
 "Haven't you heard?" 
 
 " Cross my heart — not a word. What's up ? We 
 just came home along the pike. I saw your grays over 
 yonder in the south lot and I gave the wheel to Con- 
 way. I said ' I'm going over to see Andy.' Then I 
 caught sight of your floppy hat here in the orchard and 
 I jumped the fence and came here. Phil Starr all 
 right again after the runaway, eh ? Sobered down to 
 work, I see." 
 
 " Not ! No sir, not for our folks. But, as the 
 books say, more of that anon." 
 
 " Don't anon the most important item of all; tell me 
 about it. Did you ship Starr and get a new hand ? " 
 
 " Exactly what I did." 
 
 " You were lucky." 
 
 " Wasn't I ? The luckiest transaction that has come 
 my way since I began farming on my own hook." 
 
 " He must be a peach. Tell me about him." 
 
 " But I want to keep that till the last." 
 
 "My goodness! It must be the Prince of Wales 
 
286 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 you have working for you ! " Wully got up and 
 craned over at the figure driving the gray team in the 
 south lot. 
 
 " Better than that," laughed Merry Andrew. " But 
 never mind him now; I'm keeping him until the last. 
 I want to tell you the really startling news." 
 
 " He must be a whirlwind," mused Wully, his mind 
 still fastened on Merry Andrew's new hired man. 
 
 " You would have thought a whirlwind had been 
 cultivating corn if you had seen the field that first day." 
 
 "No good at all, eh?" concluded Wully brighten- 
 ing. 
 
 " Well, I should think, good — the poor dear. Look 
 at him over there. Plodding and skipping and jerk- 
 ing along with that old cultivator — it's horrid of me 
 to use the new one and let him struggle along with the 
 old. I understand how to handle it and could work 
 it so much better." Wully did not dissemble his dis- 
 dain. 
 
 " Yes, you are laying yourself open to censure from 
 the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Hired 
 Men. Who is he?" 
 
 Wully peered again. There was something familiar 
 about the gait, now that he could see clearly. 
 
 "It isn't— " 
 
 " Yes, it is — Bob Clyde." Merry Andrew laughed 
 happily. She looked at Wully, expecting to see her 
 own triumph and delight mirrored in his expression. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 287 
 
 She was disappointed. Wully slumped back upon the 
 grass rather heavily. 
 
 " Well," she demanded, " why don't you say you 
 are surprised? You act as if you had expected to 
 come home and find me with a live banker cultivating 
 corn in my south lot. Aren't you surprised ? " 
 
 " Not very much." 
 
 " ' Not very much ' ! " she mimicked. " My, but 
 you're provoking, Wully! I suppose since you have 
 been off with your high-toned company you have just 
 everlastingly forgotten everything in the Rosedale 
 neighborhood! I suppose that you think that I 
 couldn't tell you a single thing that would surprise you 
 or arouse your interest. And maybe I couldn't! 
 Anyhow, perhaps I'd better not try. Go on and tell 
 me what a good time you've had camping, and how 
 many fish you caught. I won't be mean ; I'll hold up 
 my hands and believe every whopper that you are a 
 mind to invent about size and number ! " Wully was 
 strangely silent. 
 
 " Well, I'm waiting." 
 
 " I didn't fish. Harold caught a minnow or two." 
 
 " Didn't fish ! What did you do ? " 
 
 " Carried water and dried the dishes — mother 
 washed 'em — cut wood and built fires while Gene and 
 Harold spooned." 
 
 " Oh. Well, they say all the world loves a lover." 
 
 " That's a mistake," said Wully. They fell silent 
 
288 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 again. The wind sighed softly in the branches over- 
 head. Twoboy snapped a predatory fly. Wully's 
 eyes, in spite of himself, wandered to the plodding 
 grays over in the south lot. An uncomfortable re- 
 straint settled upon the two under the apple boughs. 
 Merry Andrew came to the conclusion that it was ow- 
 ing to an all-encompassing ennui which Wully felt at 
 returning to her simple companionship. She was 
 longing to draw his attention to the silo, but she would 
 not. What were silos to a young man thinking of 
 New York ! She had intended to tell in detail of Dor- 
 othy Pudney's elopement and of Pudney's anger, and 
 of Mrs. Pudney's connivance and the consequent 
 breaking up of the Pudney family, leaving Pudney and 
 Evangeline floating like two disconsolate chips on the 
 scene of the wreck ; how Mother and Grandmother and 
 Sylvia were baking pies and bread and cookies to sup- 
 ply the Pudney larder in what Pudney insisted was 
 but a temporary absence of his wife. All this had 
 happened in the McNab neighborhood since Wully and 
 his sister had been away ; and Merry Andrew had gone 
 over in her mind the telling of it to Wully and wit- 
 nessing his surprise and hearing his funny or indignant 
 comments. What a difference two weeks in the com- 
 pany of a prospective brother-in-law from New York 
 could make in a body's interests ! Wully did not seem 
 to care what had happened since he left home. Well, 
 she would not force the little insignificant home gossip 
 
MERRY ANDREW '289 
 
 upon him ; let someone else tell him about the Pudneys ! 
 
 " What — excuse did he give ? " asked Wully sud- 
 denly, as if coming back from some far distant place 
 — New York, for instance. 
 
 "Excuse did he give?" repeated Merry Andrew, 
 " Why, it wasn't his fault at all ; it was altogether her 
 fault — " Then she remembered that although she had 
 been thinking of the Pudneys, they had not been speak- 
 ing of the Pudneys and that she must be on the wrong 
 track. 
 
 "Who are you talking about, Wully?" she asked 
 innocently enough. He smiled at her sarcastically. 
 
 " You try and think, Andy." 
 
 "Well, don't be so awfully smart, Wully McNab; 
 my mind at that moment was on Mr. Pudney, and I 
 thought — although of course — now I remember — • 
 But who were you really — oh, yes — it was Bob 
 Clyde, wasn't it?" 
 
 " It was." 
 
 " Oh. Bob, you know, has been promoted. He is 
 going to South America to take charge of a bank down 
 there all by himself. He hasn't been very well this 
 spring — sort of run down and overworked. The doc- 
 tor says he doesn't get enough exercise and out-of-door 
 air. He is studying Spanish, you see, so as to be 
 ready for this South American enterprise, and that 
 just tied him down day and night. The doctor said 
 he had better spend this summer in the open in order 
 
2^9 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 to get toned up for a tussle with a hot cli- 
 mate — " 
 
 " That's a pretty good one, Andy ; well thought out." 
 
 " What do you mean — well thought out ? " 
 
 " I guess I don't know what I do mean. I guess I 
 was thinking of something else." 
 
 " You must have been. You are just all off, the 
 hooks, aren't you, Wully? " 
 
 " I guess so." Looking at him squarely now, it al- 
 most seemed as if, in place of being tanned from long 
 hours in a boat, Wully was bleached out. Why, he 
 was almost pale as he stood up bareheaded, with the 
 shadows of the apple boughs flickering across his fea- 
 tures. 
 
 "Do you like Mr. Conway very much?" asked 
 Merry Andrew a little wistfully. She was trying not 
 to be jealous of this new and awesome influence which 
 had so enveloped the McNabs. 
 
 " Yes. I like him so much that — I'm going back 
 with him tomorrow — to stay." 
 
 Merry Andrew felt as if a large square of orchard 
 had given way and dropped Wully and herself into a 
 new world ; a world of formality, stiffness and strange- 
 ness. So that was the answer to the riddle. Wully, 
 himself, was to be a New Yorker. He was already 
 taking on the complacent attitude of one speaking to an 
 inhabitant of " the Provinces." 
 
 " He has some sort of pull with his house " (Wully 
 
MERRY ANDREW 291 
 
 was speaking of Conway) " and he is going to spring 
 me on 'em as a sort of a gladsome surprise." 
 
 Merry Andrew got up and brushed her dress. She 
 was trying to think of something to say. 
 
 " Isn't that nice ? " she managed to articulate at last. 
 After all, what did the going of Wully McNab sig- 
 nify ; wasn't he always going, and always coming back 
 again? She came very near saying something of the 
 sort aloud, but under this new restraint which had de- 
 veloped between them, thought better of it. Wully 
 seemed to recognize the impulse. 
 
 " I think I shall manage to make a stick of it this 
 time ; anyhow dad says I'll have to, for he won't wel- 
 come me home any more." 
 
 " Oh, Wully, he was joking." 
 
 " He was in dead earnest, and you can't blame him. 
 He says I ought to be ashamed of myself, when I see 
 what you are doing, Andy. I'm not kidding; I'm in 
 earnest. Dad hasn't any more use for a slacker in the 
 great army of labor than you have; and that isn't 
 much, is it ? " 
 
 " Why — I think everybody ought to be willing to 
 do his share — " 
 
 " That's it — his share. Oh, I'm a slacker, all right. 
 But I guess I shall make a stick of it this time." 
 
 " It's going to be awfully — sort of — slow without 
 you around, Wully." Wully gave a dry cackle. 
 
 " I'm such a little cutup, you mean to say ? " 
 
292 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Yes, and such a rattling good friend in time of 
 trouble." 
 
 " Oh — well, perhaps ; when you have condescended 
 to let me know what the trouble was." He held out 
 his hand and Merry Andrew put her own into it. 
 
 " On the strength of that, you wouldn't be willing 
 to — give me a good-bye kiss, would you? " 
 
 " Perfectly silly ! " she scolded and tried to with- 
 draw her hand, but he held it in spite of her. 
 
 " Just a minute, Andy. Remember, I'm going for 
 good this time. And I'm not fooling now ; I'm in dead 
 earnest. Tell me just this much : Has there ever been 
 a time — before — say — before you came to realize 
 what a no-good I am — well — say, before this sum- 
 mer — when I might have stood a chance with you? 
 When you might, as father says, have been willing to 
 try to make a man of me? " 
 
 "Why — why, Wully McNab," cried Merry An- 
 drew, now all in an unhappy tremble, " what are you 
 doing ? Not — not making love to me ? Not — why, 
 Wully McNab, you've just spoiled everything! All 
 our nice chumminess! All our lovely quarrelsome- 
 ness! Oh, dear, dear! why will a boy make such a 
 goose of himself ! " 
 
 "It is funny, isn't it? Well, forget it, Andy — 
 little Andy — and let us shuck back into the old rela- 
 tion again." 
 
 " Yes ! Yes, let's ! You didn't mean what you said 
 
MERRY ANDREW .'293 
 
 just now, and I didn't hear it, and everything is as it 
 was before! And besides, you are going away for 
 good this time. I do hope you mean it — I didn't 
 mean that ! I — " He was already going. 
 
 " Let it stand, Andy ; you can't better it. If you 
 got to tinkering with that good-bye, you might make it 
 even worse." 
 
 " But you are going to the house to say good-bye to 
 Mother and the rest, aren't you, Wully? They will 
 be awfully hurt if you don't." 
 
 " You will do that for me." 
 
 " But there's Bob; aren't you — " 
 
 " No, you will have to take my farewells to him, 
 too. Tell him that I wish him all the good luck he 
 deserves. He's a whale — is Bob! " 
 
 He waved his hand and took a cornrow path towards 
 the road. He had passed the snow apple and the 
 wealthy, 'and was nearing the Tallman sweets when 
 he turned to her, smiling. 
 
 " I took it back, Andy, but only to please you ; I 
 meant it just the same." Then he leaped the fence 
 into the road and the dogs stood peering after him in 
 a crestfallen sorrow. 
 
 Charley had eaten the tops off three hills of corn 
 before Merry Andrew found herself sufficiently to 
 reprimand him. Presently the muffled sound of 
 horses' feet and the soft rip of turning earth was 
 heard again in the orchard. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 After Wully McNab went away life at the Drew 
 farm fell into what might be designated as a splendid 
 monotony; that is, a monotony of hard work, high 
 thinking, and unexpected successes. 
 
 These same successes worked wonders in Grand- 
 father. He shook off invalidism like a cloak, taking 
 a new lease of life from the fact that he was able to 
 do " almost a man's work " once more. Theoreti- 
 cally he was, as of old, at the head of affairs on the 
 Drew place ; in reality he had entirely repudiated that 
 responsibility, and was merely a willing lieutenant 
 under his captain's orders. Grandmother disap- 
 proved of her husband's attitude in this respect. 
 Nothing irritated her more thoroughly than to hear 
 Grandfather inquire, " Well, Merry Andrew, where 
 you going to put me to work this morning? " 
 
 " Surely you ought to know better than Mary Ann 
 where your work is the most needed," she would 
 breathe forth as she handed around the coffee. If 
 Grandfather was foolish enough to abdicate his posi- 
 tion of authority in favor of younger leaders, not so 
 Grandmother. She sat as always, at the head of her 
 own table, dispensing its comforts in the "calm of 
 regnant autocracy." 
 
