“That will be interesting, anyway. Who’s Peter Junior?”
“Oh, he’s a man. He comes to see us a lot.”
“He’s the son of Elder Craigmile,” explained Martha.
“Is he going, too, Betty?”
“Yes. The whole crowd are going. It will be fun. I’m glad now it rained Thursday, for the Deans didn’t want to postpone it till to-morrow, and then, when it rained, Mrs. Dean said it would be too wet to try to have it yesterday; and now we have you. I wanted all the time to wait until you came home.”
That night, when Martha went to their room, Betty followed her, and after closing the door tightly she threw her arms around her sister’s neck.
“Oh, Martha, Martha, dear! Tell me all about him. Why didn’t you let us know? I came near having on my old blue gingham. What if I had? He’s awfully nice looking. Is he in love with you? Tell me all about it. Does he make love to you? Oh, Martha! It’s so romantic for you to have a lover!”
“Hush, Betty, some one will hear you. Of course he doesn’t make love to me!”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t let him.”
“Martha! Why not? Do you think it’s bad to let a young man make love to you?”
“Betty! You mustn’t talk so loud. Everything sounds so through this house. It would mortify me to death.”
“What would mortify you to death: to have him make love to you or to have someone hear me?”
“Betty, dear!”
“Well, tell me all about him–please! Why did he come out with you?”
“You shouldn’t always be thinking about love-making–and–such things, Betty, dear. He just came out in the most natural way, just because he–he loves the country, and he was talking to me about it one day and said he’d like to come out some Friday with me–just about asked me to invite him. So when father called at the school yesterday for me, I introduced them, and he said the same thing to father, and of course father invited him over again, and–and–so he’s here. That’s all there is to it.”
“I bet it isn’t. How long have you known him?”
“Why, ever since I’ve been in the school, naturally.”
“What does he teach?”
“He has higher Latin and beginners’ Greek, and then he has charge of the main room when the principal goes out.”
Betty pondered a little, sitting on the floor in front of her sister. “You have such a lovely way of doing your hair. Is that the way to do hair nowadays–with two long curls hanging down from one side of the coil? You wind one side around the back knot, and then you pin the other up and let the ends hang down in two long curls, don’t you? I’m going to try mine that way; may I?”
“Of course, darling! I’ll help you.”
“What’s his name, Martha? I couldn’t quite catch it, and I did not want to let him know I thought it queer, so wouldn’t ask over.”
“His name is Lucien Thurbyfil. It’s not so queer, Betty.”
“Oh, you pronounce it T’urbyfil, just as if there were no ‘h’ in it. You know I thought father said Mr. Tubfull–or something like that, when he introduced him to mother, and that was why mother looked at him in such an odd way.”
The two girls laughed merrily. “Betty, what if you hadn’t been a dear, and had called him that! And he’s so very correct!”
“Oh, is he? Then I’ll try it to-morrow and we’ll see what he’ll do.”
“Don’t you dare! I’d be so ashamed I’d sink right through the floor. He’d think we’d been making fun of him.”
“Then I’ll wait until we are out in the woods, for I’d hate to have you make a hole in the floor by sinking through it.”
“Betty! You’ll be good to-morrow, won’t you, dear?”
“Good? Am I not always good? Didn’t I scrub and bake and put flowers all over the ugly what-not in the corner of the parlor, and get the grease spot out of the dining room rug that Jamie stepped butter into–and all for you–without any thought of any Mr. Tubfull or any one but you? All day long I’ve been doing it.”
“Of course you did, and it was perfectly sweet; and the flowers and mother looked so dear–and Janey’s hands were clean–I looked to see. You know usually they are so dirty. I knew you’d been busy; but Betty, dear, you won’t be mischievous to-morrow, will you? He’s our guest, you know, and you never were bashful, not as much as you really ought to be, and we can’t treat strangers just as we do–well–people we have always known, like Peter Junior. They wouldn’t understand it.”
But the admonition seemed to be lost, for Betty’s thoughts were wandering from the point. “Hasn’t he ever–ever–made love to you?” Martha was washing her face and neck at the washstand in the corner, and now she turned a face very rosy, possibly with scrubbing, and threw water over her naughty little sister. “Well, hasn’t he ever put his arm around you or–or anything?”
“I wouldn’t let a man do that.”
“Not if you were engaged?”
“Of course not! That wouldn’t be a nice way to do.”
“Shouldn’t you let a man kiss you or–or–put his arm around you–or anything–even when he’s trying to get engaged to you?”
“Of course not, Betty, dear. You’re asking very silly questions. I’m going to bed.”
“Well, but they do in books. He did in ‘Jane Eyre,’ don’t you remember? And she was proud of it–and pretended not to be–and very much touched, and treasured his every look in her heart. And in the books they always kiss their lovers. How can Mr. Thurbyfil ever be your lover, if you never let him even put his arm around you?”
“Betty, Betty, come to bed. He isn’t my lover and he doesn’t want to be and we aren’t in books, and you are getting too old to be so silly.”
Then Betty slowly disrobed and bathed her sweet limbs and at last crept in beside her sister. Surely she had not done right. She had let Peter Junior put his arm around her and kiss her, and that even before they were engaged; and all yesterday afternoon he had held her hand whenever she came near, and he had followed her about and had kissed her a great many times. Her cheeks burned with shame in the darkness, not that she had allowed this, but that she had not been as bashful as she ought. But how could she be bashful without pretending?
“Martha,” she said at last, “you are so sweet and pretty, if I were Mr. Thurbyfil, I’d put my arm around you anyway, and make love to you.”
Then Martha drew Betty close and gave her a sleepy kiss. “No you wouldn’t, dear,” she murmured, and soon the two were peacefully sleeping, Betty’s troubles quite forgotten. Still, when morning came, she did not confide to her sister anything about Peter Junior, and she even whispered to her mother not to mention a word of the affair to any one.
At breakfast Jamie and Bobby were turbulent with delight. All outings were a joy to them, no matter how often they came. Martha was neat and rosy and gay. Lucien Thurbyfil wanted to help her by wiping the dishes, but she sent him out to the sweet-apple tree with a basket, enjoining him to bring only the mellow ones. “Be sure to get enough. We’re all going, father and mother and all.”
“It’s very nice of your people to make room for me on the wagon.”
“And it’s nice of you to go.”
“I see Peter Junior. He’s