style="font-size:15px;"> “You’re such a good little pal, Dissy. We’ll say an extra prayer tonight for help, and tomorrow we’ll try to decide upon something definite.”
Late the following afternoon Desiré stood on the doorstep, watching Priscilla hopping down the dusty road to see a little friend. Early that morning Jack had gone to Meteghan to settle up affairs with Nicolas and Yves, and, to please Desiré, to price an outfit for a traveling store. The sisters, greatly hindered by René, had spent the day going over keepsakes and household belongings of all kinds, trying to decide what they would keep and what they must dispose of.
“Are you going to sell all our things, Dissy? Even Mother’s chair?”
“I’m afraid so, dear. You see we can’t carry furniture around with us when we don’t know where or how we are going to live. You have her little silver locket for a keepsake, and I have her prayerbook. We really don’t need anything to remember her by.”
“No; and Jack has nôtre père’s watch. But, oh, I—I wish we weren’t going. I’m sort of afraid!”
“Afraid!” chided Desiré, although her own heart was filled with the nameless dread which often accompanies a contemplated change. “With dear old Jack to take care of us? I’m ashamed of you! We’re going to have just lots of good times together. Try not to let Jack know that you mind. Remember, Prissy, it’s far harder on him to be obliged to give up all his own plans and hopes to take care of us, than it is for you and me to make some little sacrifices and pretend we like them.”
“Ye-es,” agreed Priscilla slowly, trying to measure up to what was expected of her.
“What’s the matter with Prissy?” demanded René, deserting his play and coming to stand in front of them. “Has she got a pain?”
“A kind of one,” replied Desiré gently, “but it’s getting better now; so go on with what you were doing, darling.”
The child returned to the corner of the room where he had been making a wagon from spools and a pasteboard box, while Priscilla murmured, “I’ll try not to fuss about things.”
“That’s a brave girl,” commended her sister. “Now, you’ve been in all day; so suppose you run down to see Felice for a little while. Maybe you’ll meet Jack on the way home, but don’t wait for him later than half past five.”
The little girl was almost out of sight when Desiré’s attention was diverted to the opposite direction by the sound of an automobile, apparently coming from Digby. Motor cars were still sufficiently new in Nova Scotia to excuse her waiting to see it pass. Only the well-to-do people owned them, and she had never even had a ride in one. There were rumors that possibly that very summer a bus line would be run to the various interesting parts of the country for the convenience of tourists from the States. Then she might be able to ride a little way, if it didn’t cost too much, just to see how it felt.
A ramshackle Ford jerked to a sudden halt right in front of the house, and a tall, thin man backed carefully out from the driver’s seat and ambled up the path toward her.
“Mademoiselle Wistmore?” he inquired, bashfully removing his blue woolen cap and thrusting it under his arm.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“My name’s Pierre Boisdeau,” he drawled, taking the cap out from under his arm and rolling it nervously between his two big hands.
“Yes?” replied Desiré encouragingly.
“I have a message for you,” pushing the long-suffering cap into his pocket as he spoke.
The girl seated herself upon the broad stone step, and with a gesture invited the stranger to do the same; but he merely placed one foot upon the scraper beside the step, and began in halting embarrassed fashion to deliver his message.
After he had gone, Desiré fairly raced through preparations for supper; then went to look up the road again. If Jack would only come! René trudged around from the back of the house where he had been playing, and announced that he was hungry; so she took him in, gave him his supper, and put him to bed. Before she had finished, Priscilla returned.
“Jack must have been delayed somewhere. We might as well eat, and I’ll get his supper when he comes,” decided the older girl.
While they ate, Priscilla chattered on and on about her playmates, while Desiré said “Yes” and “No” rather absent-mindedly. Where could Jack be?
“I’m going to bed,” yawned Priscilla, about seven o’clock. “We ran so much, I’m tired.”
“All right, dear.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the child, stopping on the stairs as she caught sight of her sister throwing a shawl around her shoulders.
“Only out to the road to watch for Jack.”
“You won’t go any farther, and leave us?”
“Of course not. Have I ever left you alone at night?”
“No-o-o.”
“Run along to bed then,” reaching up to pat the brown hand which grasped the stair railing.
What was keeping Jack?
For half an hour Desiré shifted her weight from one foot to the other, watching the darkening road. As soon as she spied his tall form, she ran to meet him and fell into step at his side.
“You must be nearly starved, dear,” she began.
“Not a bit. I happened to be at Henry Simard’s at about supper time, and nothing would do but I must stay and eat with them. I hope you weren’t worried,” looking down at Desiré anxiously.
“I tried not to be; for I thought perhaps you had gone farther than you intended.”
“Nicolas was ready when I got to his house, and Yves met us in Meteghan; so we fixed everything up successfully. The money which came to us I put into the bank for emergencies; for—I’m awfully sorry to have to tell you—there isn’t enough to buy and stock up a wagon, even if we decided to adopt that way of living. So I looked around a bit for some kind of a job.”
“Did you find anything?” asked Desiré, a bit breathlessly.
“Not yet; but I shall. We could—”
“Now that I’ve heard your news,” interrupted the girl eagerly, “just listen to mine. A man named Pierre Boisdeau came in an auto from Digby this afternoon with a message for us. Oh, Jack, the most wonderful thing! When he took some salmon down to Yarmouth the other day, they told him at the docks that old Simon had sent word to be sure to have anyone from up this way go to see him. So he went, and found the poor old man all crippled up with rheumatism. He will have to stay at his daughter’s house all summer. So he won’t be able to peddle. And Jack! He wants us to take his wagon! Isn’t that just glorious? He said that if we won’t take it and keep the route for him until he is well again, he’ll likely have to sell out. He doesn’t want to do that. Isn’t it just providential? This will give us a chance to try the experiment without much expense, and will provide for us for several months.”
“We