 294 
 
MERRY ANDREW 295 
 
 That table was quite crowded nowadays. Not to 
 count occasional extra help — silo-builders, ensilage- 
 cutters, thrashers — every day there sat down the five 
 Drews, Bob Clyde, Mr. Pudney and Evangeline, and, 
 later in the season, Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg, who 
 had appeared again from somewhere over the rim of 
 the world, sobered and disciplined by the cares and 
 expenses of a family and willing to work through the 
 fall for comparatively small wages. 
 
 Pudney, with his own farm in a worse state of chaos 
 than usual, paid for his and Evangeline's board by 
 working odd days for the Drews. He may have felt, 
 but never expressed, gratitude to Mother and Sylvia 
 for the mended stockings, patched aprons — even 
 whole new ones and dresses evolved from combina- 
 tions of outworn Drew clothing which protected the 
 graceless limbs of his youngest child. Perhaps he 
 imagined that Evangeline moulted and grew new cloth- 
 ing, as did the chickens. Evangeline's mother had 
 " gone to live permanently with her daughter, Mrs. 
 Starr," as she herself announced. " Earl was with 
 'em, and when Phil got settled in the business he had 
 bought out, she would send for Evangeline." She 
 and Dorothy had " got good and plenty through with 
 bein' hayseeds, and she didn't intend that Evangeline 
 should be one either." But for the time being, Evan- 
 geline continued to be a hayseed, wearing Merry An- 
 drew's old clothes, taking lessons in music of Sylvia, 
 
296 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 and in deportment and manners of Mother and Grand- 
 mother, growing fatter, more polite, and presentable 
 every day of her life. 
 
 On her birthday, which occurred in October, she was 
 allowed to give a party to which were invited Bengie, 
 Mary and Solomon Franklin, Victoria, Honora and 
 Lily Smith (the latter, the youngest of Sylvia's piano 
 pupils, executed a piano solo with fingers which looked 
 like little kitten's tails); Patrick and Mame Kelley; 
 Anna and Nettie and " Yennie " and " Sharley " 
 Wohoskey ; Ray Brown and his sister Aggie, who, be- 
 ing now one of the " big girls," only came to help wait 
 on the young ones. 
 
 At church on the Sunday following the party Mrs. 
 Wohoskey accounted for Charley's absence by : 
 
 " I yess Sharley he got some poison to your party. 
 He ban seek pooty bad since," at which Merry Andrew 
 whispered to Bob Clyde that she wondered " Sharley " 
 lived to reach home, considering the load he carried. 
 
 " I didn't begin to count biscuits on him until I 
 thought he must be near a finish," said Merry Andrew, 
 " then I tallied eight, and realized that he wasn't sav- 
 ing storage-space for dessert. His eyes fairly popped 
 when he saw the cake and floating island coming on. 
 But Sharley is brave if he is little." 
 
 During the summer the streetcar began to run. 
 
 " Right by our door ! Think of it," triumphed 
 Merry Andrew. "We are just the same as in the 
 
MERRY ANDREW E297 
 
 city now. What if we had let the farm go and were 
 working in the Bendon glove factory ; wouldn't we f e^l 
 cheap and beaten ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew made a number of visits to the city 
 by way of streetcar to Bendon and thence by train. 
 The result of these visits, and a hundred dollars of 
 judicious advertising in the city papers, was that in 
 place of selling cream to the local butter factory, she 
 shipped her product to city customers at fancy prices. 
 The Duroc Jerseys were disposed of to breeders of 
 thoroughbred stock. The bitter days were those when 
 the steers went to market, and the mild Holstein bull 
 calf looked his last upon his childhood's pasture. 
 
 " But these dark days must come on a farm," sighed 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
 If the Sunday was wet, the family went to church 
 on the streetcar; if pleasant, Bob Clyde drove the 
 sober old grays hitched to the farm wagon, he and 
 Grandfather and Pudney squeezed in on the front seat, 
 Grandmother, Mother and Evangeline in the middle 
 seat, the girls and Bartholomew on a board put across 
 the rear end of the wagon. 
 
 They had not missed Wully so much in the choir, for 
 Bob Clyde sang in his place. But Bob would be leav- 
 ing soon, and in the spring Gene McNab was to be 
 married and — " oh, dear ! " sighed Merry Andrew, 
 " there will be other changes, and what will become of 
 the poor little church ! " 
 
298 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 "Now don't worry," soothed Sylvia; "others will 
 bob up to fill vacant places. Every one of the Button 
 boys have good voices, William Anderson is a fine 
 musical bass, and Sanderson Anderson is developing a 
 tenor almost as pure as Wully McNab's. There is 
 Aggie Brown for soprano — why, this singing-class of 
 mine is bringing all kinds of talent to the surface." 
 
 " That's right," conceded Merry Andrew, " all 
 kinds; Sharley Wohoskey's kind, for instance. Why, 
 Sylvia, I don't see how your boys who sit next to that 
 steam calliope can hear themselves think, let alone 
 sing. How can he produce such an effect with so 
 little cause to start with ! " 
 
 " Charley is — is quite intense," giggled Sylvia, 
 "but a singing-school teacher doesn't have perfectly 
 plain sailing any more than a farmer does." 
 
 " But it is wonderful what you have done ! " ad- 
 mitted Merry Andrew. 
 
 "Isn't it?" beamed Sylvia. "Just think of devel- 
 oping time and tune in Pete and Hilda Swanson ! " 
 
 " I mean in earning the money for the family 
 clothes while Grandfather and I are paying off the 
 debts." 
 
 "Trade last! Trade last!" declared Sylvia. 
 " You have given me a compliment, I will return in 
 kind : I heard Mr. McNab tell Grandfather the other 
 day that ' I goom ! ' he used to feel sorry for him for 
 having nothing but females in his family, but, ' I 
 
MERRY ANDREW 299 
 
 goom ! ' he had come to realize that 'sons that were 
 no' pushed cud turn oot poor fashless bein's, while 
 grand-daughters which were hustled by caircumstances 
 cud be whupped into won'erf ul paces ! ' " 
 
 Sylvia paused for Merry Andrew's acceptance of 
 the good word, but Merry Andrew flushed angrily. 
 
 " He'd better shut up ! " she retorted. " I notice 
 that Wully usually gets around to make good at the 
 last." 
 
 " Why, Mary Ann Drew, what an unreasonable girl 
 you are — inconsistent, rather. You were always the 
 first to jump at Wully for his shortcomings ! " 
 
 "Was I, really?" 
 
 " Yes, you were, and you know it." 
 
 " Well, Wully is making good now in New York, 
 isn't he?" 
 
 " I believe not. His mother told me Sunday that 
 Wully was far from feeling at home in New 
 York. And his father blurted out that Wully would 
 never be contented in any place where there was 
 work." 
 
 " I don't blame him," said Merry Andrew. " I'm 
 sick of work myself." 
 
 " Merry Andrew," shuddered Sylvia in mock de- 
 spair, " if you are going back on work we surely are 
 headed for failure. This farm is too big for you to 
 manage. Can't you rent the east forty to Al Pierce 
 and concentrate on the rest?" 
 
300 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " The farm is too small instead of too big. I wish 
 I had three times as much land." 
 
 " Oh, Merry Andrew ! And work three times as 
 hard as you do now ? " 
 
 "'Deed, I wouldn't work at all then; I would do 
 the bossing and let others do the work." 
 
 Merry Andrew was not more than half in earnest, 
 but nevertheless the idea simmered in her brain, dur- 
 ing the hard cold days of fall and through the winter. 
 
 In November Bob Clyde bade the Drews good-bye 
 and reluctantly went away to his new duties and re- 
 sponsibilities in the South. His going was the begin- 
 ning of a period of unwonted dullness in the Drew 
 household. They missed his helpful ways, his voice 
 in the nightly readings, his intelligent discussions of 
 what had been read as he stood, lamp in hand, before 
 going to rest at night. Grandfather missed him more 
 than anyone else did — that is, if open acknowledg- 
 ment is anything to go by. Merry Andrew dutifully 
 tried to rise to Bob's height of interest in the Recon- 
 struction Period; she tried really to become excited 
 over Grant's victories in the West, and to enter with 
 Bob's old zest into the analysis of McClellan's tactics 
 — to. sift the testimony pro and con and to decide 
 whether that general was dilatory, or whether his fail- 
 ure was due to the unjust impatience of the people of 
 the North. 
 
 In reality she cared but little. McClellan was gone 
 
MERRY ANDREW '301 
 
 and the Civil War was of the past, while the battles 
 she was fighting were still in hot and seething prog- 
 ress. But she was winning — oh, she was surely win- 
 ning. Even through the winter months, thanks to the 
 silage and other items of management about the dairy 
 barn, and despite Bartholomew's wages and board, the 
 weekly deposits continued to go into the Bendon bank. 
 To the world at large it was a bitter and tragic win- 
 ter; to the Drews in the storm-beaten old stone house 
 it was a period of calm — of dull content. Every 
 Saturday night after Mr. Pudney had gone over to 
 the " other house," and Bartholomew had retired, the 
 Drews held a council of war around the kitchen table 
 to hear " what the cows were doing." Merry Andrew 
 would produce the figures and revel in the delighted 
 ejaculations of Mother and Sylvia. Grandmother 
 (whose turkeys had "died on her" shamefully, and 
 whose predictions of failure had all come to naught) 
 fell back on the argument that it could not have been 
 done without the European war and the consequent 
 high price of foodstuffs. Merry Andrew willingly 
 conceded that these conditions had assured the success 
 of her year and shortened the period of uncertainty. 
 " But," she would add, " I should have wOn out 
 just the same if Europe had never heard of war. The 
 secret is to make two blades of grain grow where one 
 grew before, not to be afraid to plunge, within reason, 
 and to keep figuring — always keep figuring! and 
 
302 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 hang on to every penny with a regular McNab pinch. 
 That's the way, and the only way, to get the better of 
 a farm mortgage." 
 
 In the early spring Pudney formally made over his 
 farm to McNab, auctioned off his household furniture, 
 and came to the Drews' for good. This event had 
 been hastened by the periodical arrival of letters from 
 the recalcitrant Mrs. Pudney hinting strongly of a re- 
 turn to Pudney and hayseedism. Phil had not been 
 altogether successful in his new business owing to a 
 sweeping temperance movement on the part of the 
 cranks of the country; Dorothy was ailing, and she, 
 herself, had been stricken with a belated but overpow- 
 ering longing to see her husband and " baby Evange- 
 line " once more. 
 
 " She's made her bed, now let her lie in it awhile 
 — in fact, she'll have to ! " stormed Pudney. " She 
 was so mighty quick on jumpin' out an' takin' up with 
 that blackleg of a Starr ! We might 'a' saved the farm 
 if she had done her part. But no, we'd got to buy a 
 buggy and a sewin'-machine, and she an' Dorothy had 
 to dress right up to the scratch. If the styles called 
 for furs that hung down long in front, she got a cold 
 on her chest and had to have a set. When they took 
 to wearin' them there boas, as you call 'em, the cold spot 
 shifted to the back of her neck and she 'a' died if she 
 hadn't got a boa. And whenever the style shifted her 
 cold spot shifted — her's an' Dorothy's. Last winter 
 
MERRY ANDREW 303 
 
 they went around, I snakes, lookin' like a couple o' 
 hunters just in from the chase ; each had a whole ani- 
 mile, ears, claws an' tails, strapped on to themselves. 
 Dorothy's looked like one o' them collie dogs of your'n 
 spread out to rest. I snakes, it must have drug her 
 all out to carry it around. You know yourself, Mary 
 Ann, she used to go saggin' round under it all last sum- 
 mer when the thermometer stood at ninety in the 
 shade. I says, ' Dorothy, I'm hanged if I wouldn't 
 be afeard of hydrophobia this hot weather ! ' Them 
 dogs ain't altogether paid for yet, and now that the 
 farm's gone I don't know as they ever will be ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, they will be," soothed Merry Andrew, 
 " now that the expense has stopped and you are earn- 
 ing right along. You can begin to pick up your debts 
 — the small ones, at least. And you are perfectly 
 right in letting Mrs. Pudney try the world on her own 
 hook for awhile yet. Styles in furs are likely to 
 change again in the fall; at least I should hope so; 
 they can't change for the worse. Let her buy her 
 own. It will help her to realize how much money can 
 be wasted in dead dogs." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Pudney, it will do her good," acquiesced 
 Mother, and Sylvia and Grandmother and Grandfather 
 all upheld Pudney in his determination to " let 'er go 
 it alone awhile, I snakes ! and see how she likes it ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 On the day that the Drew mortgage was due Merry 
 Andrew and her grandfather appeared at the McNab 
 front door. It was blustery March weather and as 
 they mounted the steps which led up from the road the 
 wind caught Merry Andrew's skirts and twisted them 
 about her slim ankles, took a savage whirl at Grand- 
 father's woolen neckscarf, and another at his faded 
 old cap. Gene had seen them coming and came run- 
 ning to open the door, dragging behind her a trail of 
 lacy wedding finery upon which she had been sewing. 
 Gene was happily busy these days. 
 
