leave you out.”
For a moment Ilse looked as if she didn’t like this either. Then she laughed and gave Emily a volcanic hug.
“Well, anyway, please like me. Nobody likes me, you know.”
“Your father must like you, Ilse.”
“He doesn’t,” said Ilse positively. “Father doesn’t care a hoot about me. I think there’s times when he hates the sight of me. I wish he did like me because he can be awful nice when he likes any one. Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up? I’m going to be an elo-cu-tionist.”
“What’s that?”
“A woman who recites at concerts. I can do it dandy. What are you going to be?”
“A poetess.”
“Golly!” said Ilse, apparently overcome. “I don’t believe you can write poetry,” she added.
“I can so, true,” cried Emily. “I’ve written three pieces—’Autumn’ and ‘Lines to Rhoda’ — only I burned that — and ‘An Address to a Buttercup.’ I composed it to-day and it is my — my masterpiece.”
“Let’s hear it,” ordered Ilse.
Nothing loath, Emily proudly repeated her lines. Somehow she did not mind letting Ilse hear them.
“Emily Byrd Starr, you didn’t make that out of your own head?”
“I did.”
“Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Well” — Ilse drew a long breath—”I guess you are a poetess all right.”
It was a very proud moment for Emily — one of the great moments of life, in fact. Her world had conceded her standing. But now other things had to be thought of. The storm was over and the sun had set. It was twilight — it would soon be dark. She must get home and back into the spare-room before her absence was discovered. It was dreadful to think of going back but she must do it lest a worse thing come upon her at Aunt Elizabeth’s hands. Just now, under the inspiration of Ilse’s personality, she was full of Dutch courage. Besides, it would soon be her bedtime and she would be let out. She trotted home through Lofty John’s bush, that was full of the wandering, mysterious lamps of the fireflies, dodged cautiously through the balm-of-gileads — and stopped short in dismay. The ladder was gone!
Emily went around to the kitchen door, feeling that she was going straight to her doom. But for once the way of the transgressor was made sinfully easy. Aunt Laura was alone in the kitchen.
“Emily dear, where on earth did you come from?” she exclaimed. “I was just going up to let you out. Elizabeth said I might — she’s gone to prayer-meeting.”
Aunt Laura did not say that she had tiptoed several times to the spare-room door and had been racked with anxiety over the silence behind it. Was the child unconscious from fright? Not even while the thunderstorm was going on would relentless Elizabeth allow that door to be opened. And here was Miss Emily walking unconcernedly in out of the twilight after all this agony. For a moment even Aunt Laura was annoyed. But when she heard Emily’s tale her only feeling was thankfulness that Juliet’s child had not broken her neck on that rotten ladder.
Emily felt that she had got off better than she deserved. She knew Aunt Laura would keep the secret; and Aunt Laura let her give Saucy Sal a whole cupful of strippings, and gave her a big plummy cooky and put her to bed with kisses.
“You oughtn’t to be so good to me because I was bad to-day,” Emily said, between delicious mouthfuls. “I suppose I disgraced the Murrays going barefoot.”
“If I were you I’d hide my boots every time I went out of the gate,” said Aunt Laura. “But I wouldn’t forget to put them on before I came back. What Elizabeth doesn’t know will never hurt her.”
Emily reflected over this until she had finished her cooky. Then she said,
“That would be nice, but I don’t mean to do it any more. I guess I must obey Aunt Elizabeth because she’s the head of the family.”
“Where do you get such notions?” said Aunt Laura.
“Out of my head. Aunt Laura, Ilse Burnley and I are going to be chums. I like her — I’ve always felt I’d like her if I had the chance. I don’t believe I can ever love any girl again, but I like her.”
“Poor Ilse!” said Aunt Laura, sighing.
“Yes, her father doesn’t like her. Isn’t it dreadful?” said Emily. “Why doesn’t he?”
“He does — really. He only thinks he doesn’t.”
“But why does he think it?”
“You are too young to understand, Emily.”
Emily hated to be told she was too young to understand. She felt that she could understand perfectly well if only people would take the trouble to explain things to her and not be so mysterious.
“I wish I could pray for her. It wouldn’t be fair, though, when I know how she feels about it. But I’ve always asked God to bless all my friends so she’ll be in that and maybe some good will come of it. Is ‘golly’ a proper word to say, Aunt Laura?”
“No — no!”
“I’m sorry for that,” said Emily, seriously, “because it’s very striking.”
The Tansy Patch
Emily and Ilse had a splendid fortnight of fun before their first fight. It was really quite a terrible fight, arising out of a simple argument as to whether they would or would not have a parlour in the playhouse they were building in Lofty John’s bush. Emily wanted a parlour and Ilse didn’t. Ilse lost her temper at once, and went into a true Burnley tantrum. She was very fluent in her rages and the volley of abusive “dictionary words” which she hurled at Emily would have staggered most of the Blair Water girls. But Emily was too much at home with words to be floored so easily; she grew angry too, but in the cool, dignified, Murray way which was more exasperating than violence. When Ilse had to pause for breath in her diatribes, Emily, sitting on a big stone with her knees crossed, her eyes black and her cheeks crimson, interjected little sarcastic retorts that infuriated Ilse still further. Ilse was crimson, too, and her eyes were pools of scintillating, tawny fire. They were both so pretty in their fury that it was almost a pity they couldn’t have been angry all the time.
“You needn’t suppose, you little puling, snivelling chit, that you are going to boss me, just because you live at New Moon,” shrieked Ilse, as an ultimatum, stamping her foot.
“I’m not going to boss you — I’m not going to associate with you ever again,” retorted Emily, disdainfully.
“I’m glad