 She left them in the big warm room, which she had 
 rechristened " the library," and went away to hunt up 
 her father. It took her some time, and during the 
 wait Mrs. McNab came in to insist upon Merry An- 
 drew laying off her coat and hat because Gene kept 
 the place so warm that she would surely be uncomfort- 
 able in them. 
 
 Merry Andrew complied, and then sat in a sort of 
 shivery dread awaiting the arrival of Mr. McNab. It 
 was her hour of triumph, and yet, somehow, it lacked 
 the zest she had expected it to hold for her. 
 
 How could Mrs. McNab sit there chattering with 
 304 
 
MERRY ANDREW 305 
 
 Grandfather knowing there was no chance of being in- 
 terrupted by Wully's whistling or joking! Wully 
 was never to call this place home again; old McNab 
 had said it, and this time he meant it. And Gene was 
 going soon — why, how could Mrs. McNab stand it! 
 Oh, these changes! These ever-recurring changes! 
 If you were happy and prosperous, fortified by home, 
 surrounded by your own, the miners and sappers, the 
 irrepressible forces of change were ever at work at the 
 foundations of your fortress. With the knowledge 
 that Wully was already gone forever and that Gene 
 was going soon, the only way that Mrs. McNab could 
 appear so cheerful must be by " carefully not think- 
 ing." Merry Andrew had read that phrase in a war 
 correspondent's account of the attitude of the French 
 soldiers. Yes, one could manage to get along by care- 
 fully not thinking. 
 
 She suppressed a sigh, and fell to dreaming of the 
 coming loneliness of this big house, and of an even 
 more irrevocable loneliness which was bound to 
 shadow the dear old stone house over yonder. The 
 chill of the empty Pudney house swept over her even 
 here in the warm and flower-perfumed atmosphere of 
 the McNab library. Then her eyes, trailing listlessly 
 from the banks of blossoming plants in the conserva- 
 tory end of the room to the two elderly people talking 
 of the war, the price of sugar, the new church to be 
 built at the Corners, she realized that while her grand- 
 
3 o6 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 father had gained in poise and vitality, Mrs. McNab 
 had fallen off. Her hair was whiter, there were tired 
 wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. Merry Andrew 
 experienced a sudden thrust of pity for her; a sister 
 feeling of loss and loneliness. 
 
 Gene came towing in McNab, squint of eye and 
 storm-eaten of ear, and Merry Andrew came back 
 with a jerk from the melancholy realm of sentimental 
 regret, and got down to business. 
 
 She knew Mr. McNab was going to be surprised; 
 she had fed on the knowledge for months, but how 
 surprised, she had not dreamed. 
 
 " You don't mean — " he stammered, " that you 
 hev seventeen hundred and forty-six dollars to pay 
 on your debt ? " 
 
 " Yes, we do," Merry Andrew assured him, while 
 her grandfather sat back with a complacent and tri- 
 umphant grin widening his gentle old face. 
 
 " Wad yeh mind gevin' a brief account of how yeh 
 did ut? " murmured McNab respectfully. 
 
 In giving Mr. McNab the asked-for information 
 Merry Andrew never once said "I"; it was always 
 " we." She often turned to Grandfather for con- 
 firmation as to details, and twice she deliberately made 
 believe to have forgotten facts which were fairly 
 burnt into her mind in order to force Grandfather to 
 produce them. 
 
 They had sold no crops except the wheat, which 
 
MERRY ANDREW 307 
 
 had brought three hundred dollars ; the Holstein thor- 
 oughbred bull calf had brought fifty, the heifers they 
 had not sold; they were to increase the dairy income 
 of the future. The Duroc Jerseys had brought two 
 hundred and fifty dollars, one colt fifty dollars, poul- 
 try products one hundred dollars. The steers — sold 
 at a fancy price, of course, — eight hundred dollars. 
 But the great gain had come from the cream, the year's 
 output having brought two thousand and sixteen dol- 
 lars. Taken together this made three thousand five 
 hundred and sixty-six dollars. 
 
 "But your expenses, gairl, your expenses?" 
 
 Merry Andrew made a memorandum (she could 
 have given the figures without), Labor five hundred 
 and twenty-five dollars, interest on mortgage one hun- 
 dred and eighty, thoroughbred cattle, five hundred and 
 twenty-five; one brood sow fifteen, cultivator twenty- 
 five, harness for colts sixty, cream separator one hun- 
 dred and fifteen, silo two hundred and fifty, and one 
 hundred dollars for advertising the cream in the city 
 and the breeding stock in the country. There had 
 been sundry minor expenses, but there had also been 
 other little matters of profit, — beans, for instance, 
 which had brought unheard-of prices. 
 
 McNab gasped. Merry Andrew handed him the 
 check. 
 
 " Now, Mr. McNab, do you care to take our note 
 for the remaining one thousand two hundred and fifty- 
 
3 o8 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 four dollars, or shall we hire the money at the bank 
 and take up the entire mortgage? Of course we are 
 much better equipped to handle the remainder of the 
 debt next year than we have been this. That is, in 
 some ways we shall be ; in others — " She hesitated a 
 moment and then went on : " We won't have as much 
 interest to pay, nor a silo to build ; but neither shall we 
 have as many fat cattle to sell, and we shall have to 
 make over our barn and buy a silage-cutter — " 
 
 Old McNab suddenly reached across the shiny sur- 
 face of the library table and laid a chapped and with- 
 ered hand upon Merry Andrew's. 
 
 " See here ! " he murmured. " Yeh ain't a gettin' 
 mar-r-ried r-r-ight away, are yeh?" The blood 
 surged into Merry Andrew's cheeks in a torrent, but 
 she laughed and shook off the old man's grasp. 
 
 " I wouldn't marry the heir apparent to the English 
 throne until this mortgage is lifted from the Drew 
 farm ! " she assured him. 
 
 " 'Twull tak a year yet," he reckoned. 
 
 " That is what we are figuring on." 
 
 " Wheer's the minister's son whose be'n weith yeh 
 this summer? " 
 
 Again Merry Andrew's face was dyed an embar- 
 rassing crimson as she explained. 
 
 " Hum-m-m — ah-h-h ! " mused McNab. " Tull be 
 two years at the shortest before — " He seemed to 
 let his thoughts trail off to unknown fields for a time 
 
MERRY ANDREW 309 
 
 while he licked his dry old lips and studied the figures 
 in the very tasteful rug on his library floor. Then he 
 came back suddenly and once more reached across the 
 table to Merry Andrew's hand. 
 
 " See here," he murmured, ignoring Grandfather as' 
 he had through the entire interview. " How wad yeh 
 like to tak this place, and the Pudney place on shaires 
 to work with your own for two years, or until — yeh 
 get married to thet young benker o' yours ? " 
 
 Merry Andrew started. She bent towards him with 
 parted lips. 
 
 " Father ! " exclaimed Gene. " Oh, father, I'm 
 just as glad as I can be — " 
 
 " Hush up ! '' commanded the old man testily. 
 Grandfather gave vent to some sort of exclamation, 
 and Merry Andrew turned to Mrs. McNab, who, 
 though struggling with an overwhelming astonish- 
 ment, seemed not to be averse to her husband's propo- 
 sition. 
 
 " The work is getting too much for him — " she be- 
 gan, but closed her lips at a glance from her master. 
 
 " Yeh'd have all the f airm machinery yeh needed ; 
 there's a good breaking plow and a silage-cutter, a 
 corn harvester and slawps more; an' in the cawstle 
 doon theer — " he threw a hand in the direction of the 
 garage — " is a wagon yeh're welcome to run to your 
 heart's content. Yeh can get to places very fast in it, 
 as wutness Wully's performances." 
 
3io MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " But — what should we do? " interposed Mrs. Mc- 
 Nab. 
 
 " Go to New York wuth Gene an' luk the wor-r-rl 
 over a bit before we die." 
 
 " Oh, father! " Gene made as if to embrace him, 
 but he waved her away : 
 
 " Wait tull we hear what Mary Ann has to say be- 
 fore yeh throw ony fits ! " he warned. " Mind yeh, 
 Mary Ann, it's to you I make the pr-r-roposition — 
 not to Drew, here, nor to the minister's son, nor to 
 ony of 'em but you ! " 
 
 " I wonder how Wully will like such an arrange- 
 ment," murmured Mrs, McNab,and received a squelch- 
 ing glance from her lord. 
 
 " Since when has Wully been the master of the 
 place?" he snarled. Mrs. McNab's lips shut tightly, 
 making a sharp line across her face — a danger signal 
 with which old McNab was acquainted. 
 
 " Wully has always been fond of his home ! " she 
 returned stubbornly. 
 
 " Yeh ! Fond enough of ut to run for ut to get oot 
 of reesponsibilities elsewheer," sneered the old man, 
 " but never fond enough, I notice, to tak hold as other 
 young men do an' labor a bit to help muntain ut — as 
 Mary Ann, here, has been doing lak a heero for a 
 year back — yes, for all her years back ever since she 
 cam creepin' into the Drew family unwanted an' un- 
 welcome — " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 311 
 
 " No more than my sister," broke in Merry Andrew 
 stoutly. " Sylvia has worked harder than I have and 
 been more cheerful about it! I — storm! " 
 
 Old McNab glowered at her a moment, then threw 
 back his head and hee-hawed raucously. 
 
 " Yeh s-s-torm-m, do yeh ? Yeh s-s-torm-m-m ! 
 Ah-h-h, yeh minx, I believe ut ! I mind one mornin', a 
 year sin, yeh fairly blaw me auld cap off me lugs with 
 yehr s-s-torm-m-in' — eh-h-h, but thet was the high 
 wind that twusted me roond an' faced me your way, 
 else yeh'd not a blawed fifteen hundred dollars oot 
 mah pocket to add to the fifteen yeh had already! 
 Eh-h-h 'twas a big blaw, that ! Drew, yeh shud thank 
 yeh' re lucky stars that yeh had gairls to your family 
 in place o' boys ! I used to peety yeh, but I'm pawst 
 that now." 
 
 "What do you say, Grandfather?" asked Merry 
 Andrew, trembling a little in her excitement ; " shall we 
 accept Mr. McNab's proposition?" 
 
 " Not ' we,' Mary Ann; not ' we,' but ' I '! " broke 
 in McNab. "It's to you I mak the proposition ! " 
 
 Grandfather's face wrinkled in a slow whimsical 
 smile. 
 
 " You must remember that it will be a different mat- 
 ter — accounting to Mr. McNab than what it is check- 
 ing up with your old gran'pa." 
 
 " I know," nodded Merry Andrew with a sudden 
 scornful glance over her shoulder, " but all there will 
 
gia MERRY ANDREW 
 
 be to that is, that I shall do my best and Mr. McNab 
 will have to abide by the consequences. And we shall 
 have papers made out — castiron papers — so that 
 each will know what is his due at the end of the 
 deal." 
 
 " Castiron ! Castiron ! " conceded McNab. 
 
 " You and mother could take a little flat right in the 
 city and Wully could be at home with you," mur- 
 mured Gene, in fancy forging ahead to the settling of 
 her family in New York. Her mother shook her head 
 at her. The tense look on McNab's face warned his 
 wife that New York and Wully might better wait until 
 Mary Ann Drew and the farm bargain were settled. 
 Merry Andrew now studied the carpet. 
 
 " I wish you'd make it five years instead of two," 
 she said. 
 
 " No," returned the party of the first part with a 
 stubborn shake of the head, " I'm lettin' the fairm to 
 you; not to ony shilly-shallyin' scamp of a husband 
 yeh may pick up ! " Merry Andrew flashed a grin at 
 him. 
 
 " If you think I haven't any more horse sense than 
 to marry a shilly-shallyin' scawmp" (Merry Andrew 
 unconsciously parodied McNab's pronunciation), "I 
 shouldn't think you'd dare trust your property in my 
 hands." 
 
 " A lawsie is a lawsie when all's said an' done," re- 
 plied McNab sententiously, "an' it's been the won'er 
 
MERRY ANDREW 313 
 
 of my life what some smart women do in the way o' 
 marry in' ! " 
 
 " Make it three years and I'll close the bargain," 
 said Merry Andrew. " It would take anybody that 
 long to get things right on a big place. Rotation isn't 
 merely putting in different crops year after year; you 
 must take into account the needs of the soil and the 
 best methods of meeting their needs and keeping up 
 the yield." 
 
 This sentence was not original with Merry Andrew. 
 She had cribbed it bodily from either last winter's class 
 instruction, or from some farm paper, but it turned 
 the trick. Even Mrs. McNab gasped, Gene was com- 
 pletely overcome and McNab was shaken to his very 
 foundations. Grandfather sat blinking like a benevo- 
 lent Plymouth Rock hen that had inadvertently hatched 
 out a young owl. 
 
 " Mak ut five years," murmured McNab, and Merry 
 Andrew arose triumphant. " Provided," added Mc- 
 Nab hastily, " thet yeh remain unmarried." 
 
 " I agree to that," promised Merry Andrew. " And 
 now, Mr. McNab, when shall we make out the pa- 
 pers?" 
 
 The three Drews who had not accompanied the ex- 
 pedition were deeply affected by the news, each in her 
 own way. 
 
 " Why, Merry Andrew, dear, you can never do it," 
 said Mother. " You work too hard on this little 
 
314 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 farm ; how can you hope to carry on such a great big 
 one?" 
 
 " When you have forty acres, you garden ; with 
 eighty, you farm it ; with four hundred, you manage," 
 said Merry Andrew loftily, and went to put away her 
 Sunday hat which she had worn in deference to the 
 great occasion and in spite of the inclement weather. 
 
 " It is literally crowding the McNabs out of the 
 neighborhood," mourned Grandmother when Merry 
 Andrew returned. 
 
 " Yep," admitted Merry Andrew, " old Mrs. Simo- 
 nia Legree is at it again. But what's the difference? 
 The best ones, Gene and Wully, would be gone any- 
 how. Won't this be great news to write to Bob! 
 News to Bob from Nabob. I'm going to write it my- 
 self, Sylvia — you needn't." 
 
 " To think," triumphed Sylvia, " of the Drews tak- 
 ing over such a hunk of Rosedale Township!" 
 Merry Andrew stuck her thumbs in imaginary waist- 
 coat armholes and swelled out her chest. 
 
 " We have met the enemy and they are our'n ! " 
 
 "And he was just completely bowled over when 
 you handed out so much money, was he? And just 
 handed his holdings right into your keeping? " 
 
 "Yes, he was pretty considerably impressed. He 
 is going to let me have the farm to work until I get 
 married — ain't that a joke, Sylvia? A life lease, 
 you see." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 After the McNab business was settled satisfactorily 
 to all concerned, Merry Andrew made a contract with 
 Pudney for a year's work at surprisingly liberal wages. 
 Pudney was one of those who, under competent lead- 
 ership, can do wonders, but who, left to their own 
 devices, walk the straight road to failure. He was 
 conscientious, industrious, and although argumentative 
 and crabbed at times, much more agreeable as a hired 
 man than as a neighbor with domestic problems of his 
 own stinging him like gadflies. His fatherly pride in 
 Evangeline grew day by day until it approached some- 
 thing like awe as he sat evenings listening to his daugh- 
 ter torturing " The Little Flower Girl " to a slow 
 death on Sylvia's piano. His elder daughter had 
 spent many of his hard-earned dollars on piano les- 
 sons in the past, but had never advanced beyond the 
 C scale and a jerky rendition of " Redwing." His 
 wife at times made rash and awful combinations of 
 sound on the cabinet organ (gone now in the general 
 wreck), but as Pudney had a discriminating ear, the 
 barn had been his refuge on these occasions. Now 
 that Evangeline was really learning to play, his soul 
 glowed within him. 
 
 315 
 
316 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Evangeline herself was not altogether a party to the 
 scheme. It had been something of a jar in her life 
 when, from doing exactly as she pleased when she 
 ■pleased, she was, by her mother's desertion, hurled 
 into the Drew household where everybody worked on 
 schedule time; where, after breakfast, she wiped 
 dishes under the kindly but exacting direction of 
 Mother, pieced quilt-blocks and mended her own 
 stockings and calico dresses according to Grand- 
 mother's wholesome though old-fashioned ideas of 
 stitchery, practiced her music lesson one hour, no 
 matter who came or what the excitement was, and got 
 off to school well washed, dressed, combed, and 
 strictly on time. Over all her hours of work or play 
 the stormy eyes of Merry Andrew were ever on watch. 
 
 Merry Andrew drew her authority straight from 
 paternal source. Pudney had come to believe that a 
 girl who could run a farm, sing alto, crack a joke or a 
 whip with equal felicity, and, more wonderful than all, 
 borrow money from old McNab with which to circum- 
 vent his own deep-laid schemes, was one to be emu- 
 lated by Evangeline or any other person. With all 
 these accomplishments she was an agreeable task-mis- 
 tress. Pudney had slaved all his days without ever 
 having received a word of praise from those whose 
 praise was due. He had grown bent and crabbed and 
 old before his time. Now he found his industry ap- 
 preciated, his musical performances applauded, and 
 
MERRY ANDREW 317 
 
 after staring financial ruin in the face until he had been 
 outstared, overcome — obliterated, so to speak — he 
 was once more to know what it meant to put money of 
 his own into the bank as a sinking-fund for old age. 
 Under such conditions, in spite of the hard work on 
 the big farm, his back straightened, his temper sweet- 
 ened, and life held something of sunshine for him yet. 
 He looked forward all through the day's work to the 
 after-supper hour when Merry Andrew or her mother 
 would wade through the Battle of Murfreesboro, 
 stopping to hear his contention that victory belonged 
 to the rebels, or Grandfather's that it belonged to the 
 Yankees. Or there would be an anthem-practice in 
 the parlor, and the fatigues of the day would roll away 
 in surges of rumbling bass; or Sylvia or her mother 
 would play wonderful, intricate music, and he would 
 sit by and watch their slim fingers weave the airy melo- 
 dies until his jaw dropped forgotten in his astonish- 
 ment that human fingers could accomplish such 
 miracles. 
 
 " I wonder," he muttered one night, " if Evangeline 
 can ever git to do it ! " 
 
 " Of course she can," promised Merry Andrew 
 largely. " It's all in sticking to practice ; and I'm go- 
 ing to see to it that Evangeline practices." 
 
 " You bet ! " responded Pudney fervently. " You 
 put 'er through, an' if she kicks, let me know an' I'll 
 break her neck ! " 
 
318 MERRY' ANDREW 
 
 Evangeline, overhearing, quailed, and realized that 
 she was in for the strenuous life. 
 
 Sometimes Pudney was allowed to put in an entire 
 evening setting forth the " rotten meanness " of the 
 Pierce family to a group of quiescent, unresponsive 
 listeners ; Grandmother with her knitting, Mother and 
 Sylvia with the mending basket, Merry Andrew, 
 Evangeline and the dogs fussing and scuffling in the 
 lounge corner over behind the stove, and Grandfather 
 nodding in sleepy silence to the unimpeachable argu- 
 ments of the long-time offended one. These occasions 
 reminded Pudney of home. Their mutual estimation 
 of the Pierces had been the one point of agreement be- 
 tween himself and his wife. 
 
 Without his being aware of it, however, the Drew 
 household connived to jockey him out of this pleasure 
 by substituting some other form of amusement, until 
 there came a time when he could hear the name of 
 Pierce mentioned — even the name of Al Pierce — 
 without frothing at the mouth. Undoubtedly the 
 Drew influence had been good for those members of 
 the Pudney family who had not absconded, no matter 
 what it had been to those who had. 
 
 Merry Andrew informed him one day that he was 
 to be delegated as sort of overseer of the McNab place 
 — home, stables, dairy — until she could get a suitable 
 family to move into the house. 
 
 " Mr. McNab wanted us to mpve jnto his house and 
 
MERRY ANDREW 319 
 
 leave our own empty, but none of us was willing to do 
 that," Merry Andrew told him. " But I am bound 
 that they shall find their place in as good order when 
 they come back as when they went way. You know, 
 Mr. Pudney, what boys do to the windows of a vacant 
 house; nothing of that kind must happen to the Mc- 
 Nab place." 
 
 As soon as Pudney had sufficiently recovered from 
 his surprise at the arrangement he promised that if a 
 single McNab pane were shattered it would be over his 
 prostrate body, or words to that effect. 
 
 There followed a period of bustle, excitement and 
 hard work in the McNab neighborhood. Grand- 
 mother volunteered to help Mrs. McNab store her best 
 bedding where moth and rust could not corrupt, espe- 
 cially the former. Mrs. McNab had pleaded with her 
 husband to be allowed to take them with her to the 
 city, but McNab, aided and abetted by Gene, refused 
 his consent. 
 
 " Yeh'd be wantin' to hang 'em to air across Broad- 
 way, I suppose," he suggested. " We'll do naught of 
 the sort ! I want to see hoo ut feels not to hev a hoose 
 an' barns an' cattle tuggin' at us from morn to night; 
 the milkin' at six, the feedin' at five, an' the moilin' 
 in betune ! " 
 
 " He'll get enough of it very soon ! " whispered Mrs. 
 McNab with a wink and a nudge in Grandmother's 
 side. " I'll gev him two months to be whimperin' for 
 
320 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 home; wonderin' how the crops look; how the heifers 
 are comin' in — I gev him just two months!" with 
 another secret nudge. " He's breakin' his heart this 
 minute for goin', mark my words. He sets great 
 store to his fields and his cows and his mares. The 
 south sheep pasture is the very breath of his body." 
 
 "What made him give them up, then?" whispered 
 Grandmother in sympathy. She could not under- 
 stand'Jthis attitude herself. To live in town had long 
 beer?Wrandmother's ambition. 
 
 " It's Wully ! 'J hissed Mrs. McNab, her little faded 
 blue eyes snapping among their wrinkles. " Wully 
 wrote his father that he was coming home to Gene's 
 wedding, and coming home to stay. He doesn't like 
 New York." Grandmother made a little moan of 
 commiseration. " His father says the only way to 
 make a man o' Wully is to push him so far out of the 
 nest that he can't flop back again. Poor boy, poor 
 boy! Perhaps his father knows best. The man crea- 
 ture is a strange creature, you will admit, Mrs. Drew." 
 
 In obedience to her mentor's suggestion Grand- 
 mother gave another noncommittal moan embracing 
 everything masculine. 
 
 " Mister McNab says that when young Wully finds 
 no home nest to flop into he will go back to his work 
 in the city and be contented. Lord only knows! 
 Wully's always been full of tricks, but a good dear 
 boy," witnessed his mother. " If we'd had the letter 
 
MERRY ANDREW 321 
 
 — I mean — if I had known of the letter before the 
 contract was signed I'd have refused to go a step. 
 If Wully wanted to come home to his ma, he should 
 have come — as he always has ! " 
 
 Grandmother not thinking of anything better to say 
 fell back on the always appropriate, " We all have 
 our trials, Mrs. McNab." 
 
 " You? " scoffed Mrs. McNab. " You don't know 
 the meaning of the word, ' trial ' ! If you had been 
 married to a contrary Scotchman as many years as I 
 have, and borne children who, in a measure, take after 
 him in wilfulness — " 
 
 " Wilfulness ! " breathed Grandmother with palms 
 uplifted. And then and there Merry Andrew might 
 have been set forth in all her horridness of disposition, 
 had it not happened that Mr. McNab, who had mislaid 
 his rusty trusty old ear-lapped cap, came storming to 
 look for it into the bedroom where the two women sat. 
 
 It was located at last on the floor behind the kitchen 
 stove, but by that time the current of conversation hav- 
 ing swirled for ten minutes about the lost cap was 
 directed into an altogether different channel and Merry 
 Andrew did not get her " needings." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Gene McNab had deliberately plotted to make her 
 wedding the most talked-of event, not only of the 
 McNab district, but of the entire township of Rose- 
 dale, including Bendon; and, like her father, Gene 
 did not set her hand to the plough to turn back. 
 
 Although an eye familiar with the McNab home 
 might have missed certain embellishments — things 
 belonging to Gene personally, which were packed ready 
 to be taken to her new home, or those which her 
 mother might need in city apartments — the house 
 showed no real signs of having been dismantled. The 
 necessary articles of furniture were still in their accus- 
 tomed places and the establishment spoke of hospitality 
 from cellar to garret. Odors of caramel frosting and 
 lilacs (it was late May) met and bespoke each other in 
 passing through open windows; the delicious aromas 
 of roasting fowl and of new clover fields mingled in 
 the hall, the one coming in, the other going out. 
 
 Gene, who was superstitious, or liked to make be- 
 lieve that she was, felt glad that the day was fair 
 with not even a cloud of the proverbial man's-hand 
 size appearing anywhere in the blue, blue sky. The 
 ceremony was to take place at the church down at the 
 
 322 
 
MERRY ANDREW 323 
 
 Corners, but the feasting would be at the house. It 
 was to be the last of the biting extravagances suffered 
 by Wully McNab Senior at the hands of his only 
 daughter, aided and abetted by her mother. All of 
 the McNab district, many of Rosedale, and a small 
 portion of Bendon had been invited. 
 
 When Bendon arrived at the church the " district " 
 and Rosedale were already there and the seats filled to 
 the door, so that Bendon was obliged to stand, either 
 just inside, or just outside, the church. Gene's orders 
 had been obeyed to the letter : No ribboned-off seats. 
 If Charley Wohoskey got to the church ahead of 
 Banker Milford and his wife, why, Charley was in 
 better luck than the banker's family, that was all. 
 
 And Charley was wary. Banker and Mrs. Milford 
 would, undoubtedly, have other chances to attend 
 splendid weddings; this was like to be Charley's only 
 opportunity and he made the most of it. He wore a 
 red tie and a solemn expression. He had never wit- 
 nessed a wedding ceremony. He did not know how 
 bad it might be, but by the fuss made over it he imag- 
 ined something very far from the truth — something 
 more nearly approaching a hanging. 
 
 Merry Andrew, hovering in the shadow behind the 
 organ, peered around its corner, caught sight of 
 " Sharley " and tittered nervously. She did not feel 
 like tittering; she felt more like crying out that she 
 was afraid to sing before that little blonde Miss Jenet 
 
324 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 Somebody who was to be Gene's bridesmaid; afraid 
 of the man who would be Gene's husband within the 
 hour ; and, more than all the others, afraid of Wully 
 McNab, who would be best man and lead in the little 
 blonde Jenet. 
 
 He had arrived with Mr. Conway the night before 
 and as yet the Drews had not seen him. Merry An- 
 drew wondered how much the city had changed Wully 
 McNab. A good deal, of course. A Mid-Westerner 
 going to New York always got " smart " very soon — 
 oh, very ! They never brought back their r's. Merry 
 Andrew wondered if Wully would call it the " wa'ah." 
 She felt that if he did, she should slap him. 
 
 For the life of her, she could not keep the smell of 
 clover blossoms out of her mind, nor the look of 
 Wully that day in the orchard almost a year ago. 
 That was the last time that she had seen him. He 
 had written a few letters to the family, always enclos- 
 ing a scrawl to be sent to Bob Clyde. They had been 
 funny and nonsensical, of course — just like Wully 
 himself. 
 
 Mother, in a white gown and hat, was at the organ. 
 This was to leave Sylvia free to sing. Gene had ar- 
 ranged Rossetti's " The Birthday " as a throbbing 
 contralto solo for Merry Andrew, with a quartette re- 
 peating and echoing the refrain. Pudney, the bass, in 
 a new suit purchased for the occasion, looked so reju- 
 venated and correct, that certain women in the audi- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 325 
 
 ence, who were aware of his domestic bereavement, 
 whispered behind their hands wondering if he didn't 
 think of " divorcin' Mrs. Pudney and lookin' round 
 agin." Sanderson Anderson was entrusted with the 
 tenor part of the quartette, and was much weighed 
 down by the responsibility, and by the fact that he 
 occupied the most conspicuous seat in the church, not 
 excepting the minister. He fumbled his music nerv- 
 ously, and wiped the little beads of perspiration from 
 his soft, tan-colored upper lip. 
 
 Merry Andrew wished to sing her solo acceptably 
 — with real love and ecstasy in her voice. In order 
 to do so she felt the need of some one person to sing 
 " at." Her gaze swept the congregation. Should it 
 be Pete Swanson, or the minister? William Ander- 
 son, or Charley Wohoskey? Or should it be the 
 bridegroom ? 
 
 The bridegroom, of course. It was he, wasn't it, 
 who had been in Gene's mind when she selected the 
 song and the singer? Merry Andrew wondered if 
 she could sing a throbbing note of love to Harold 
 Conway of New York. At least she could try. 
 
 Young Anderson was having trouble with his sheet 
 of manuscript music, Pudney with his necktie; there 
 was a stir in Bendon, just inside and just outside of 
 the front door — the bridal party had arrived. 
 
 Mother's fingers swept the keys of the organ — 
 the prelude crept forth. Charley Wohoskey stood up 
 
326 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 and turned squarely to face the procession coming 
 slowly up the aisle. 
 
 Wully came first with the little blond Miss Jenet 
 Somebody on his arm. How far away he seemed; 
 how handsome; how sophisticated, in his perfectly 
 correct attire; the same that he would have worn if 
 the marriage were taking place in some great metro- 
 politan church instead of in the edifice which had so 
 narrowly missed being his father's hen-house. Yes, 
 he would, undoubtedly, pronounce it " the wa'ah " ! 
 
 Merry Andrew began her solo. Wully, being taller 
 than the person at whom Merry Andrew had arranged 
 to sing, she found herself singing at him instead. He 
 was solemn, with that rare solemnity which so became 
 him — pacing slowly with the little blonde at his side. 
 
 " ' My heart is like an apple-tree 
 
 Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit — ' " 
 
 sang Merry Andrew. Wully glanced up and caught 
 her eye. He broke into a broad smile. 
 
 " ' Because my love is come to me — ' " 
 
 went on Merry Andrew, trying to be impersonal, or 
 rather, trying to sing right through Wully and reach 
 the groom, pacing some distance behind with Gene, all 
 in happy shining white, upon his arm. 
 
 " ' Because, because my love is come to me ! ' " 
 chanted the quartette. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 327 
 
 " ' Raise me a dais of silk and down ; 
 Hang it with vair and purple dyes — ' " 
 
 requested Merry Andrew, but of Charley Wohoskey 
 this time, because she dare not sing at Wully any 
 longer. He was making it altogether too personal a 
 matter. If he kept on looking at her like that, she 
 would be smiling back at him and, like enough, spoil 
 the song ; " Sharley " was safer. He was regarding 
 the bridal group with such intensity that if Merry An- 
 drew had turned her love-song into a cry of fire he 
 would not have heard it. 
 
 " ' Because the birthday of my life 
 Is come ; my love has come to me ! ' " 
 
 Wully was getting the little blonde anchored and 
 stepping into his own place. The quartette melted 
 into a beautiful and impressive silence as Gene and 
 Mr. Conway bowed before the minister. 
 
 Charley Wohoskey had forgotten to sit down. His 
 mother pulled sharply at the tail of his jacket ; he sub- 
 sided with a clatter of heels against the pew, and the 
 solemn ceremony began. 
 
 Under her new lavender bonnet, Mrs. McNab wept 
 softly. No matter how happily, it is a solemn mo- 
 ment when a daughter marries. Gene repeated the 
 vows with sweet seriousness. Even Wully was now 
 serious. Old times were passing away; old ties giv- 
 ing place to new. Marriage was a dreadful thing, 
 
328 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 mused Merry Andrew. Mr. Conway was everything 
 to be desired — good-looking (in a nice dry-goodsy 
 way) , kindly, well-to-do in worldly matters — but how 
 could Gene bear to leave her old mother, her brother 
 whom she loved so devotedly — yes, even her crabbed 
 old farmer father, who, after all, had always in the 
 end given her whatsoever she demanded — leave them 
 all and vow to cling to Mr. Conway! Even look 
 happy and triumphant in doing so! Merry Andrew 
 shuddered. 
 
 The ceremony over, the choir sang the people out as 
 it had sung them into church. ' After which Merry 
 Andrew left Mother and Sylvia to ride to the McNabs' 
 while she stole out the back door and hurried across- 
 lots to see if she could be of assistance to Grand- 
 mother, who was already there acting as general man- 
 ager of the troupe of hired servants and caterers. 
 
 Merry Andrew even wept a little as she sped through 
 the growing grain, remembering that this spurt of 
 gaiety was virtually the last of the McNabs in Rose- 
 dale. After the wedding feast the Bendon people 
 would go, then the country neighbors, then Gene and 
 her new husband and all of the McNabs. They would 
 take the east-bound express which went through Ben- 
 don at four o'clock, and before the chickens went to 
 roost in their sheds that night, would be well on their 
 way to New York, and the great house would stand 
 empty — her responsibility, her care ! 
 
MERRY ANDREW 329 
 
 She wished that she might avoid the good-byes. 
 She was afraid she might cry. Gene would kiss her 
 and thank her for her singing ; old Mr. McNab would 
 warn and advise her, and Wully — would joke. Mrs. 
 McNab would weep, so would Grandmother, and so 
 would Mother and Sylvia. And then — she felt it 
 inevitable now — she should weep louder than any of 
 them, or of all of them put together. She should 
 break forth into a veritable bellow of grief ! 
 
 She wondered if it would be practicable to run away 
 and hide upstairs somewhere in the attic among the 
 boxes of household things which had been stored up 
 there out of harm's way. 
 
 After the dinner she made the effort, but was obliged 
 to give it up. Bendon was on the stairs, Rosedale in 
 the upper hall, both, and all, in a confusing mixture 
 in Gene's room, and in the spare bedroom, and in 
 Wully's bedroom. Undoubtedly there would be 
 stragglers in the attic and in the basement — Merry 
 Andrew crept out and went down to the calf pasture 
 behind the barn. She knew it would be sweet, and 
 cool, and quiet down there. 
 
 And it was. And when she rounded the clump of 
 wild plum-trees, there, leaning on the calf-pasture 
 fence, was Wully McNab, still in his wedding togs, 
 with the white wedding favor in his buttonhole. 
 
 " Hello, Andy ! " he greeted. " Awfully glad you 
 tagged me down here ! " 
 
330 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 "I didn't!" denied Merry Andrew stoutly. "I 
 supposed you would be up taking leave of folks ! " 
 
 He came and shook hands. 
 
 " Golly ! but you're a beauty, Andy ! You don't 
 realize what a year has done for you! " 
 
 " It has worked me like a slave, for one thing." 
 
 " But you've made good, like the little hero that you 
 are. You ought to hear what the old man says about 
 you ; he thinks you are the eighth wonder of the world. 
 He expects you are going to pump more money out of 
 the place here for him then he could have pumped for 
 himself while he sees New York." 
 
 " I hope I sha'n't disappoint him ; and I hope he will 
 enjoy New York." 
 
 " I hope he does. I didn't." 
 
 " Why, Wully McNab, you're the most changeable 
 creature I ever heard of." 
 
 " Think so, Andy ? It seems just the other Way to 
 me. It seems just as if I am so darned changeless 
 that I can't be happy anywhere except on this old 
 farm ! I've beaten back to it over and over again. I 
 fully intended to stay for good this time, but dad put 
 one over on me. You see, I never heard a word about 
 the new arrangements here. Mother and Gene kept 
 it from me as a great surprise; and father so that I 
 wouldn't come winging home prematurely." 
 
 "You — you don't think, Wully, that was the 
 reason why your father — " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 331 
 
 " I think it was. He is pretty canny — is the old 
 man. ' The best way to keep a bird from flopping 
 back into the nest is to turn the nest upside 
 down.' " 
 
 "Oh, dear, dear! " groaned Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Present," said Wully. 
 
 " Some one is calling you, Wully ! " 
 
 " Let 'em," said Wully. 
 
 " But you must get ready to go." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Back to New York with your folks." 
 
 " I'm not going back." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " What I say, Andy. You know I always mean 
 what I say." 
 
 " But your work in New York ? " 
 
 " Haven't any. I told the boss the night I came 
 away that he might put a man in my place. I spoke 
 quite frankly. I said, ' I'd rather be a doorkeeper in 
 father's pigpen than to eat stalled meats and gulp 
 down therewith the great gouts of servility that one 
 has to gulp in your office,' and then I put my pen in 
 the rack and said good-night. So you see at the pres- 
 ent I don't stand any better show of making a living 
 in New York than I do in Bendon or the McNab dis- 
 trict." 
 
 " I don't see what you are going to do," said Merry 
 Andrew. 
 
332 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " I'm going to work, just as all failures have to — 
 bone labor, you know." 
 
 " But you never have." 
 
 " No,, but it's up to me now." 
 
 " Whatever can you do? " 
 
 " I can drive a motor car." 
 
 " Why, Wully, you are less fitted to drive a motor 
 than any man I know. When you get hold of a wheel 
 you just pack your judgment away under the seat and 
 let go all hold." 
 
 " That's ' about the size of it," admitted Wully. 
 " That's one reason I couldn't stand New York ; it 
 was just one chronic pinch ! And then — I wanted to 
 come home — for this one year anyhow." 
 
 " Why for this one year? " 
 
 " Well, this year will be about the windup for the 
 old order of things at your house, won't it, Andy ? " 
 
 Merry Andrew sighed. " I suppose it will." 
 
 " Well, I took a fancy to spend this last year here 
 at home — Andy, you hired Bob Clyde once on a 
 time, why not hire me? " 
 
 " I can't afford a chauffeur." 
 
 " I don't mean as a chauffeur ; I mean as a straight 
 out-and-out hired man. You taught Bob Clyde — 
 and there are some things you taught Bob Clyde that 
 I wish you hadn't — one thing that I didn't have to 
 be taught — " 
 
 " Hear them, Wully ! They are just howling for 
 
MERRY ANDREW 333 
 
 you up there — and here comes Sharley Wohoskey on 
 the gallop after us — " 
 
 " Hurry, Andy — yes or no — am I hired or fired 
 
 " What will you work for? " 
 
 " What did you give Bob? " 
 
 " Twenty-five dollars a month and board." 
 
 " I'll work for the same — why, hello, Sharley, old 
 top, how are you ? " 
 
 " Gosh ! Hurry ! " ejaculated Charley, his eyes pop- 
 ping. " Old McNab he's crazy ; you'll be late on de 
 train!" Merry Andrew started impetuously for the 
 house, but Wully grasped her wrist : 
 
 " Is it yes, or no? " 
 
 " If you hire out to me," cried Merry Andrew, " I'll 
 work you like a dog ! " 
 
 " I want you to ; I want to show dad that I can work 
 — if I have to." 
 
 "Well, you'll have to!" 
 
 " Is it a bargain, then? " 
 
 " Yes." Together they fled for the house at top 
 speed, Charley following with long, hare-like leaps. 
 
 " What d'yeh mean — keepin' the cair waitin' an' 
 makin' us late ! " roared McNab, Senior, from the back 
 door as his tardy son approached. Over her father's 
 shoulder peered the anxious face of the bride. She 
 was in her traveling costume. 
 
 " Go on — you folks ! " called Wully, " I'm not go- 
 ing." 
 
334 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Not going ! " chorused Wully's entire family. 
 
 "Why, Wully, what do yeh mean?" wailed his 
 mother.' 
 
 " I'm going to stay here." 
 
 " What'll yeh do here? " demanded old McNab sav- 
 agely. Wully made his announcement a little shame- 
 facedly, a little sullenly, but with a very determined 
 manner : 
 
 " I'm going to work for Andy." 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 It was certainly an unpleasant hour — that before 
 Gene started on her wedding journey. Her father de- 
 nounced Wully as a " feckless fool ! " and confessed 
 before everybody that his motive in " dhr-r-raggin' off 
 to the ceety " and giving up the home he had labored 
 so many years to perfect was in order to make it im- 
 possible for Wully to loaf there whenever he felt like it. 
 
 " Whut'll he be good for ? " he demanded of Merry 
 Andrew. " You'll be payin' him wages, an' he'll go 
 jumpin' aroon the counthry in that old car-r-r of 
 ours — " 
 
 " Oh, father," grinned Wully, " never think it. I 
 should be ashamed to be seen in it. You don't realize, 
 dad, how out of date that old tank is ! " 
 
 " Wully," replied Merry Andrew sententiously, 
 " will have no time for tanks, old or new ; Wully Is 
 going to spread lime." 
 
 " Oh, Wully ! " moaned Gene in her disappointment, 
 " you know you never will ! " 
 
 " You never will ! " echoed Wully's mother with a 
 sob. "Yeh can't! Yeh haven't been brought up to 
 such work ! " 
 
 335 
 
336 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " I'm going to take lime lessons of Andy," said 
 Wully, returning his mother's despairing good-bye kiss. 
 Merry Andrew saw his lips tremble as he patted his 
 mother's back lovingly. 
 
 " Come ! " roared McNab from the front walk, and 
 Mrs. McNab jumped. 
 
 " Wait a minute, please, Mrs. McNab," said Merry 
 Andrew hurriedly, " I want to talk to you." And in 
 spite of the old man's protestations, she drew Mrs. 
 McNab into the empty dining-room and closed the 
 door. 
 
 " But Muster McNab's ashouting! " trembled the lit- 
 tle gray woman. 
 
 " Let him shout ! " returned Merry Andrew super- 
 ciliously, " there is plenty of time yet if the driver hur- 
 ries—" 
 
 " But there is the trouble ; Muster McNab will not 
 ride fast in a motor car." 
 
 " I think he will, this time," persisted Merry An- 
 drew, " and I wish to say — " 
 
 " Oh, Mary Ann, Mary Ann," cried the older wo- 
 man, " if yeh tak such a stand, ye'U never get much of 
 a man — " 
 
 "I don't want much of a man!" declared Merry 
 Andrew. " At least I don't want a tyrant. If I had 
 wanted that sort I should have set my cap at Philip 
 Starr. I just wanted to say, Mrs. McNab, that you are 
 not to — why — you know — fret about Wully ! 
 
MERRY ANDREW 337 
 
 That I — ah — am going to — sort of — look out for 
 Wully!" 
 
 " My dear gairl-1 ! I don't doubt you'll do your 
 best. But Wully is very head-set. And you really 
 don't mean to — put Wully to spreading lime, do you, 
 Mary Ann?" 
 
 " I do. I'm going to woik Wully for all the speed 
 there is in him! " 
 
 " He'll not stay a month." 
 
 " Perhaps not," owned Merry Andrew dubiously, 
 " but while he does stay, Wully is going to earn his 
 wages ! " 
 
 " You are very hard, Merry Andrew." 
 
 " I guess I am." 
 
 " Wully's father was always hard with him, and it 
 didn't work." 
 
 " Wully's father was hard by jerks," replied Merry 
 Andrew; " I'm going to be terribly, evenly hard." 
 
 " Well, let me out, Mary Ann; Muster McNab will 
 be crazy in a short time at this rate ! " Merry Andrew 
 released her prisoner and they hastened out to the wait- 
 ing car, where the final good-byes were said. At 
 Wully's instigation, Charley Wohoskey heaved an old 
 boot which nearly stunned Mr. Conway, and the wed- 
 ding party slid out of sight towards Bendon, waving 
 back at the little group on the McNab steps. 
 
 " Now that it is all over," warned Merry Andrew, 
 " we must get down to brass tacks! " 
 
338 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 In compliance with Merry Andrew's request (a re- 
 quest for which Sylvia saw no adequate reason), Bob 
 Clyde's name was seldom mentioned; his letters were 
 received almost surreptitiously. Sylvia was even a lit- 
 tle hurt by the fact that Wully McNab seemed to have 
 forgotten Bob's very existence. 
 
 There was some excuse for Wully, however ; he was 
 putting in a strenuous spring. Not until the fields 
 were showing a hint of gold for the approaching har- 
 vest was the tension of hard work slackened. Then, 
 suddenly, his exacting little employer changed her tac- 
 tics. She sent Wully on a jaunt to look after the city 
 end of the cream industry. 
 
 " There are things," she observed loftily, " that a 
 man can do much better than a woman." If Wully 
 made a suggestion about a field, or a cow, or a hired 
 hand, Merry Andrew followed it scrupulously. It was 
 remarkable how his interest in farming awakened un- 
 der this treatment. Wully bought the tractor, and 
 Wully sold the calves, " although this part of farming 
 hurts him as much as it does me," Merry Andrew told 
 Sylvia. 
 
 " Funny I never realized how tender-hearted the 
 goose is ! Don't you remember the time he threatened 
 to buy one of my dogs so that he could fight Pete 
 Swanson's dog? Wully McNab would thrash a man 
 who would set dogs to fighting on the place ! " tri- 
 
MERRY ANDREW 339 
 
 umphed Merry Andrew. " Boy and Twoboy have al- 
 most entirely deserted me for Wully." 
 
 As a farm hand Wully McNab had made good, and 
 now, almost without realizing the change, he had been 
 promoted over the heads of both Grandfather and Pud- 
 ney to general manager. At least, no important move 
 was made without calling a council of three, Grand- 
 father, Wully, and " the boss," as Wully insisted upon * 
 naming Merry Andrew. 
 
 Wully hired the new man — the one who confessed 
 his liking for "those molasses, because they're good 
 tasted and nouriaishanin' " — Wully discharged an 
 inefficient one, who stayed out late nights and was dis- 
 covered sleeping gently in the run, among the wild 
 sunflowers. 
 
 The McNab place housed the hired help, the sturdy 
 wife of Bartholomew Vonvolkenberg doing the house- 
 work under the supervision of Mother, who made a 
 daily trip to the McNabs' in a cunning little farm cart 
 behind one of the old grays. Merry Andrew had 
 adopted this means of getting from one part of her 
 estate to another.- Sometimes, when Mother was too 
 busy, Grandmother took her place, and with complete 
 satisfaction issued orders to the obsequious Mrs. Bar- 
 tholomew. Together Wully and Merry Andrew 
 looked up the record of the soy bean as a feed product; 
 and together tested different fields for acidity. 
 
340 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " We are really getting too sober," declared Merry 
 Andrew one day. " We must remember that ' As we 
 journey through life, we must live by the way.' When 
 the corn is ready this fall, what's the matter with sav- 
 ing out a lot of nice rustling stooks and having an old- 
 fashioned husking-bee — like those Grandfather tells 
 about; a sort of harvest home festival, with lanterns 
 in the barn, pumpkin pie, and red ears? " 
 
 " I can furnish the red ears," suggested Wully, gen- 
 tly fingering one of the sun-burned ornaments at the 
 side of his head. " It's a peach of an idea, Andy ! '-' 
 
 " We'll do it, if everything keeps walking right along 
 as it has so far during the season," promised Merry 
 Andrew. " I wish your father could see the crops and 
 stock ; I'll bet he'd be pleased." 
 
 " He would," assented Wully ; " he'd be tickled to 
 death. Especially at my crop of callouses." He 
 turned his palms upward for inspection. " He'd con- 
 sider 'em almost miraculous. And my ears — getting 
 to look so much like his own — sort of chewed, and 
 chipped off round the edges." 
 
 Every week Wully received a small letter addressed 
 in a pinched, old-fashioned hand, and beginning: 
 " My Dear Son : — " Frequently there would be a 
 check in the letter, but often a line at the end would 
 inform him that, " Your father is very close with 
 money these days. He says you have elected to earn 
 
MERRY ANDREW 341 
 
 your living your own way and that Gene and I must 
 let you do so." 
 
 Once or twice there came from Gene to Merry An- 
 drew a very private appeal for " the truth about 
 Wully." Was he still at work on the farm, and really 
 earning his wages ? 
 
 And thus the days of summer glided by in a moil of 
 activity on the big farm; in a constant coming and 
 going of the work horses, the cultivators, the lime- 
 spreader, the cream wagon. And everywhere, any- 
 where, at any time of day, the little cart with a gray 
 horse between the thills and two collie dogs panting 
 and grinning behind. 
 
 Evening found Wully at the stone house, reading to 
 Grandfather, joking Sylvia and Mother, petting 
 Grandmother and teasing Merry Andrew, Evangeline, 
 or the dogs. 
 
 " No matter what next year does to me, I've had a 
 good summer," he told Merry Andrew one night as 
 they sat together under a waning moon. They were 
 on the step of the back door to the stone house. Wully 
 would be going across-lots to his own rest soon. Down 
 in the run the frogs were trilling; the kitchen light 
 shone strongly along the greensward; Grandmother 
 was setting rolls for tomorrow's breakfast. 
 
 " A jolly summer to remember as long as I live." 
 
 Merry Andrew did not reply. She sat drooping for- 
 
342 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 ward, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in her 
 palms. 
 
 "What's the rip?" inquired Wully; "tired out?" 
 
 "No; I'm blue." 
 
 "Blue? In the face of that bank deposit yester- 
 day?" 
 
 " There are troubles that even bank deposits can't 
 mend." 
 
 " Now, Andy, that isn't like you — to get out a 
 hoary old fossil of a remark like that and dust it off. 
 It has been repeated as many as a dozen times since 
 Crcesus originated it. Would you mind telling the 
 hired man what's eating you tonight ? " 
 
 Merry Andrew got up and brushed the dust from her 
 denim skirt with a characteristic little flirt. 
 
 " You'd better be hoofing off across the pasture, 
 Wully. Don't let Boy and Twoboy follow you because 
 Grandmother wants them here in the morning to keep 
 the hens out of the garden. The hens play the very 
 mischief with her tomatoes. I'll walk with you as 
 far as the orchard fence." 
 
 This was such an unusual condescension on Merry 
 Andrew's part that Wully was correspondingly pleased. 
 
 At the orchard fence Merry Andrew did not turn 
 back at once, but stood leaning on the top board, her 
 face upturned to the moon. Wully was dumb; per- 
 vaded by a premonition and a fear that something 
 
MERRY ANDREW 343 
 
 serious, something irrevocable, was about to be uttered. 
 
 " Yes, summer is over," sighed Merry Andrew, 
 " the last really perfectly happy summer I ever expect 
 to know! " Wully said never a word. 
 
 Afterwards he told Merry Andrew that when she 
 uttered those words he froze up to the tips of his fin- 
 gers. He declared stoutly that if at that moment he 
 had attempted to extend a hand in her direction or to 
 have rested it on the fence-top, it would have splintered 
 and lay in fragments at her feet, so completely was he 
 congealed. 
 
 Not aware of Wully's icy stare, Merry Andrew 
 awaited some sort of reply, and getting none, went on 
 rather abashed that her dramatic preamble should have 
 had so little effect. Perhaps, after all, she had been 
 mistaken in Wully's attitude toward the Drews, her- 
 self especially. She would not be the first girl who 
 had let her imagination lead her far afield from the 
 truth. The sudden conviction of such a possibility 
 made her ashamed. She looked up and laughed — at 
 first ; but the tragic expression on Wully's moonlit face 
 sobered her. It was then that she realized something 
 of Wully's frozen condition. 
 
 " By the time we pull off our husking-bee I shall 
 have lost Sylvia." 
 
 "Sylvia!" 
 
 " Sylvia. She will be married before that" 
 
344' MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Sylvia — married — " 
 
 " Isn't it horrid ! First your sister and then mine. 
 I hate this marrying idea." 
 
 "But who— " 
 
 " Don't stand there and pretend that you don't know, 
 Wully! Of course Bob Clyde is the best fellow in the 
 world, but I can't seem to be able to forgive him for 
 taking Sylvia so far away — why, forever more, 
 Wully McNab! Stop, I say! I'll slap you! Sic 
 him, Twoboy ! " 
 
 Wully had thawed out. 
 
 Afterwards he confessed to Merry Andrew that 
 when the downpour of that revelation descended upon 
 him, his entire system suffered a flood — an inunda- 
 tion. 
 
 " Being so thoroughly and completely frozen," ad- 
 mitted Wully, " frozen up so tight that elephants could 
 have skated all over me and not cracked me in the 
 least ; and then being thawed out — that way — all at 
 once — melted — dissolved; not only melted, but 
 turned into boiling steam, is it any wonder that I ex- 
 ploded? Went all to pieces and did what I'd never 
 dared to do before — hugged you within an inch of 
 your life, and kissed you on your mouth and your 
 eyes, and on that nice cuddly little place right under 
 your chin ? " 
 
 " If it isn't to be Bob Clyde, then it's going to be me, 
 Andy Drew! It's going to be me! I swear it! I'll 
 
MERRY ANDREW 345 
 
 work for you, Andy, I'll die for you, Andy, but mine 
 you shall be! " 
 
 " Haven't you any better sense than to trot out that 
 old rubber stamp, Wully ? " gurgled Merry Andrew, 
 pushing him off with both hands. " It has been said 
 a dozen times since Adam sprung it in the garden that 
 long-gone day ! " 
 
 "And you cared for me all the time? And that's 
 the reason you gave me a job? " 
 
 " No, sir! If anybody had told me this spring that 
 I would take up with Wully McNab, I should have 
 laughed them to scorn, honest! And yet, Wully, you 
 were much better-looking when you were best man 
 at Gene's wedding than you are now. Sunburn isn't 
 so very becoming to you, Wully. Let's keep our en- 
 gagement a desperate secret until the night of the 
 husking-bee — ',' 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! we can't," said Wully. " Sharley 
 Wohoskey will suspect the first time he catches me 
 kissing you — " 
 
 " We can easily arrange that, Mr. McNab ! " de- 
 clared Merry Andrew, " easily; you shall not kiss me 
 again until the night of the husking-bee, and not then, 
 unless in the course of your labors you chance upon a 
 red ear of corn. You must remember, there is going 
 to be lots of time for kissing during an engagement 
 of four years — " 
 
 " Four — you don't mean that, Andy?" 
 
346 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Yes ; you remember, don't you, that if I marry I 
 forfeit the lease of the McNab farm? Your father 
 said a lassie was a lassie and not to be trusted. I 
 sneered at him that day, but I guess, after all, he was 
 right." 
 
 "You little gipsy!" breathed Wully. "It will, I 
 suppose, take me all of that time to make good." 
 
 " Of course it will ; for you wouldn't want to marry 
 a wife, as Phil Starr did, before you had a cent to 
 support her with, would you ? " 
 
 " Old Wully McNab has been called a hard, stingy 
 old Scotchman; but, after this, watch young Wully! 
 Watch him! Thrufty — why, say, I'll sell the tank 
 to begin with ; f ather'll never miss it — he never goes 
 into the garage. Oh, you just watch young Wully 
 skate around after the dough ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Sylvia's wedding, which occurred some little time 
 before the harvest home celebration, was quite a dif- 
 ferent affair from Gene McNab's. Not even Charley 
 Wohoskey was present; just the Drews, Evangeline 
 and her father, Bob Clyde's mother, and Wully Mc- 
 Nab, gathered together quietly in the old stone house, 
 and Bob and Sylvia standing, sweet and serious, be- 
 fore Bob's father to be married. Afterward, stormy 
 sobbing on Merry Andrew's part, quiet weeping on 
 Mother's, and surreptitious sighings and blinkings on 
 Grandfather's and Grandmother's, as the two Mr. 
 Clydes and the two Mrs. Clydes drove away to the 
 train together. And then a gloomy house for weeks. 
 As a matter of fact, the husking-bee furnished a wel- 
 come break in Merry Andrew's days of mourning. 
 
 It was during those same gloomy days that she came 
 to reply so fully upon Wully's tenderness and care, and 
 that Wully developed a sense of responsibility and 
 seriousness entirely new to him. 
 
 Sylvia's going was really the first great sorrow which 
 had come into Merry Andrew's life — this flittering of 
 her chum, mentor, sister, all in one. For days she 
 
 347 
 
348 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 could not bear to go into the parlor and gaze at that 
 fatal corner where Sylvia had stood in her soft gray 
 silk with the pink carnations on her bosom. It was al- 
 most as terrible as though Sylvia were dead. They 
 might never see her again, and if they did, it would be 
 after the years had worked their will with her, and 
 with them all. She would never be their Sylvia any 
 more ; she would be Bob Clyde's Sylvia from now on. 
 
 Grandmother reveled in gloomy predictions. She 
 kept track of weather conditions, duly announcing any 
 change for the worse along the- Pacific Coast (Bob and 
 Sylvia were going from San Francisco to their destina- 
 tion by boat) . She predicted that Sylvia would not be 
 able to stand the climate even if she lived to reach 
 the outlandish place to which her unfortunate young 
 husband was taking her. 
 
 Mother, as was her wont, hid her grief and loneli- 
 ness behind quiet eyes and silent lips. Mother's lot in 
 life had been cast just outside of happiness; on the 
 edge of things. Hers to watch and hers to serve — ' 
 silently. 
 
 So, for a time, Merry Andrew moped about her 
 field tasks, followed by mournful collies who seemed to 
 sense the loss which had befallen the Drew house. 
 Then the laughter came back to her lips and the lilt 
 of her own love song sang in her heart; and before 
 Sylvia's second letter arrived, the waves of everyday- 
 living were already closing over the place she had been 
 
MERRY ANDREW 349 
 
 wont to fill. Thus do death and marriage obliterate 
 us! 
 
 The day before the husking, when everything had 
 been made ready, Merry Andrew apprehended Charley 
 Wohoskey with a pair of hands ensanguined to a 
 startling degree. The fact that he clasped them be- 
 hind him while facing her, and became quite round- 
 shouldered in his efforts to conceal them when he 
 turned his back, caused her to seek an explanation. 
 
 " Come here, Charley," she commanded. " What 
 has happened to your hands ? " Charley's face exhib- 
 ited a degree of concern approaching despair. " Come 
 here ! Let me see your hands. It looks like dye — 
 red dye ! It is." Charley assumed a Stonewall Jack- 
 son attitude of noncommittal impenetrability. " Char- 
 ley, tell me what you've been up to ! " 
 
 " No, Merry Andy — by gosh ! Willy McNab he 
 lick me!" 
 
 " I know what you have been doing ; Wully has set 
 you to dyeing ears of corn red in expectation — " 
 
 " No, in de hog-kettle." 
 
 " Well, you go and get those ears and bring them 
 here to me ; and if you tell Wully McNab a word about 
 what became of them, his licking will be a mere joke 
 to the one I shall give you ! Do you get me, Charley ? " 
 Thus poor Charley became the buffer state between 
 the ruling powers, suffering accordingly. 
 
 Merry Andrew expected a dozen ears ; Charley pro- 
 
350 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 duced a bushel of ruby-colored corn, each ear care- 
 fully encased in its original husk, a little ruffled, a little 
 tampered with, to be sure, but well" enough disguised 
 for osculatory purposes. 
 
 Charley was immediately cast for first grave-digger ; 
 and with his fiery hands and desperate expression of 
 countenance, resembled nothing so much as an under- 
 sized criminal hastily making way with his victim. 
 
 " I remember Wully promised to furnish red ears," 
 chuckled Merry Andrew, as she went to catch a glimpse 
 of Pudney coming back. She had sent him with the 
 cart for Mother, who was to cast a last glance over the 
 finished barn decorations in order to make final sug- 
 gestions. 
 
 As Merry Andrew came around the corner of the 
 house Pudney anchored the mare at the hitching-post 
 and came up the walk to meet her. He was alone, and 
 there were evidences in his face and in his gait of a 
 disturbed state of mind. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " called out Merry Andrew 
 sharply, with a fear for Grandfather leaping into her 
 thought as it was apt to at the slightest provocation. 
 
 "She's back! — both of 'em!" announced Pudney. 
 " She's over to your house now; she and Dorothy! " 
 
 Merry Andrew knew, of course, -that the " she " 
 alluded to was the woman that Pudney had once prom- 
 ised to love and to cherish until death should relieve 
 him. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 351 
 
 " Dorothy's with 'er. That dum skunk has lit out 
 an' left 'em to hunt their own corner. She wants me 
 to take 'em back. * Your grandfather thinks I ought to 
 take her back. I told him I'd drive over and ask you 
 what you thought about it." 
 
 Merry Andrew regarded the man pityingly. "To 
 love and to cherish, in sickness and in health " — and 
 so on, and so on — the words of the marriage cere- 
 mony came readily to her mind. Verily, this matrimo- 
 nial question was a grave matter, not to be entertained 
 lightly. 
 
 " Somebody in Bendon told her I was over here at 
 the head of things on the McNab place and livin' in 
 the McNab house. I guess it was that that brung her 
 a-kitin! She says she was homesick to see me and 
 Evangeline. I told her that it wa'n't so; that Wully 
 was here livin' in his own house and that Bartholo- 
 mew's wife^and you folks was runnin' the inside of 
 the house and that all I am is a hired man with not a 
 shingle of a house to call my own. I told her if I took 
 her back that probably you'd fire me and we'd have to 
 go to Bendon to live. She's been workin' in a restau- 
 rant — she an' Dorothy, and they're lookin' pretty 
 seedy. I'm switched if I know what to do!" Pud- 
 ney drew his hand across his mouth and his lips trem- 
 bled. Merry Andrew was more perplexed than she 
 had been for many a day. Then her brow cleared. 
 " We'll ask Wully," she said. 
 
352 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 While the red-handed one was locating Wully, 
 Merry Andrew made up her mind without any mas- 
 culine aid whatever. In a dutiful feminine way she 
 was going to ask for advice and take it — if it agreed 
 with her own conclusions. If it did not — 
 
 Wully came in response to her summons and heard 
 the case from her lips and from those of the bereaved 
 husband. 
 
 " Awh, take her back," decreed Wully ; " give her 
 another chance, Pudney. These women are a trifling 
 lot at best; we men have to exercise a good deal of 
 forbearance to get along with 'em at all." 
 
 " Do you want her back, Mr. Pudney? " demanded 
 Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Oh, my Lord, I don't know ! " replied Pudney. 
 "I've just begun to git my head above water — got 
 the last debt paid up and a little in the bank. It'll go 
 now, of course." 
 
 " It sha'n't ! " declared Merry Andrew. " I will go 
 over and have a talk with them. It isn't fair for them 
 to sit on your shoulders and ride along calmly while 
 you just stagger under the load! It's no more than 
 fair that they earn their living just as the rest of us 
 have to. I will talk with them. There is plenty of 
 work for them to do in this big bee-hive of ours. If 
 they care to take hold with the rest and work and save, 
 well and good; if not, we won't take 'em back, and 
 they can, as you say, hunt their own corner ! " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 353 
 
 Merry Andrew found Mrs. Pudney very humble. 
 There is nothing like the consciousness of a year-old 
 hat and a shabby coat to break the spirit of a woman 
 like Mrs. Pudney. She was wearing the ones in 
 which she had " disappeared." 
 
 " You was right, Merry Andrew, about that Phil 
 Starr," she sniffed; "he's a false alarm all right! 
 Meaner'n dirt ! He got drunk and licked Dorothy like 
 a sack ! He said he believed in a man's bein' master in 
 his own house ! Says I, ' I wish now you'd a married 
 Mary Ann Drew when you had the chance, instead 
 of takin' my girl ! ' Says I, ' I guess you'd a had a 
 time of it tryin' to be master in your own house if 
 you'd got her! ' " 
 
 Merry Andrew stared, then broke into laughter. 
 She was thinking of what Wully would say when she 
 told him. But Grandmother would not let the matter 
 stand. 
 
 " My granddaughter, Mrs. Pudney, would never 
 have married that creature — speak up, Mary Ann, 
 and tell Mrs. Pudney that you would never marry a 
 hired man! Why don't you?" 
 
 " Because — Grandmother — I — I might, some 
 day. But not that hired man ; not any man, hired or 
 hiring, who for the sake of revenge would burn help- 
 less animals in their stalls." 
 
 " He said you wanted to marry him," whimpered 
 Dorothy. 
 
354 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " I was never tempted to marry Phil Starr, but I 
 was tempted to — kill him," sighed Merry Andrew 
 reminiscently, " that night when I caught him firing 
 the barn." 
 
 "I wish you had!" breathed Dorothy, her pale 
 blue eyes snapping vindictively. 
 
 " And is my angel baby glad that her mother's back 
 to take care of her?" gushed Mrs. Pudney, reaching 
 for her youngest child to embrace her. 
 
 " No, ma'am," responded Evangeline, remembering 
 her manners even in this crisis. Mrs. Pudney cast a 
 resentful glance, at Mother. 
 
 " I guess they've pretty near spoiled you here," she 
 accused. 
 
 " I've took music lessons," Evangeline announced, 
 lapsing slightly in her grammar, " on the voice and on 
 the piano. My father thinks I'm doing real well. I 
 heard him tell Mr. Pierce — " 
 
 Mrs. Pudney seemed to feel the solid earth crum- 
 bling beneath her feet. Her husband, living in Mc- 
 Nab's house, and chumming with Old Man Pierce! 
 There certainly had been changes during the year of 
 her absence. 
 
 " Pudney don't seem like the same man he was when 
 I went away," she sighed. 
 
 "He isn't," said Merry Andrew. "Mr. Pudney 
 has his debts paid, and has quit struggling, as you may 
 say. His health is good, and although he is working 
 
MERRY ANDREW 355 
 
 hard — we all are — he is well and hearty and more 
 or less hopeful. Constant money worries, as you 
 know, will pull the very heart out of a man. Both he 
 and my grandfather are out of debt now, and'it's up 
 to us to keep them out. Mr. Pudney is under con- 
 tract to work for me for five years. Now if you and 
 Dorothy care to hire out, I will give you work; you 
 at the McNab place where Mr. Pudney stays, and Dor- 
 othy here." 
 
 Mrs. Pudney's neck stiffened. 
 
 " Do you mean for us to work in your kitchen ? " 
 
 " Why not ? Your husband is working in my fields, 
 where I work with him, and where Wully McNab 
 works, too." 
 
 " Wully McNab! You don't mean that Wully Mc- 
 Nab is workin' ! " 
 
 "Wully McNab has worked ever since he left 
 school," retorted Merry Andrew, not attempting to 
 disguise her displeasure at Mrs. Pudney's insinuation. 
 " There are other kinds of hard work besides farm 
 work, I think you've found out, haven't you ? Wully 
 worked while he was in New York." 
 
 Sensing this quick championship, a bright light 
 dawned for the first time on Grandmother's mind. 
 She saw quite clearly the lay of the land. Merry An- 
 drew, the ungovernable, might, after all, become the 
 chain to bind together the houses of Drew and McNab. 
 
 "Well?" Merry Andrew's tone suggested impa- 
 
356 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 tience, and Mrs. Pudney at once finished making up 
 her mind. 
 
 " There ain't any choice for me an' Dorothy," she 
 sighed. "What about Earl? Can you give Earl a 
 job?" 
 
 " I don't think I can," said Merry Andrew and 
 climbed into her cart to go back to McNab's. 
 
 The husking-bee was an undoubted success. Those 
 who wished to dance could dance, the center of the 
 barn floor having been kept clear for the purpose with 
 a Bendon orchestra in attendance; those who would 
 make love found the opportunity as they sat on the 
 benches placed half in shadow and half in lantern- 
 light or moonlight about the approaches to the big 
 barn. The husking — the only unreal and theatrical 
 feature of the evening — took place in the open space 
 in front of the barn. The real work of husking corn 
 today is such a matter of machinery there is no ro- 
 mance about it, but the big pile of stooks reserved for 
 this occasion soon melted under the hands of Rose- 
 dale youth. The young men deplored the lack of red 
 ears. 
 
 " Something happened to the red ears," owned 
 Wully McNab sheepishly ; " I was calculating on quite 
 a crop. Paul planted and Appaulus watered, but our 
 little hopes died — " 
 
 " D-y-e-d ! " tittered Merry Andrew. 
 
MERRY ANDREW 357 
 
 "Oh, Andy!" sighed Wully, dropping upon a pile 
 of husks beside her and pulling a stalk into husking 
 position. "How can you be so — so deceitful — so 
 dishonest, in the matter of those red ears! I've put 
 Sharley to the rack, but he won't tell where they went. 
 He says he'd rather die. He says, ' If I tell, Merry 
 Andy she bite me ! " 
 
 " And I should have ! " laughed Merry Andrew, 
 " and my bite is deadly." Then she glanced down the 
 path toward the back door of the house and gave a 
 startled exclamation. 
 
 " Wully, Wully, for mercy's sake, see who's here ! " 
 
 Wully's glance followed hers and beheld his father 
 and mother slowly pacing toward the husking group, 
 Grandfather Drew smiling beside them. 
 
 Soon after the explanations and greetings were over 
 the festival broke up. It had been hilarious in the 
 extreme with Merry Andrew as hostess and Wully Mc- 
 Nab high chief of the fooleries; but with the eye of 
 McNab, Senior, upon it Rosedale waxed nervous, so 
 made its compliments and went home. 
 
 "What brought you back, father?" demanded 
 Wully when the Drews and McNabs were alone in the 
 big living-room. His mother answered : 
 
 " He was just dyin' of homesickness, Wully, and 
 that is the plain truth ! " 
 
 " Tut, tut ! Such foolishness, woman ! " snarled old 
 
35S MERRY ANDREW 
 
 McNab, yet with a betraying sheepishness. " Noth- 
 ing of the sort! Nothing of the sort! I'm fond of 
 the toon ! " 
 
 " As I was," said Wully, " so fond you hurried right 
 away." 
 
 "I — had business ! " declared McNab, Senior, with 
 a spurt of his old spirit. 
 
 " So did I," said Wully, Junior. " Are we to tell 
 them to-night, Andy? Awh, come on, let's tell 'em 
 now ! " 
 
 Merry Andrew did not give a verbal consent, but 
 Wully knew that he had permission to tell, and told. 
 
 " My dear boy ! " exclaimed Mrs. McNab, and kissed 
 both him and Merry Andrew. " This is what brought 
 us home — to see if there was onything of this sort 
 in the wind — " 
 
 " Hush up, woman ! " commanded McNab, Senior. 
 " Nothing of the sor-r-t," but his wife went on as 
 though he had not spoken. 
 
 " We never dr-r-reamed of it until we got the word 
 of Sylvia's marriage, and then — " 
 
 " Will you hush, woman ? " commanded McNab 
 again. " When is the weddin' to be? " 
 
 " Four years from now,' 1 answered Merry Andrew. 
 
 " Hootin' Smithers ! Ut must tak place next week 
 before we go back — " 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! " said Merry Andrew. " When I 
 marry my lease becomes null and void ! " 
 
MERRY ANDREW 359 
 
 " But I prefair my son to marry an' settle down ! " 
 said Old McNab sternly, and as if that ended the whole 
 matter. 
 
 "If you are in such a hurry, perhaps you can ar- 
 range with him to take some other girl," suggested 
 Merry Andrew. " There are plenty in the neighbor- 
 hood who would jump at the chance — " 
 
 "I goom, Wully, I'd tak her at her wor-r-r-d!" 
 fumed old McNab. 
 
 Wully laughed hilariously and clapped his thigh. 
 
 " I'm sentenced to four years of hard courtship. If 
 you can influence the judge, dad, and get my sentence 
 commuted, I'd be tickled to death, but I don't believe 
 you can do it. Through being Andy's neighbor, 
 schoolmate, chum, hired man and sweetheart, I've 
 found out that what she says goes." 
 
 "But, man," protested Wully's father, "if yeh 
 start in this way, yeh'll never coom to be maister in 
 your own hoose ! " 
 
 "Why should I be?" asked Wully imperturbably ; 
 " I don't deserve to be." 
 
 " Wully and I are not going to be master and slave 
 when we marry," Merry Andrew informed her father- 
 in-law-to-be. 
 
 "Not on your life!" corroborated Wully, "but 
 straight partners — fifty-fifty, eh, Andy ? " 
 
 Merry Andrew nodded, but Grandmother groaned 
 and breathed forth : 
 
360 MERRY ANDREW 
 
 " Mr. McNab is right ; a man should be master in 
 his own home ! " 
 
 Nobody laughed outright, but Grandfather swal- 
 lowed a snort of some kind and fell to coughing. 
 
 Merry Andrew threw an indignant glance at her 
 grandmother and went over to Wully. 
 
 "If it were left to you, Wully, when would you de- 
 cide we ought to be married ? " Wully consulted his 
 watch. 
 
 " Eleven o'clock now. Five minutes to get the tank 
 out of the garage, fifteen minutes from here to Bendon 
 — could even shave that a little in a case like this — 
 twenty minutes for the license and twenty more for 
 Mr. Stroub (he's always slow) ; why, I think I might 
 safely say — about midnight." 
 
 " Well, it hasn't been left to you," laughed Merry 
 Andrew. " But we'll split the difference ; we'll be 
 married one year from now, and celebrate with an- 
 other harvest home dance and invite everybody." 
 
 "Muster McNab fairly worships her!" whispered 
 Mrs. McNab to Grandmother. " He's br-r-r-agging 
 about her constantly. When she is really married to 
 Wully—" 
 
 " Now listen," demanded Mr. McNab : ' if you wull 
 gev in an' marry my son right away next week — 
 mark now — if yeh wull — I'll gev him a deed to the 
 fairm for a weddin' present ! " 
 
 Mrs. McNab could not restrain an exclamation; 
 
MERRY ANDREW 361 
 
 Grandmother drew in her breath sharply; but Merry- 
 Andrew shook her head. 
 
 " One year from now is soon enough," she re- 
 peated. " Wully is young and so am I. If Wully 
 gets tired of being my lover for one year he'd very 
 likely get awfully tired of being my husband for fifty." 
 
 " Yeh may both be in heaven afore the end of a 
 year!" 
 
 " Why, then we'll be sweethearts there," promised 
 Merry Andrew, and Wully kissed her. 
 
 " Eh — my days ! " groaned old McNab, " but times 
 have changed! An' I'll say as I said afore, there's 
 no accountin' for a lawsie! " 
 
 THE END